bunk-house stove having their last smoke for the day, he was clearly
disgusted and maddened at the changed attitude of the camp toward the
preacher. Once he expressed himself after Frank had praised the
preacher for his "grit." "You're a ---- lot of turncoats; things are
in a ---- of a mess if you fellows can be bamboozled by one of these
---- parasites."
"Well! we ain't the only ones what were bamboozled, Smut. He sure put
it all over you last night, and if you had enough brains to fill a
thimble you'd keep your fool mouth shut." Never in their long
acquaintance had Frank opposed Smut to the extent of this deliverance,
but there was no question but that the preacher had overcome Frank's
opposition and aroused his admiration. "Anyhow," he continued, "that
chap's a different brand to most of 'em, and I kinder think he can put
up the genuine goods."
Frank threw his clothes over the line and clambered into his untidy
bunk, and long after the heavy breathing of wearied men had become
general he lay with strangely new thoughts. He agreed with the
preacher that it wasn't a square deal to "find no fault in this Man,"
and then to deliver Him to be crucified. And that night the preacher
had, by numerous illustrations, compelled the worst of men to pay their
tribute to Him who was the highest that humanity has known; and yet
were they any "squarer" to Him than Pilate was? Had they not much more
evidence than Pilate had, and yet, in the face of an absolutely
unanimous verdict of "not guilty," they pronounced what was equal to
the death penalty. Again and again Frank said to himself "That ain't
square."
There was not a seat to spare in the dance-hall during the subsequent
nights. Frank Stacey missed no service, and when, at the mission's
close, a meeting was called of those interested in the organization of
a Church and the erection of a building, he was one of the little
company.
When six months later they were ready to occupy the new church, Frank
was insistent that Mr. ----, "the man who showed Smut where to get
off," should be the preacher for the day. "Impossible," said a number;
"it would cost over thirty dollars for railway fare alone."
"Impossible nothing!" was Frank's response; and twenty-four hours later
he handed fifty dollars to the Treasurer for railway fare and pulpit
supply, and after two weeks of correspondence the announcement was made
that the desired speaker was coming.
No one enjoyed the day of the opening more than Frank. The building of
the church had absorbed all his interest, and now the effort was
crowned with success. For several nights a dozen Welsh and English
miners had practised the hymns "to give the thing a good send-off."
They sat in the corner near the reading-desk, and led the music with
increasing confidence as the day's services progressed.
"I guess the devil over-reached himself when he tried to make a fool of
the preacher the night of the dance," said Frank, as a group stood
outside at the close of the afternoon's Communion service. "'Tain't
often he gets as hard hit in the neck by his friends as he was that
night."
The Church at the "Banner" has had its ups and downs during the past
three years. One of the mines has closed, and many shacks are now
unoccupied. Frank Stacey has gone over to Vancouver Island, and some
of the "charter members" have ceased their earthly labours; but each
Sabbath-day a few faithful ones, "the salt of the earth," gather for
worship in the Church that Smut Ludlow unwittingly caused to be built.
"THY TOUCH HAS STILL ITS ANCIENT POWER"
Jack Roande was on one of his periodical sprees. For eight years he
had been going the pace. They had been long, weary years to the one
whom Jack had vowed to love and cherish. Night after night, through
these long years, she had listened for the awful home-coming. There
were few in the little mining town but had often seen her eyes reddened
by weeping, and all knew of the Eastern home she had left. Among those
who had joined in the "send-off," nearly fifteen years ago, were two
men whose names are still honoured household words throughout the
Dominion. There was no note of sadness that day, for Jack was a "model
young man," and every one agreed that there was "no finer girl than
Nell."
Jack blamed his downfall to dabbling in politics. "Politics are rotten
in this province," said he, as he endeavoured to excuse his condition;
but perhaps, as a chum of Jack's said, he only blamed politics "'cause
a fellow generally tries to find a soft place to fall." Whatever the
cause, at least the fact was plain to all in the town that Jack was
"down and out."
The business men said so, and agreed with the authorities that Jack was
a nuisance to the town. Some of those who had assisted in his downfall
spoke of him as a "dirty loafer," and even the bar-rooms, where he had
"spent all," tolerated his presence only when the cruel pity of some
patron called him in for a treat, or when he could exhibit some coin.
It was through the "tender mercies of the wicked" to Jack that there
were three empty stockings in the Roande home on the recent Christmas
Eve. "For the children's sake," there had been a tearful plea that the
husband would be home Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. With glad
expectancy the meagre resources of the pantry were combined by loving
hands to give the nearest possible approach to a feast. From the
near-by woods the children had brought cedar and pine for decorative
purposes, and these, with stray bits of brightly-coloured tissue paper,
had done much to give the home a Christmas appearance. The usual notes
had been written to Santa Claus, and the mother-heart had lovingly
suggested a curtailment of such requests as Santa might find it
difficult to grant. The little ones had thrown their letters into the
fire, and watched some of the gauzy ashes carried up the chimney to the
mysterious but generous friend of the children, who would soon be
loading his sleigh somewhere in the far north.
Jack appeared to respond to his wife's pleadings, and so on account of
her many home duties she confided to him some of the requests the
children had made, and how the much-coveted toys were parcelled and
waiting to be called for at one of the down-town stores. No word was
spoken of the sacrifice the purchases had involved, nor of the sting
love had endured when for the children's sake she began to take in
sewing. It was therefore agreed that Jack should bring the parcel home
shortly before tea on Christmas Eve, and in the darkness it could be
hidden away until the little ones were asleep.
Jack was true to his word, and started for home with the precious toys
under his arm, in ample time for the evening meal.
"Merry Christmas, Jack," called a voice as Jack was rounding the saloon
corner; "come on in and have one."
"Guess I'd better get home," was the hesitating reply. It needed
little persuasion, however, to get Jack inside, and after a second
treat he lost all anxiety to reach home, and was ready for a night's
debauch.
During the tea-hour the bar patrons became fewer, and Jack's chances
for further drinks were far apart. In response to a request to "chalk
up a couple of whiskeys," he received an emphatic "not on your life"
from the bar-tender.
There was a momentary conflict within Jack, and then the beast became
lord over the man. Going to the corner he brought his parcel from the
bench and placed it on the bar. "How much can I draw on for that?"
There was a wild determination in the voice. Unwrapping the parcel
beneath the bar, the bar-tender at once knew what the contents meant.
"I don't want 'em, Jack: you better get home to your kids." But Jack
was insistent, and gradually the other weakened. "Well, it's your
property, and if you're going to sell 'em I guess I may as well buy 'em
as anybody else. I'll chalk you fifty cents." The articles were worth
three times the amount offered, but Jack was being consumed with that
hellish thirst that he had developed through many years, and he at once
started to use up his credit.
A mile away an anxious wife awaited Jack's return. Cheerfully she had
gone about her work until the hour for the evening meal, but with the
passing moments the husband's absence caused her fears to increase.
With forced smiles she did her best to bring into the home the gladness
that belongs to Christmas Eve, but the heart was heavy, and the little
ones saw now and again the tears that could not be suppressed.
Bedtime was prolonged to two hours beyond the customary time, but still
there was no sign of the father. Once the mother expressed the fears
that were in her heart when she suggested that sometimes Santa Claus
did not get to homes when the father was away, at which suggestion
there were tearful little eyes and oft-expressed wishes that "daddy"
would come home. Bravely the mother gathered the three children around
her chair for their good-night sing. Favourite hymns of the Sabbath
School were sung, and all the time four pairs of ears were alert for
the sound of Jack's return.
It was while Grace's favourite hymn, "I am so glad that our Father in
Heaven," was being sung, that footsteps were heard at the door.
Instantly the little ones ceased their singing, as Grace joyously
shouted, "It's daddy; Santa Claus will come now, won't he, mother?"
For a minute or two before Grace's glad shout two men had stood an the
darkness outside the Roande home. After he had been turned out of the
"Kelby House," Jack had staggered and stumbled around the streets for
some time, and at last lay prostrate in the snow not far from the home
of one who had often befriended him. A woman hurrying along the street
suddenly saw the dark form on the snow, and with a cry of fear ran to
the near-by house. The minister who resided there, at once recognizing
poor Jack, dragged him into the house, and after securing a neighbour's
sleigh and a driver, started for Jack's home.
From the sleigh to the house he managed to conduct Jack safely, but
when the strains of "I am so glad" from childish voices reached his
ears, he stood still for a moment. How could he take such a father
home at such a time! Yet it was impossible for him to remain long
outside with Jack as he was, and so he guided the poor drunken father
onward. Jack stumbled and fell heavily against the door just as
Grace's glad shout silenced the hymn-singing. The minister was dragged
almost to the floor as the door sprang open and Jack lurched into the
room.
Few words were spoken, for all hearts were sad as the stupefied man
almost immediately fell asleep on the floor of the sitting-room, and
filled the air with the drunkard's stench. The little ones were
tenderly told to go to their beds.
"Had he a parcel when you found him?" whispered the mother as soon as
she could control her voice. Then followed the narration of her plans
to fill the three stockings that had already been hung up at the back
of the stove. And now it was too late to find out what had happened to
the parcel. The minister looked into the mother's face, and then at
the three empty stockings with their mute appeal for a visit from Santa
Claus.
"I could bear this, hard as it is," she continued, glancing at the
drunken sleeper, "but the poor children----." The head dropped on her
arms which were resting on the table, and quietly she wept over the
bitter disappointment the little ones must bear on Christmas morning.
"Mrs. Roande"--a hand touched her shoulder lightly--"if you are not too
wearied to wait up I'll do my best to locate the parcel." The look
from the grateful mother was all that was needed to send the minister
forth on his errand of love.
The store from which the toys were secured was closed, but the
proprietor had not yet retired, and was able to reassure the midnight
visitor that Jack had procured the parcel shortly before supper-time.
It was not long before the clue led the minister to the home of the
bar-tender. Wearied, but with mingled sorrow and anger, he rang the
door bell. The man he was looking for came downstairs partly disrobed,
and was manifestly surprised at a pastoral call, especially at such an
hour. The minister stepped unasked into the hall. "Mr. Klint, I
apologize for disturbing you, but Mr. Roande left a parcel somewhere
that I must find to-night, and I understand he was in your bar-room.
Do you know anything about it?"
The answer not being satisfactory, a further question was put.
"No, sir, he left nothing; we had a square deal, but that's nobody's
business but mine and his."
"May I then ask if a parcel containing toys had any place in that
deal?" No answer being given, the minister said with quiet firmness,
"I must have an answer to that question before I leave this house. Mr.
Klint, this is Christmas Eve! There are three empty stockings hanging
in the room where Jack Roande lies drunk, and the things intended for
those stockings must be there before morning."
"I'm not obliged to tell you or anybody else anything about my
business," answered Klint surlily; "but if you are so anxious to know,
then I can tell you that I bought that parcel to oblige Jack, and it
was his deal, not yours."
"This is not the time for much talking. Be good enough to tell me
where the parcel is now, and what you paid for it." Again there was
hesitancy, and again there was pressure. At last the information was
elicited that the toys were beneath the roof that sheltered them, and
that the price paid was fifty cents.
"Be good enough for the children's sake, if not for your own, to take
back your fifty cents and let me take the parcel."
Eventually the deal was consummated. When the toys were safely in his
possession the minister said, "Mr. Klint, if you were dealt with as you
deserve, you would spend Christmas day, not in your own comfortable
home, but in the hospital or in jail: I only hope you are not as
contemptible as your deed. I shall see you again, some other day."
The hand-clasp from the thankful mother was ample repayment for the
midnight search, and in the early morning the exclamations of delight
from her little ones in turn lifted something of the burden from her
trouble-worn life.
Thus had it been, sorrow after sorrow, for poor Nell Roande for over
eight years, and at times she felt there was little hope of any change,
but the new day was soon to come, and the night of weeping was to be
turned into the morn of song.
On the Tuesday night following the commencement of special services, as
a little group of young men were leaving the Pool-room adjoining the
Opera House, Jack Roande came stumbling along. It was a great joke, so
Bill Thornton thought, to "jolly" Jack into believing that there was a
"free show in the Opera House, with pretty girls and swell dancing."
Within a few minutes Jack was sitting with eyes as wide open as he
could get them, ready to take in the "swell dancing." He quickly
realized that he had been fooled, and catching the word "religion" he
shook his fist as he departed saying, "Religion! it's all d----d rot.
There's nothing in it." The missioner was down the aisle in a few
seconds, and as Jack was passing through the swinging doors a kindly
hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice, made tender by
acquaintance with the Friend of sinners, said "Good-night, friend; you
have the marks of a gentleman although you have made a slip to-night.
I hope you will come again."
Returning to the platform he continued his message, but it was easy to
see that the speaker's heart was out in the night whereever Jack was.
Was it that yearning that brought Jack back again in less than half an
hour? Be that as it may, the man who had left with a curse, staggered
in again before the closing hymn, and made not the slightest
disturbance after he reached a seat. At the close he conversed in as
intelligent a way as his intoxication permitted. The conversation need
not be recorded. It was one of several. Five nights later, twenty
minutes after the clock had made its lengthiest strike, a subdued knock
was heard at the door of the home in which the missioner was being
entertained. The burner of midnight oil hurried downstairs. Jack
stood in the doorway. "Mr. Williams, I've got to settle it, and I've
got to do it now." Two souls tarried in the upper room, and while they
tarried He came. At last the broken cry ascended, "My Father, I want
to get back to Thee. Help me to walk in the paths of righteousness,
for Jesus' sake. Amen."
It was a great night for the fisher of men. Like the wearied disciples
of old, he said "It is the Lord."
The following night, Jack Jr., Mamie and Grace accompanied their father
to the service, and happily united their voices in the service of
praise.
Grace--they called her "Gay," for that was the best pronunciation wee
Jean, now departed, could once give--told several of her schoolmates
confidentially in her mother's words, that she had a "new daddy." And
the subsequent days have proven the truth of her assertion.
The closing night arrived. The Opera House was crowded, and from the
opening words, "Our Father," until the "And now I commend you to God,"
every one present seemed to feel that this was no ordinary religious
gathering. An opportunity was given for a word from new converts.
Tenderly, prayerfully, these were urged to in some way publicly confess
their new-found Lord. There was a hush as Jack stood erect. In a low,
clear voice he addressed himself particularly to the half-hundred young
men at the back. "I do not need to tell you what I was. Two weeks ago
it would have been inconceivable to you and to me that the change I
have experienced could take place. There is only One who could do it,
and He has done it. I cannot say more now, but if you want to know all
about it, come to me at the close of this service, or come to my home."
The eyes of the wife at his side were red again, but the tears were
tears of joy. "It is very wonderful: we are all so happy. Oh, how
glad I am that these services have been held," were her farewell words.
Jack's hand was the last one the missioner clasped. "Jack, you will be
God's man. I go, but He remains. This change is all His doing, and He
will hold you fast if you only trust Him. Many a day I'll pray for
you, Jack. Remember that your feelings may change, but your purposes
must endure. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mr. Williams; God helping me I won't fail. It'll be no easy
business, but I'm not in the fight alone; God's in it too. Good-bye."
And the years that have passed since these words were spoken have shown
clearly enough that Jack is not fighting alone. Once again prayerful
hearts are returning thanks for the touch that "has still its ancient
power."
"IF A MAN BE OVERTAKEN"
George fell--all the people knew that was what would happen. When he
told in the church that he was going, with God's help, to be a
Christian and "act the square," there was only one at the close of the
meeting to say an encouraging word to him; the rest left him alone. On
the whole, they did not believe in "results" from Special Services,
and, despite the Pastor's frequent appeals for their unprejudiced and
whole-hearted support, none were enthusiastic over the effort being put
forth, and many were antagonistic. In the opinion of the majority the
regular, "well-ordered" Sabbath services gave ample opportunity for
those who wanted to lead different lives, and so far as reaching the
outsiders was concerned, the endeavour to invite personally the
non-churchgoers was quite unnecessary--all such knew they were welcome,
because the fact had been on the announcement board outside the church
for over ten years.
The missioner was told on all sides what a notoriously untrustworthy
man George was: "You see, we know his past, and you have been here only
two weeks, or you'd know better than to put any faith in what he did
and said last night. It was just a passing emotion, and it won't mean
anything." So George fulfilled their expectations when he returned
from the city uproariously drunk one night three weeks after the
mission closed.
The morning following the outbreak the minister's wife made a special
trip down street. The door of the carpenter's shop was fortunately
open, and George was leaning against his bench looking, as he felt, far
from happy. Pleasantly the little woman greeted him, and passed on.
Then, with an exquisite piece of deception, she appeared to have a
sudden after-thought, and turning quickly, she said, "Oh, George, the
doors in the pantry cupboard are so swollen that I cannot close them.
Could you fix them for me?"
The carpenter looked wearily at her. "I ain't feeling much like fixing
anything, Mrs. Lamb, but I'd try to do most anything for you."
"Thank you, George," was the reply, "I believe you would; come as soon
as you can."
George had said what was true; he believed in Mrs. Lamb, and what was
still better, he felt that she believed in him. When, on the night of
his confession, she took his hand and said, "I'm so glad, George," he
valued her word and tone, and look and hand-clasp, as only the
friendless man can.
But George was thoroughly disheartened to-day. Everybody knew what he
had said in the meeting, and by now they would know that he had failed.
Yet no one would blame him more than he blamed himself. He called
himself a fool for going to the city. The business could have been
done equally well by correspondence. From the time he decided to go he
feared that he would return home intoxicated. He was quite aware of a
terrible craving, that he knew only too well made it dangerous for him
to frequent the old haunts so soon, but in spite of inner warnings he
made up his mind to go, so that the battle was lost before the
temptation was actually met.
Twice that afternoon George took up a few tools to go to the Manse in
response to Mrs. Lamb's request, and twice he put them down again. The
prison cell would have been entered with less fear than the Manse that
day. He felt he had betrayed one of the best friends he ever had. And
so night came, and the pantry doors were untouched.
Family prayers were about to be conducted at the Manse. Baby Jean was
on mother's knee, and Harold's chair was close to father's. Just
before kneeling the good wife said quietly: "Please remember George,
papa." There were tears in her eyes when the petition was offered "for
those who have failed," and a whispered "Amen" followed each clause
that was uttered in behalf of George.
The following morning George made his way to the Manse and attended to
the pantry doors. When the work was finished, Mrs. Lamb led the way
through the dining-room to the front door. Her hand rested on the
door-knob, and she seemed in no hurry to let George out. It was
evident she wanted to say something, but the words did not easily come.
At last George broke the silence, and his voice quivered with penitence
as he looked for a moment into Mrs. Lamb's sympathetic eyes. "I
suppose you've heard all about it, Mrs. Lamb, and the mess I've made of
things?"
"Yes, George, I know, and I'm so sorry; but you are going to win yet:
God's going to help you win. Perhaps, George, you trusted too much in
your own strength, and you forget how weak we all are when we stand
alone. You know the hymn that says--'Christ will hold me fast'? You
cannot get along without Him, George. Tell Him all about it, when you
and He are alone, and ask forgiveness, and, George, I know God can and
will make you a good, strong, true man; He loves you, and we love you."
"You are going to win yet," and "He loves you, and we love you," were
sentences that gave the man, overtaken in a fault, new hope. Deep
yearnings were in his heart as he walked back to the shop. He believed
his better moments were his truest moments, and yet it seemed to him
that no one except Mrs. Lamb credited him with noble aspirations. He
knew very well that there were Christian people who were suspicious and
unsympathetic toward him, and so his better nature seemed to retire in
their presence.
Later on he told how he used to feel like saying, "Why won't you
believe in me, and stand by me, and give me a fighting chance?" Often
he felt like a man who had been injured, and who needed support until
he could reach a place of safety; and yet few did more than look with
disgust on him, and think it unlikely that he could make the journey
without falling. But, despite his weakness and his sin, George
believed there were possibilities of noble living even for him.