the missioner entered into conversation with him, questioning him about
the men thronging the bar-room. "Yes, Reverend, I know most of the
boys; I make out pay-checks for over two hundred of them, and in my
time I've run across thousands, and most of them are splendid fellows
if you can only keep the booze away from them. They look pretty well
damaged just now, eh? And they'll be worse yet. When they get started
you can't stop them till they're at the end of their tether. See that
fellow lighting his cigar in Ern. Dean's pipe? Wait till he turns
round a bit--there! now! his ear's half gone, see? He's some fighter,
believe me! A year ago last month somebody got a few bottles of
whiskey into the camp on the q.t. We try to keep it out, but you might
as well try to keep out mosquitoes in June. Well, sir, that night Bill
got into a fight with a chap called Frenchy, and in about ten minutes
Frenchy needed an identification label on him. Bill was clean plump
crazy, and as Frenchy had been looking for a scrap for weeks the boys
let them have their innings for a while. Just before the boys prised
them apart, the two of them took a deuce of a tumble to the bunkhouse
floor, and somehow Frenchy got his teeth on Bill's ear. We couldn't
patch the thing together, so Bill had to foot it nearly thirty miles to
the nearest town, and you see what the crossbones had to do to trim off
his receiving apparatus? Bill gets ninety dollars a month--I handed
him a check for four hundred and fifty last Saturday, and it would be
safe to bet the whiskies he hasn't fifty dollars left right this
minute. He doesn't know what he's done with it--quite likely a pile of
it has been swiped when he was dead to the world. Between ourselves,
Reverend, there's lots of dope served out right here, and when the boys
come to, a good part of their boodle is gone. Just the other day Dick
Booth was yelling blue murder around here, and Bertois came from the
office and hooked his arm into Dick's and said, 'Come on, Dick, and
have one on me.' In less than five minutes there wasn't so much as a
chirp from Dick, and he looked like the dickens for a few seconds, and
then he slid down the wall to the floor, and Bertois and Sam carried
him into the snake-room. You bet Bertois fixed Dick's drink alright.
The trouble comes between season when the boys are off a few weeks.
They come into town to kill time, but it works the other way round."
Two days later the missioner was sitting writing at the hotel table
when Bill, blear-eyed, unshaven and dirty, came staggering toward him.
The voice was almost terrifying in its intensity of appeal, "For God's
sake give me something to eat; I've had nothing but that stuff
(pointing toward the bar-room) for three days."
Before anything more could be said, Bertois, the proprietor, hurried
from behind his desk, and grabbing Bill by the shoulder, uttered an
oath, and dragged him to a door at the end of the hall. Unfastening
the door with his latch-key he gave Bill a vigorous shove, and the
intoxicated man, stumbling over some object, fell heavily to the floor.
Banging the door, Bertois turned to the basement stairway just around
the corner, and in a sharp voice called "Sam." Sam immediately
responded to the call.
"How in the ---- did Bill Bird get out of there."
"Didn't know 'e was out, sir," was the reply.
"Did you give anybody your key?"
"Hi did not, sir."
"Well, then, you must have left the door unlocked; mind you don't let
any more of them d---- fools out."
As calmly as was possible the missioner protested against the treatment
Bill received.
"What would you do with them? Would you want them around the house?"
was the gruff reply. "Give them a bed? Not much! We don't keep beds
for that brand. The only thing you can do is to kick 'em into the
snake-room. You don't know anything about Bill's kind. He's seeing
life; them fellows have been counting on this blow-out for months."
An hour or so later the missioner found Sam alone in the basement. The
old man was worthy of a better job than the doing of the dirtiest and
most objectionable work around a lumber-town hotel, but times had gone
hard with him of late years, and his few relatives were on the other
side of the Atlantic.
"No, sir, hit ain't the kind of place hi expected to be in at my hage,
but beggars mustn't be choosers, you know, sir, and after hi cut me
foot half off with a hax I ad to take wot I could get, especially as me
rheumatiz bothered me a lot. Wot's the snake-room like, did you say?
Hit just depends oo's hin it. Hit's chuck full these days, I'm sorry
to say, and it hain't a sight yer reverence would like to see. You
want a peep hin, eh? Well, hi don't know as how you'd be allowed; the
boss is rather perticlar about who sees 'is customers hin the
snake-room. It hain't a very good hadvertisement, hin my opinion."
Nevertheless Sam agreed, if the territory was clear, to show the
missioner the snake-room. By way of apology, the old man explained
that he had often told his boss that it was a shame to put men into
such a place without any kind of bed, with no food, and frequently, in
decidedly cold weather, without any heat.
When the opportunity afforded itself, Sam and the missioner went
quietly upstairs and, unseen, entered the snake-room. Accustomed as he
had been to see the effects of alcohol and evil-living, the scene
before the visitor was a fresh and terrible revelation of their
destructive power.
The room was probably fifteen feet square. Its furnishings consisted
of one table and two framed pictures--the latter being advertisements
of "popular brands of whiskies," which were said to have "stood the
test for nearly one hundred years." Some results of the test were upon
the floor.
In order to get inside, Sam had pushed hard against the door, crowding
back the feet of the man nearest. There was scarcely more floor space
than the two men needed to stand on. Curses, snores and groans came
from the filthy, stench-laden mass of men that covered the floor.
Several boards in the wainscotting were spattered with human blood.
One man with a recently made gash across his forehead was lying on his
side, and with eyes closed, kept striking out with his fist, sometimes
hitting the leg of an old man who seemed absolutely paralysed with
liquor, and sometimes hitting the partition. Every blow was
accompanied by profanity.
Partly under the table lay two camp cooks. One of them, Heinrich
Lietzmann, was a most generous individual, and a great favourite with
his fellow-workers. Because of his appearance he was dubbed
"Roly-Poly" Lietzmann. His broken English was very attractive, and
nothing pleased the younger men better than to "get him going" on
international politics. Judging from his terribly bruised face, he had
either fallen heavily or been in a fight. Poor Heinrich made several
attempts to raise himself to a sitting posture, each time falling back
with a disturbing effect on the men nearest him, and receiving
therefore their muttered curses, which he returned in full measure.
Along the table, on his back, lay Chris. Rogers. Nobody knew the
history of Chris. although, because of a remarkable gift of speech
which he manifested when excited by liquor, the report that he had once
been a "Shyster lawyer" in a Western State was generally believed. He
was far above the average lumber-jack in knowledge, but far below in
vice. After the discovery of an unusually mean trick, Bill Bird had,
in the opinion of the camp, fittingly described Chris, when he said,
"That dirty rascal is so near mongrel dog, that if he had a bit more
hair on him he'd start running rabbits." Just why Chris. had been
given charge of the camp stores was a mystery, but for nearly two years
he had held the position. He was a slender, wiry man with a singularly
repulsive face. His teeth were gone, and his long pointed moustache
drooped alongside of the hard mouth that was continually stained with
tobacco juice. His coat and vest were plastered with grease from
careless eating and his whole appearance suggested a dirty
demon-possessed man.
Bill Bird, the fighter, had managed to get into a corner, and was
sitting with arms on knees and drooping head--a picture of
wretchedness. Once he managed to look up, and for a moment gazed in a
dazed way at the missioner: "By God! I wish I was dead:" then there
was a prolonged cry on the word "Oh," as of a man in great agony. A
few of the stupefied men roused themselves enough to utter a curse in
Bill's direction. Gazing once more at the missioner, Bill cried out:
"Oh! oh! the devil's got me for sure."
Sam laid his hand on the missioner's arm; "We'd better slip out now,
sir, or there might be trouble."
With a sigh and a heavy heart the missioner passed into the hall and up
to the room he had been occupying for ten days. With a whispered cry,
"How long, O Lord, how long?" he fell on his knees at his bedside, and
then in silence he pleaded with his God that at least Bill Bird might
be released from the grip of the Evil One.
After the regular service that night, a few Christian people met for
prayer. The missioner confided in those present, and with sadness told
of his visit with Sam to the snake-room. "What are we doing," he
asked, "either as a church or as individuals, for these men? Has Satan
any opposition from us as he enslaves our fellow-countrymen? Surely it
is not a matter of indifference to us when these men are wrecking their
own and other lives, in dens of vice that have been allowed to plant
themselves in this town, and that can only thrive as manhood and
womanhood are debased?
"Several lumbermen in this district say that in the past fifteen years
there has been a steady deterioration in the men employed in the woods.
After every pay-day, by their debauchery, seventy-five per cent. unfit
themselves for the work to be done, and take from two to eight weeks to
get back to normal condition. There is much that may and must be done
along social lines if we are going to arrest these degrading
influences, but in the meantime is it not possible for us as
individuals to get into personal touch with some of these boys, and
throw around them the protection of our Christian friendship and
hospitality? Preaching is not the only means for advancing the
Kingdom. So much may be done if Christian people will put themselves
and their possessions at the service of humanity, and learn to love the
lowest as well as the best of the race. Some of these lumber-jacks
might go back to camp changed men if we gave God a fair chance to use
us. Perhaps some of you business men, or some of you ranchers, could
get alongside of at least one poor fellow from that snake-room, and
live for his reclamation. There are many ways of keeping in touch with
these men, even when they return to the bush, and, in this land of
investments, you would find nothing yield such a dividend as the
investment of your time in the attractive presentation of the love and
power of Jesus Christ. Will you at least make the effort, and leave
the results to your Master?" The words were spoken and the question
asked with an earnestness that had been intensified by the
heart-rending appeal of the broken manhood that the speaker knew was
represented by what he had looked upon in the snake-room.
In the prayerful atmosphere and the silence that followed the question,
one man said in his heart, "I will." That man was George Clarke.
George Clarke had a small ranch a short distance from the town. He was
one of the most industrious men in the Province, but his industry had
not resulted in the prosperity that most of his neighbours enjoyed. He
had met with enough reverses to absolutely dishearten the average man,
but he had borne them all bravely, keeping his disposition unsoured,
and his character clean. His extreme reticence, however, often led
strangers to misjudge him, and to underestimate his worth. In public
affairs he treated himself as though he had no right to anything but
the most inferior position, and to have given expression to his own
opinion before even a small audience would, in his own judgment, have
resulted fatally. Once, under great pressure, he had consented to pass
the collection plate at a church service, but after getting on his
feet, "everything was a blur." The boys at the rear vowed that he
stumbled against every bench-end but one, and that by the time he was
half way down the aisle "he didn't know which side of the plate should
be up." In replacing the plate on the organ, to the great surprise of
the organist, he unceremoniously deposited most of the offering in her
lap, and was too much overcome with embarrassment to assist her in
replacing it. During the closing hymn he made his escape to a quiet
spot in the bush, where he could wipe his profusely perspiring brow and
where he could solemnly promise himself not to be entrapped again. But
despite his reticence he was an exceptionally intelligent man, and when
any individual could get George to express himself on questions of
importance, it was not long before "this is what George Clarke thinks,"
was passed from mouth to mouth throughout the community. All through
the years he had resided in the West he had been absolutely upright in
his dealings and conduct, and though his reticence prevented him from
taking an aggressive part in certain moral reforms that were advocated
from time to time, yet there was never a shadow of a doubt as to which
side he would be on. The cynical individual who stated that "every man
has his price," was compelled to make an exception in the case of
George Clarke.
And so it will not be deemed irreverent if we say that when George
Clarke said in his heart "I will," God knew he could trust him.
Very thoughtfully George passed, with his wife, from the meeting out
into the darkness. "I'm going to look for Bill Bird, Mary, and if I
get him I'll bring him home--how would it do if you go on with the
Frasers?" The suggestion was all that Mrs. Clarke needed, and her
neighbours, without any questioning, cheerfully made room for her in
their democrat.
George halted several times on his way to the hotel shed where his
horse and buggy had been left--he was wondering how best to carry out
his resolve. That resolve was to do his utmost to help Bill Bird to a
new life. Years ago in the East he had been on very friendly terms
with the Bird family, and though he had once or twice tried to show
Bill a kindness, yet he knew he had not measured up to his
opportunities and he felt condemned. Quietly he walked down the
roadway to the rear of the Imperial Hotel. The shouts and oaths of the
drinking and the drunken, and the clatter of glassware reached his ears
as he passed along. Was Bill still inside, and if so, how could he get
hold of him? A side door opened, and George stepped back into the deep
shadow of the building. Bertois, the proprietor, and some man whom
George did not know, came to the step and stood in the light for a
moment. Then the door was pulled to, and the men stood silent as if
listening to assure themselves they were alone. Under ordinary
circumstances George would have spoken to Bertois, but this night he
deemed it wiser to remain unobserved. The men conversed in low tones
at first, but after a while Bertois' words reached him:
"Don't play too swift a game for a start: give 'em plenty of bait;
they'll keep on biting till we land 'em. We can easily clear five
hundred from those three suckers if you watch yourself. Dick knows the
drinks to dish out. Here's for luck! Come on."
Re-entering they closed the door quietly, and George still waited,
hoping that Sam would come out, and that the old man might be persuaded
to get Bill Bird into the yard. Many times during the next fifteen
minutes the door opened, and each time George Clarke got, in some form
or other, information of the hell that was inside. The hour was late,
yet he felt he must remain longer. Bill Bird was in his keeping, for
like those near the blind beggar of old, George had heard the call from
the Great Physician, "Bring him hither to Me."
To face the crowd of men he knew would be inside the hotel was more
than he felt equal to, and he knew that in all probability any attempt
to get Bill out under such circumstances would fail.
Once more the side door opened--this time slowly and unsteadily. A man
leaned against the jamb for a few seconds as if needing support. Then
some one from within slammed the door against him, and he slipped
heavily down to the narrow platform. There was a curse and a drunken
hiccough, and then the words the missioner had heard were uttered
again, "By God, I wish I was dead."
George Clarke did not immediately recognize the voice, but he did
immediately step near to his needy brother-man, and said
sympathetically, "What's the matter, mate?"
Taken by surprise the man asked, "Who in the ---- are you?"
George recognized the voice and the form and said, "I'm George Clarke,
and I'm your friend, Bill Bird." His hand was laid upon the shoulder
of the sickened man, and in a kindly voice he persuaded him to
accompany him to his home. "The place here is crowded, and we've got
lots of room at our place and can give you a comfortable bunk for the
night: come along, Bill, for old time's sake."
Linking his arm in Bill's, he led the staggering man to the drive-shed,
and after some difficulty and a few arguments, got him safely into his
buggy, and not a soul in the place was the wiser.
Mrs. Clarke was a worthy helpmeet for George, and though her household
cares were many, she grudged no extra labour that would please her
husband and help a fellow-being. And so everything necessary for the
comfort of the fallen man had been done. A supper had been prepared,
and the guest-room made ready. Bill ate as freely as his condition
would allow, and then very willingly acted on the suggestion that he
should "creep in." George gave the dirty, tired, whiskey-soaked man
such assistance as he felt would be advisable. Once Bill raised his
heavy eyelids and appeared to be trying to understand the "why" of
things. "This is no place for me, George Clarke--by God, no!" The
body wobbled wearily, and Bill could think and talk no more. And so
with most of his clothes on, filthy from his stay in the snake-room,
Bill Bird was placed in the best bed in the best room of one of the
truest homes with which the district was blessed.
Before retiring himself, George Clarke went to a wicker-basket in the
parlour, and searched through the family collection of photographs. At
last he found the one he sought. It was of the Bird family, and was
taken shortly before the oldest boys went West. George took it out to
his wife, who was still working in the kitchen. Pointing to the face
of a bright manly boy who stood with hand upon his mother's shoulder,
he said to his wife, "If Bertois and his gang changed a boy's face as
terribly as Bill's has been changed, and did it in a few minutes, they
would be sent to the 'pen' for five years, and yet we let that same
gang take their time on the job, and do it in hundred lots, and
scarcely raise so much as a finger to stop it--and I'm as guilty as the
rest of them. Poor Bill! he used to be as decent a little chap as you
could find in the County of Addington."
The photograph was returned to the parlour, and dropped somewhat
carelessly upon the table, but the unthinking, and yet perhaps not
unguided act was the first of many influences that brought better days
to Bill Bird.
Long into the morning the occupant of the guest-room slept on. George
Clarke had opened the door quietly at breakfast time, but the heavy
breathing caused him to leave the wearied man undisturbed. About the
middle of the forenoon, after much yawning and stretching, Bill's
consciousness slowly returned.
He pushed back the white coverlets and gazed around the room. Many
times he had awakened in a drive-shed, twice in the police cell, more
than once in the "snake-room." But this morning everything was
different. What had happened? Was he dreaming? The room was the most
attractively furnished of any he had slept in for years, and his soiled
clothes on the chair at the bedside were strangely out of harmony with
the surroundings.
He had confused memories of events since he came out of the camp, but
he knew he had spent his money in the way most of his earnings had gone
for the last few years, and he condemned himself for having been a fool
again. With a half-consciousness of some one being near, he looked to
the opposite side of the room.
The bedroom door had been quietly opened and a bright "good-morning"
greeted him. There need be no hurry, he was told, but whenever he was
ready he might just as well have a bite of breakfast.
No word was spoken in explanation of his presence, nor in regard to the
trouble George had had in getting him away from the "Imperial" the
night before. Slowly and with mingled feelings of embarrassment and
disgust, Bill attempted to clean himself up a little. He knew he was
in George Clarke's home, and in his own words, "felt like a fool and
looked the part to perfection."
It was not easy to face those he knew had befriended him, for sin had
not yet lost its shame to Bill Bird.
His bedroom door opened into the parlour, and he stood alone for a few
seconds. Then his eyes fell on the old photograph. His hands trembled
as he held it and gazed into the faces of mother and brothers and
sister. Pictures of the old home and of happy family relationships of
past years crowded themselves upon his memory.
He remembered how his widowed mother had toiled and struggled to bring
up her six boys aright and give them the best equipment possible for
the battle of life. He recalled his own setting out from home--from
the home to which he had never returned, and to which he had rarely
written. The "Western fever" had gripped him in his early twenties,
and nothing could induce him to stay on the Homestead. And so ere long
the property had to pass into other hands, because there were no boys
left to work the place. The mother's sorrow over the parting with her
"Willie" had rested very lightly on him the morning he started
Westward. Yet to-day he viewed it in a different light, and he lived
the parting over again with very different feelings. The last
breakfast had been prepared in silence by the one who had never ceased
to love him. More than once she had tried to speak, but the lump in
the throat prevented. At last they stood in the hall, and her words
were uttered with sobs as she clung to her "baby boy." "Good-bye, my
Willie, and remember, that as long as your mother has breath she will
pray every day for her boy, and ask God to take care of him." He had
assured her he could take care of himself. He remembered the last
flutter of the handkerchief as she stood on the milk-stand watching the
buggy disappear from the sideroad on to the "gravel." He had "taken
care of himself," and a mighty poor job he had made of it, and there
seemed little chance of any improvement.
While he was in the midst of such thoughts, George Clarke entered.
Bill was still holding the photograph. With moistened eyes he looked
into the face of his hospitable friend. "George Clarke," he commenced,
"it takes a man a long time to own up that he has made a botch of
things; it's too late now to make a fresh start, but I've been looking
at this picture, and God knows I'd like to have as good a character as
I had when that was taken. That woman is as good a mother as any boys
ever had, and I haven't shown her the gratitude of a dog."
To this day, George Clarke feels that he never made a poorer attempt at
trying to speak a helpful word to a discouraged man than on the morning
when Bill Bird stood in his little parlour on the old ranch. One
result of the conversation, however, was the decision on Bill's part to
accept the invitation to remain at the Clarke ranch for at least a few
weeks, and during those weeks he saw demonstrated the best type of
Christian living with which he had ever come in contact. On several
occasions he accompanied George to the hall in which the special
services were being held. Rather to the surprise of the Clarkes, he
made no response to the appeals from the missioner, which seemed to
them so powerful. One Sabbath evening, however, as they sat around the
stove, Bill expressed himself in such a way as to bring a thrill of joy
to the hearts of those who were greatly concerned in seeing him make
the "Choice of the Highest."
"George Clarke," said Bill, "I haven't taken much stock in religion,
but if there's a kind that makes a man do what you and your missus did
for me when I wasn't fit company for a pig, I guess I ought to go in
for it." Then in a lower and subdued tone he added, "For anybody to
take an interest in me is a stunner, the dirty tough that I was."
It was Bill's own opinion that for him life in the bush was no longer
safe, and so, until his future was fully decided, he agreed to assist
the Clarkes with the work on the ranch. When a few months later,
through the death of a brother in the East, George Clarke decided to
make his home in Nova Scotia, Bill Bird said in effect, "Where thou
goest, I will go."
And it so happens that to-day, down by the Eastern sea, the former
lumberjack is building a home, a business and a character. He has not
again returned West, but he has often told intimate friends that there
is a rancher's small home in the distant province which he never
forgets; and he thanks God for those who valued a dirty, wrecked, but
God-loved man more than furniture and carpets, and whose hospitality
and service awakened desires that have transformed a life.