his lips months after in one of the temporary buildings that had arisen
among the ash-heaps of Carlton Mines.
"Yes, siree, you just bet it kept me firing that morning. The
west-bound express was away late, or it could have got the whole crowd
out in two trips. I never thought "Old 98" would stand the gait she
did that day. On that last trip we hit a clip both ways that would
make your hair stand. Davie was bound to get them people to Twyford.
We got a scorching on the up-trip let me tell you. Gosh! it seemed
like we was running through Nebuchadnezzar's furnace. I wondered if
Davie would face the return trip, 'cause the blaze was getting worse
every minute. I moved over to him and asked him if he was going to try
it. Whew! I wish you could have seen him! He hadn't cooled off from
the mad he had on at Twyford. We had to put a 'brass' on the front
car, and when the boys down there couldn't find their jackscrews, Davie
got rip-tearing mad, 'cause he knew what the rest of the crowd at
Carlton was up against, and he was scared he might be too late. Well,
sir, he dumped all the bad language what was in his system on me. It
was the kind you don't put in mother's letter. He finished up with the
sickliest kind of smile I ever set eyes on, and yelled, 'You fool: do
you think I'm up here on a Sunday School picnic?' But Davie knew what
was what when we reached the bridge. He lined up the bosses and
parsons and the rest of that crowd like he was a British General. And
he got his orders obeyed in double-quick time too.
"But it was that last down-trip that this child won't need a diary to
remember by! Gee! you know that curve about a mile and a half below
the bridge? Well, we'd got most all the head on we could carry, and I
was feeling about as safe as if I was having a smoke on a can of
dynamite. I was watching for Dave to slow up for the curve, but blame
me if he didn't open the throttle another notch.
"As Billy S---- would say, 'Religion isn't my long suit,' but I got
ready to say my prayers; I backed up a bit into the coal-bunker, and
gripped the side of the tender, and I told the Almighty I hadn't
bothered Him much for a long time, but that if He'd keep the cars on
the track around the curve I'd be much obliged. Seemed to me like some
of them cars jumped clean off the rails, and I thought we were on the
home stretch to Kingdom-come, but Davie brought us through O.K. Did we
pass through much fire? Well, I should say! There wasn't a rail or
post for half a mile that wasn't burning. If it hadn't been for the
way Davie soused them cars, and got the fellows to fix their coats and
the blankets, we'd never have made it.
"Did you see the watch they gave Davie? Get him to show it to you!
It's a dandy--solid gold--got a whole lot of writing on the
back--something about 'a tribute to Mr. Dave Minehan's courage and
skill in the face of grave danger and difficulty.' He don't say much,
but he's as tickled about it as the fellow what got a Christmas-box of
sealskin underclothes. Davie's alright, you bet. I'd rather fire for
him on 'Old 98' than for any guy I know on a big Mogul. He's a bit
rough-like sometimes, but if he can help anybody he's on the job; he'd
break his neck to do somebody a good turn."
Such was the brakeman's narration of Dave Minehan's final race on "Old
98," on the day that Carlton Mines was levelled by the bush fire.
* * * * *
The shadows of evening had fallen over Twyford on what is still
regarded in Carlton Mines as "disaster day." The afternoon had been a
busy one for the inhabitants of the almost verdureless village that is
known chiefly for its long lines of coke-ovens. Generous hearts had
made shacks and homes have an expansive hospitality that would have
seemed incredible before the homeless throng arrived. But after every
available lodging device had been resorted to there were many people
unprovided for. And so the coke-ovens were the best accommodation that
could be offered those still unhoused.
In one of these unusual lodging-houses a candle cast its dim light over
the figures of two men and a woman who were kneeling in the attitude of
prayer. In one corner a black box rested on two backless chairs. It
had been made an hour or two before by the local carpenter, and covered
with black cloth by the kindly hands of Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson. Little
Annette was to be laid away in the early morning, and this was the best
that loving hearts could devise in that place and under those
circumstances. The manse valises had made their contribution to the
final robing of little Annette, and the weeping mother, looking upon
what Christ-like friends had done, clasped and kissed the hands that
had dealt so kindly with her and her "leetle Annetta." For nearly
eight hours the father had walked seeking his wife, and now they were
kneeling together in the presence of their dead child.
Walter Nicholson's voice was tremulous with sympathy as he commended
the sorrow-stricken strangers to the all-pitying Father. The mourners
did not understand all that was uttered, but they understood the spirit
that was manifested and were deeply grateful. A few words of comfort
were spoken, and the minister passed out into the darkness to another
oven in which his own loved ones were awaiting his return. Mrs.
Nicholson was sitting on a box with Dorothy on her knee. Angus and the
five-year-old stranger had fallen asleep on the ashy floor. No trace
had been discovered of the lad's friends. He could give little
information beyond the fact that his name was Hans Kuyper, and that he
was "losted." Mrs. Nicholson had quieted the wee chap's fears, by
assuring him that his mother would come soon, and though, with darkness
at hand and no sign of mother, a few tears had been shed, it was not
long before the wearied and worn child was asleep.
The husband and father sat alongside of his loved ones in sympathetic
silence for a few minutes. The all-night's toil, the hours of
solicitude for others, the heat of the day, the burdens carried, the
sympathy extended and the discomforts endured, had combined to produce
a feeling of depression. "We have lost everything, Jess: maybe I'll
feel better by morning, but to-night I've lost my courage as well as
everything else, and I can scarcely bear to think of the future."
Little Dorothy placed herself between her father's knees, and looking
lovingly into eyes where the unbidden tears had forced themselves, said
quietly, "Isn't it a good thing, daddy, that you haven't lost mamma and
Angus and me?"
Walter Nicholson enfolded the child in his big arms and kissed the
curl-encircled face. "Yes! God bless you, little sunbeam, that is a
good thing, and maybe daddy was forgetting. Now let us say the
twenty-third Psalm and have our good-night prayer."
With sometimes unsteady voices the three repeated the Psalm they had so
often joined in at home under such different circumstances. Then
father, mother and child knelt beside the box, and a prayer of
thanksgiving and a cry for strength came from a thankful but needy
heart. Walter Nicholson's arm rested on Dorothy's shoulder, and his
voice quivered again as he thought of the little black box in the
near-by oven; and prayed for those to whom the past hours had brought a
double sorrow that had left them homeless and childless.
As was her custom, Dorothy offered up her own prayer at her mother's
knee. A sweet confidence in religious matters had always existed
between child and mother, and there was never any restraint in the
expression of the little one's thought toward God. Tired though she
was, her "poetry prayers," as she called them, were said in full, and
then her own additions followed. "Thank you for taking care of us all,
and we are glad that papa and mamma and Angus and Dorothy are all here.
Help the little boy's mamma to find him, and please to take care of the
poor Italian woman now that her little girl is gone to heaven. Bless
papa and mamma and Angus, and make me a good girl, and please help us
to get another home soon, for Jesus' sake. Amen."
The fire had almost spent itself by nightfall, and with the dawn the
long-wished-for rain began to fall. By the middle of the forenoon the
danger of any further outbreak was past. The construction gang from
the East, and a number of section men from the West, were immediately
put to work at clearing the track and repairing culverts and bridges.
By the middle of the afternoon a number of men who had fled from the
burning town were able to make the return trip. For four or five miles
the outlook from the car-windows was a very dreary one. The underbrush
had been entirely burned up, and of the standing timber little but
charred, jagged remnants of tree-trunks remained. Only here and there
had a telegraph pole escaped, and even the protruding ends of many of
the railway ties had smouldered to the ballast.
The entire business section of Carlton Mines was destroyed. A few
isolated buildings in the residential portion north-west, and a few in
the north-east had escaped, but all the rest had been reduced to ashes.
What could be done under such circumstances? Who would have the
courage to attempt a fresh start and face all the difficulties arising
out of such a disaster? Who? _Every man who that afternoon stood
gazing at those ash-heaps_. With that inextinguishable optimism that
has its headquarters in Western Canada, they began then and there to
formulate their plans. Several contracts for rebuilding were signed
before night, and ere the ashes were cold, men started to rear a new
and better town.
The preacher, with the rest of the impoverished ones, went back to his
job. Not only did he assist in clearing away the debris, in
preparation for a new church and manse, but many a lift did he give to
others who were busily engaged in getting a roof over their heads.
During the months of rebuilding he preached successfully in the
open-air, in shack-restaurant, sawmill, hotel, opera-house, and
finally, after many disappointments and discouragements, in the new
church.
Among the interesting contributions received by Mr. Nicholson for the
Building Fund, was one from the mother of the boy who was "losted."
When on the morning of the fire she was compelled to hastily leave her
dwelling, she felt quite sure her little lad was with some of his
playmates in a neighbour's home. On the way she discovered that her
friends had already departed, but she was still hopeful that her boy
was in their care. And so she had very gladly accepted a ride in one
of the last vehicles leaving the town, and, after a rough and rapid
drive, had reached a mining camp a mile or two south of Twyford. Her
friends had gone in a different direction, and it was over twenty-four
hours before she found them.
They could give her no news of her lost boy, and she began to fear that
he had never left the town. Two days later, without having received
any word of his whereabouts, she suddenly saw him, riding "pickaback"
with arms twined around the neck of the Rev. Walter Nicholson.
Mr. Nicholson still delights to tell how the mother and child were
unexpectedly brought face to face as he was turning the corner of a
building. He professes to have confused memories of certain details,
but states that before he had a chance to get the lad from his
shoulders or extricate himself, he was the centre of the most vigorous
hugging and kissing imaginable. When the overjoyed mother learned all
that had taken place, her gratitude to those who had befriended her boy
was simply unbounded. For some months after the fire she struggled
along in a small shack several miles away from Carlton Mines. The
following letter from her to Mr. Nicholson is reproduced exactly as
written, except for corrections in spelling:
"DEAR SIR,--I shall thank you very much for what you have done to me.
Never will I not forget it. It is sorry for me that I not can write
much English. Dear Sir, I am well here, but the work is very still and
so we not can get money. I went to the church on all the Sunday. I am
glad to be a better woman. I wish you my blessing and Hans do it too.
After 25th I will send you $1.00 for your another church.--G. KUYPER."
The one dollar arrived in due time, and knowing the sacrifice it
involved, it was valued out of all proportion to the amount.
Walter Nicholson's courage in facing the future did not fail. He
stayed at his post until his work was completed. To "preach to a
procession," as the work in some districts has frequently been
described, to face an appalling indifference on the part of some, and a
cynical antagonism on the part of others, and to struggle along with an
inadequate income, constitutes a task that only the bravest can face
year after year, yet in the face of all this he said cheerfully, "I've
seen a lot of preachers come and go, but I think God wants me here, and
the need is call enough for any man, so here I stay as long as He
wills. I've had many rewards, and I thank God I've had the chance to
do my bit in this great Westland."
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL
THE PRODIGAL
"Isn't he awful looking, Mother? Why does daddy let him come in so
much? I don't like the way the study smells after he's been in."
Little Ruth, of a village manse, made many other observations, and
asked many other questions as a poor, wretched-looking man shuffled
across the lawn in the early evening of an autumn day.
The mother's smile changed quickly to a look of sadness, and giving the
wee girl a kiss, she said, "Mother will tell Ruthie all about it at
story-time to-night."
From the Children's Bible Story Book that night the mother read of the
Prodigal Son. There were a number of interruptions from the occupant
of the little bed: "Why didn't he go home before he got so dreadful
hungry, Mother?" "Where was his mother?" "Why did his father run so
far?"
After answering many questions the mother continued: "There are lots
and lots of prodigal sons still living; men who have been bad, and who
then, like some little children who have been naughty, run away from
those who love them best. And all the time those who love them are
wishing so much that they would come back, and say they are sorry and
that they will try to be better. God is our Father, and He loves
everybody; you know what we often say when daddy has prayers: 'For God
so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever
believeth on Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' Well,
darling, you wanted to know why daddy let poor Mr. Gage come in so
often? He lets him come because God would let him come. The poor man
thinks that God doesn't want him because he's been so bad, and because
he's gone, oh! so far away, and daddy is trying to tell him that God
does want him, and that God will take care of him if he will only love
Him and trust Him, like you trust daddy and mother to take care of you.
Mr. Gage is awful looking because sin is awful, and he has let sin be
his master instead of God. But mother's darling will be nice and kind
to him, because God loves him, and we must love those whom God loves.
Perhaps some day you will see him look as much different as the
Prodigal Son looked after he came back home."
Ruth did not altogether forget her mother's words, and when the
half-drunken man was brought to the Manse for a meal a little later on
in the week, she somewhat timorously handed him two or three asters
that she had picked from the garden. John Gage looked a little
embarrassed, and at first seemed inclined to leave them in Ruth's
possession, but the little hand remained outstretched, and with sweet
winsomeness the child told him she had picked them for him.
"Picked them for me! Well, well! then I guess I'll take them. Thank
you."
On several occasions, as he sauntered around the village, his attention
was arrested by a childish voice calling him by name, so that he came
to feel he had a friend in the minister's little girl.
There were many head-shakings among the village wiseacres regarding the
minister's interest in John Gage. It was generally agreed that while
the preacher was well meaning enough, his knowledge of human nature was
not very keen. The village constable knew John so well that he felt
able to speak authoritatively on the matter. "'Tain't no use, young
man," he said to the preacher. "We wus talking about him the other day
in Cyrus Haag's blacksmith shop, and every man says the same as I do.
He's just a-bleeding you, that's all. Five years' hard labour is what
he needs; s'long as you'll take care of him when he's drunk, and feed
him when he's broke, he'll just bum around. Don't I know the whole
bunch? Didn't me and the county constable arrest his father when he
pretty nigh murdered Sam Collins? Ain't his brother in Kingston
Penitentiary this very minute? The only way to improve them fellers is
to hang 'em."
The authoritative information having been given the preacher, there was
no further need of sympathy for him if he wilfully rejected the
constable's gratuitous, labour-and-money-saving counsel.
And the passing of the weeks seemed to confirm the "'tain't-no-use"
judgment. People living near the Manse reported everything that
happened, and a good deal that did not happen, in connection with the
visits of John Gage and others of his type, for it was generally known
that the preacher was "easy." But the preacher went on with his work,
and whatever the results of his efforts might be, nobody ever doubted
his belief in the Gospel he preached.
Every Sabbath evening, in some form or other, he dealt with the Fact of
Sin and its Soul-destroying power. He knew that "sin and punishment go
through the world with their heads tied together," but he knew also,
and he preached it as a fact that for him was beyond all controversy,
that by immediate act of God salvation might come, and had come,
delivering the life from the gripping, enslaving, murderous power of
sin.
* * * * *
The year was drawing to its close. The little village had its share of
Christmas festivities, and family reunions were taking place. There
were men from the East, and men from the West, back in the old haunts
for the holiday season. Wonderful stories of material success were
told as "the boys" from the West expounded the opportunities of the
prairie provinces. As is too often the case, the bar-room was the main
social centre of week-day life in the village, and John Gage was always
ready to fall into line when the prosperous ones gave the all-inclusive
invitation, "Come on, boys." And so long as John helped to swell the
receipts, his drunken presence was tolerated around the bar. Scores of
times did he join in the greeting "A Merry Christmas," and the merrier
it seemed to be to the frequenters of the Derby House bar, the sadder
it really was to the homes from which they came.
THE PRODIGAL'S DELIRIUM
Weeks of drinking, followed by the revelry of Christmas, brought John
to such a condition that when the bar-room closed on Saturday night he
was turned out of the house, and a little later dragged out of a corner
of the drive-shed, and told to "get clean away" from the premises.
There was a strange look about the man on this particular Saturday
night--a wild, almost savage appearance. He stood a moment on the
sidewalk as if uncertain of his whereabouts, and then turned and walked
in the direction of the Manse.
The minister answered the door-bell, and without a word John walked
right in and through the hall to the study. At last he spoke.
"You--told--me--to--come--any--time.
I--want--to--stay--here--to-night." Then, with body bent, and as if in
pain, with arms crossed, he rocked himself to and fro. "Oh, God! but
I'm sick; three days nothing but whiskey: I've got it to-night for
sure."
After much persuading the minister had the man in bed. The mistress of
the Manse had prepared strong coffee as fast as her trembling body
would let her. Once before she had passed through a night such as she
feared this would be, and the prospect might well make her timorous.
But the Manse and its furniture had three years ago been pledged to His
service, and she murmured not.
The doctor had been sent for, but he was on a country call, and was not
expected back until eleven.
At one end of the bedroom the minister sat watching John Gage. In some
way the drink-inflamed man had placed under his pillow an old revolver
and a short stiletto. After a time the hands clasped these with a
vice-like grip. Suddenly standing out on the carpet he looked at the
preacher, and said, "Why in the devil don't you go home? D'you want a
fight? Say! I could rip you so's they'd have to pick you up in
baskets."
A little later he imagined he was once more on the South African
battle-field. With a sickening shudder he pointed to where his deluded
eyes saw again the wounded and bleeding. "My God! see that poor devil
with his leg nearly off! Look! ain't that awful. See that one
squirming!--him yonder with his head half open!" Then straightening
himself, he said, as if addressing some audience, "Friends, I say, and
I know, _war is hell_!"
From time to time, under persuasion, he would return to his bed. Once
he imagined he was driving down the old concession road near his
grandfather's farm as in boyhood days. The sheets were jerked and
handled as if reins. "Well, now, this _is_ a slow horse. It will,
ladies and gentlemen, be quite appropriate to sing we won't get home
till morning.' I tell you what I'll do--I'll put the horse in the rig,
and I'll get in the shafts, and then there'll be a horse in the buggy
and an ass in the shafts, but we'll make better time." Then followed a
weird burst of laughter.
The doctor arrived about midnight. For a couple of hours he watched
the effect of his treatment, but rest would not come to the occupant of
the guest-room. The eyes would appear to be closing in sleep, and then
would suddenly open wide as if their owner were in terror of some
impending disaster. Then the danger spot seemed to have been located,
and with a series of jerks the head was raised higher and higher until
John was sitting up in bed. Never once did the gaze leave the corner
of the room. With the utmost stealth, first one foot and then the
other was pushed from under the bedclothes to the floor. Very slowly
and noiselessly, with knife still gripped, the demon-possessed man
glided toward the corner. With great caution, as if measuring the
distance, he bent the left knee, and at the same time lifted the right
hand ready to strike. Then with blasphemous exclamations he stabbed
the imaginary monstrosities. Again and again he seemed hurled back as
by some real enemy in the fight. At last the knife went deep into the
floor, and he seemed to have conquered. Never once taking his gaze
from where the knife stood he backed slowly toward the bed. "Ah! I
got him that time! See him! see him!" Then followed a blood-chilling
burst of profanity at the wriggling object of his delirium. "But he
can't get up! No! no! no! it's through his neck."
And so the long night wore on, and the wearied preacher, looking upon
what drink could do with "God's Masterpiece," vowed anew to fight the
cursed traffic in intoxicants as long as life lasted, and never
knowingly to have his home defiled by such a life-blasting beverage.
It was nearly seven o'clock on Sabbath morning when John Gage fell
asleep. At ten o'clock the bell of the adjoining church awakened him.
The minister had anticipated the awakening, and was at the bedside.
John seemed dazed for a time, but in a little while conversed with the
one who had befriended him. He was urged to remain quietly in bed, and
after a few words the minister clasped the hand of the outcast man, and
kneeling at the bedside, laid the burden of his heart upon the One who
is mighty to save. As the Amen was uttered Ruth approached the door.
"Alright, little one, come and see your friend John," were her father's
words. Ruth was ready for church, and with garments and face alike
attractive, laid her little hand in the big hand of the sin-wrecked
man. Who can understand the power of the touch of a child's hand?
Closing his fingers over the dainty, wee hand, John Gage turned his
face to the wall and sobbed aloud. Little Ruth hardly knew what to do.
Gently she placed the other hand on the dirty, unshaven cheek, and
merely said sympathetically, "Don't cry."
John turned his head back again long enough to say brokenly, "God bless
you, little gal."