Two days later Donald and the Westerner boarded a C.P.R. train in
Montreal for the West. They were no sooner comfortably seated in their
section of a tourist sleeper than they began rushing westward through
the winter evening.
The days that followed were full of interest to Donald. The train roared
West, running on time like a clock. They tore through towns and farming
settlements and plunged into forests and hills in the northern part of
Ontario. The hills dwindled when they reached Manitoba, and in Alberta
Donald felt as if he were sailing over a vast sea of land.
“We’ll see them old Rocky Mount’ns pretty soon,” said Gillis happily.
“You’ll like B.C., Donald. And after you bin there awhile all hell won’t
pry you loose. I know, ’cause I broke away from her twice, but I always
drift back. I ain’t got the eddication to tell you the funny feelin’ I
have when I’m comin’ back to her. When I see them big mount’ns loomin’
up I feel sort of scrumptious inside, like I wanted to smile at
everybody, and I have a hard time to keep from lettin’ out a yell.”
“Your power of expression needs no apology,” laughed Donald.
“Forgot to tell you that I ain’t goin’ right through to the Coast. The
Company I work for has a mill at Revelstoke that needs fixin’ up. The
job’ll probably last ’till spring. You better stay off with me, ’cause
you’ll find things on the Coast pretty quiet this winter.”
Gillis had played the part of host from the start, and Donald knew that
if he accepted the invitation to stop off at the interior town, Gillis
would insist on treating him as his guest. He felt that his new friend
could not afford to practise this lavish generosity.
Donald shook his head regretfully. “I think I’ll go through to
Vancouver.”
Gillis arose with visible reluctance as the train drew into Revelstoke.
“Well, I got to leave you, pardner.”
Donald had developed a sincere friendship for the man. There was a great
deal of tenderness beneath the rough exterior of this Western logger.
“I’m pretty lucky in finding a friend like you,” Donald said feelingly
as they shook hands.
“That’s all right, my boy,” Gillis replied awkwardly. “I like you, and
I’ll sure look you up when I hit the Coast. So-long.”
The sun was shining brightly as the train rushed along the edge of
Burrard Inlet toward Vancouver. The lawns were a bright green, and the
breeze blowing in the car-window was soft and balmy. Across the Inlet,
that sparkled in the sunlight, were huge mountain-peaks, their tops
covered with snow. The homecoming passengers were smiling happily, while
a look of eager interest shone on the faces of those who were strangers
to the Coast.
Donald paused for a moment on the corner of Granville Street while the
cosmopolitan crowd flowed past him. Stolid-faced Klootchmen, dressed in
flamboyant colours, with baskets of clams on their backs, rubbed
shoulders with the haughty, turbanned Hindu. The little brown-faced Jap
darted here and there amongst the crowd. A Chinaman came swiftly around
the corner of an alley, moving with a peculiar trot, a pole across his
shoulders, from each end of which dangled a basket filled with fish and
vegetables. Another Chinaman, with a face of true Oriental
impassiveness, riding a bicycle down the street, a clay pipe jutting
from his mouth, was extremely incongruous. The wide, well-paved streets
and the city’s general air of modernity were impressive. In common with
many other Easterners, Donald had pictured Vancouver as a rough Western
town.
Donald engaged an inexpensive room and at once began a search for
employment. Many of the mining and logging camps were closed for the
winter, and work was scarce. He applied to all the engineering firms in
the city, but their answers were invariably the same: “Nothing doing
until spring.”
Days passed, and as late winter merged into spring there was a stir
throughout the city. Men who had spent the winter in idleness were
“going out” again. Loggers in their characteristic blanket shirts
hanging loose outside their trousers, could be seen on all sides saying
good-bye to their friends.
One morning Donald counted his rapidly dwindling cash and found that he
would have barely enough to tide him over the week-end.
With all his assets in the way of clothes and jewelry in a pawnshop, he
could not stave off the inevitable, and there came a day when he had not
even the price of a meal. Too proud to ask for a loan, he went without
breakfast and lunch.
At the logger’s employment agency he was told the same old story: “Only
men of experience wanted. But,” the agent added hopefully, “men are
going to be scarce this summer, and they will be taking on everything
before long.” Donald made the rounds of the engineering firms where he
had applied for a position, but without success. Force of habit led him
back to the employment agency, where he sank disconsolately to a bench.
A diminutive man with blond hair, bright blue eyes under shaggy brows,
and his head set at a cocky angle, entered briskly and approached the
wicket. “S’y, do you know where I can find an ’eavyweight that can box a
bit?” he said to the agent.
“How about those two I sent you yesterday, Andy?”
The one addressed as Andy made a gesture of disgust. “Those two
blighters were as ’eavy as cows. They didn’t know their right ’and from
their left. I don’t want any ’uman punchin’ bags, I want a man that ’as
a little speed. Blime me, if I was in Austrylia I could get a ’arf a
dozen in ’arf a minute.”
“I’m your man,” said Donald stepping forward.
The small man turned. The keen eyes under the bushy, light-coloured
eyebrows studied Donald carefully. “Can you box?”
“I can.”
“Good! Come with me.”
Donald followed the sturdy little Australian. For a few blocks they
walked in silence.
“’Ad your dinner?” queried the Australian.
“No.”
“We’ll ’ave a bite in ’ere.”
They turned into “Old Joe’s” restaurant.
“Sounds good to me,” observed Donald with a pleased smile.
“Been missin’ a few meals, ’ave you? Order what you want,” said the
Australian, as they sat down to a table.
“I’ll warn you that I’m hungry,” cautioned Donald.
“’Op to it, me lad; about all we get in this blinkin’ world is what we
eat. What’s your name?”
“Donald McLean.”
“Mine’s Andy Pettray.”
Then Andy delivered himself of the following information: “I’m the
manager of Bill Hagin, the Austrylian ’eavyweight. We are to fight
Slugger Garrieau, the Canadian champion, in about two weeks. The Slugger
is well named, as ’e is an ’eavy ’itter and it tykes a good boxer to
beat ’im. I want an ’eavy man that can speed Bill up a bit, and I’ve
’unted this town over, but I can’t find one. Now, if you can deliver the
goods, you will be worth three dollars a day and your eats. What do you
s’y?”
“I say ‘yes,’” was the decided answer.
Andy dug into his pocket. “’Ere’s three dollars to bind the bargain.”
“Better wait until I earn it,” suggested Donald.
“That’s all right, me lad; you’ll be needin’ it to eat on. I ain’t
worryin’.
“Come to the gymnasium at the corner of Robson and Granville at two
o’clock to-morrow,” advised Andy as they stepped outside.
“I’ll be there, and I want to thank you for your kindness.”
“Forget it,” smiled Andy. “I’ve been flat many a time myself.”
“Half-an-hour ago I was broke and hungry,” mused Donald, “and now I am
well fed and have three dollars in my pocket. Great old world this.” He
chuckled happily as he swung down sun-splashed Cordova Street with a
buoyant stride.
The next day, dressed in light clothing and a pair of running-shoes,
Donald went around Stanley Park. Wishing to condition himself, he ran
the greater part of the way.
Spring comes early in Vancouver as compared with the East. In January
the buds are bursting in Stanley Park. The balmy sea air, scented with
earthy odours from the deep woods, seemed to Donald to possess magic
properties. The blood sang in his veins. Overhead, big white seagulls
screamed and soared; squirrels retreated in chattering fright as he
raced down the road, and over all was the sound of the booming surf. The
wind rushed past his ears, and he shouted aloud from sheer exuberance of
spirits and the joy of living.
Donald covered the distance from English Bay to Granville Street at a
jogging trot. The air of the gymnasium seemed close after being in the
open. The big Australian fighter was in the ring with one of his
sparring partners. The slap of gloves was like music to Donald’s ears.
“Just in time,” welcomed Andy as he led him to the dressing-room, where
he quickly shifted to fighting togs and then walked over to the ring.
A crowd of boxing-fans sat by the ringside watching the big fellow work
out. Donald’s entrance caused a stir. His lithe, muscular body was the
attraction of all eyes.
“’Op in,” commanded Andy.
While an attendant was putting on his gloves, Donald studied the big man
he was to help train. He would weigh at least two hundred pounds. His
shoulders were enormously broad and square, and the muscles of his arms
stood out in knobs and bunches. His face was a pasty colour, as though
his training had been done inside. His jaw was square and strong, his
eyes a mild blue, and his nose looked as though it had stopped many a
solid punch. “Strong but slow,” Donald decided.
When Andy introduced him Hagin merely grunted. To the fighter Donald was
simply one more punching-bag.
Donald turned to Andy. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Oh, knock the blighter out of the ring,” rejoined Andy, with just a
touch of sarcasm.
“Do you mean that?” queried Donald quickly.
Andy nodded.
Hagin came to the centre of the ring, assuming an awkward crouch, his
arms wound about his face. Donald circled him warily. The big man
feinted with his left. Donald danced within range, and the Australian
let loose a terrific right swing that would have felled an ox. Donald
side-stepped, jabbed his left twice to his opponent’s face, and his
right missed Hagin’s jaw by the fraction of an inch. A surprised look
came over the big man’s face. A murmur of applause came from the
audience.
“Strike me pink! What a left ’and!” ejaculated Andy. Hagin scowled and
tried to bring the fighting to close quarters, but was easily avoided by
his lighter opponent.
Donald now took the aggressive. His left found weak spots in the big
man’s defence, and repeatedly he sent in stinging jabs that drove his
adversary’s head back with a snap. Try as he might, Hagin could not get
away from that whizzing left. It is a bitter pill to be bested by one’s
sparring partner. So far the Australian had been given a boxing lesson.
He forced Donald into a corner and made for him savagely. Donald ducked
under the flail-like swings, and shot a left upper-cut to Hagin’s jaw.
The latter staggered weakly to the ropes. Donald was after him like a
flash. Just then he saw Andy gesticulating wildly and shaking his head.
Hagin lunged forward and Donald fell into a clinch. The gong rang.
“What’s the trouble, Andy?” asked Donald as he reached his corner.
“Strike me lucky!” whispered Andy hoarsely, “you’re punchin’ me
meal-ticket. You’re makin’ a blinkin’ boob out of me ’eavyweight.”
“You told me to knock him out of the ring,” reminded Donald.
“Sure I did. But ’ow the ’ell did I know that you were a blinkin’
cyclone? Strike me blind, a left ’and like that I ’aven’t seen since I
’andled Young Griffo.”
“What shall I do the next round?”
“Tyke a punch and go down—’urt your ’and—anything to quit. But for
’eaven’s sake don’t mess up me ’eavyweight any more! If the public ever
’ears of this our big fight is all off!”
In the next round Donald dropped to the floor as they broke from a
clinch in the centre of the ring. He rose to one knee, holding his hand
and making a wry face.
“Too bad,” sympathized Andy as he ordered him to the dressing-room.
As Donald stepped from the ring he was intercepted by a curly-haired
youth whose brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “By golly, I want to
know you. My name’s Douglas Rennie. My, but that was a wonderfully fast
exhibition you gave us!” he ejaculated, gazing at Donald with
undisguised admiration.
Donald flushed. “I appeared fast,” he explained modestly, “as I was
against a very slow opponent. I know nothing of Garrieau, but he won’t
have to be very clever to beat the Australian.”
“Garrieau is fast and carries a knockout in either hand.”
“I’m sorry for Andy’s man if that is the case, as any king of a left
will beat Hagin. Come to the dressing-room,” invited Donald.
A moment later Andy entered and sank dejectedly to a locker seat.
“You look rather blue, Andy,” observed Donald.
“I am. All ’ell’s a poppin’,” admitted Andy.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve lost me ’eavyweight. ’E’s quit.”
“Why?”
“Said I framed on ’im by sending you in this afternoon. Said I ’urt ’is
pride.”
“Pride!” echoed Douglas sarcastically. “You’ve been treating him too
well. I never thought much of him as a fighter. You’re too good a
trainer to be wasting your time on third-raters.”
“Maybe you are right,” conceded Andy, “but look what a blinkin’ mess I’m
in now! ’Ere I am in the ’ole three hundred bones for training expenses,
and I’ve put up a forfeit with the promoters for appearance. I’ll lose
the ’ole lot.” He threw out his arms with an air of resignation and sank
back in his seat.
Little Andy presented a pitiful figure as he sat hunched in the
corner—his jaunty manner gone; his blond head, usually held at a saucy
angle, sunk on his chest. Gloom, deep, impenetrable gloom, enveloped
this bright spirit from the Antipodes.
Donald knew now that for all Andy’s munificent manner of yesterday, the
three dollars to “eat on” and the sorely needed dinner he had bought had
come from a generous heart, but a depleted purse. Here was his
benefactor in trouble. How could he help him? He crossed the room, sat
down beside Andy, and placed his hand on the little man’s arm.
“Andy, take me on. I’ll fight Garrieau for you.”
Andy came to his feet with a jump and seized Donald by the shoulders.
“If you’ll do that, me lad, I’ll be your pal for life. Strike me pink,
did you ’ear that? I’ve got a real fighter at last! ’Ooray!” The little
fellow was in ecstasies. “We’ll clean Garrieau up,” he went on
excitedly, “and then I’ll tyke you to the Stytes, and then to Austrylia,
and. . . .”
“Hold on,” interrupted Donald laughingly, “looks like you intend making
a professional pug out of me. I’m doing this to help you, Andy, and,”
flushing in spite of himself, “I’m broke.”
Andy glanced over Donald’s tall figure with a professional eye. “You
’ave a week to get fit, and ’as you ’aven’t ’ardly any weight to tyke
off, you should be top ’ole in that time.”
“May I work out with you?” asked Douglas eagerly.
“Glad to have you,” replied Donald.
A few minutes later the young men stepped to the street. Douglas seemed
loth to go.
“Will you come to my home for dinner?” he invited.
Donald hesitated. It seemed ages since he had entered a private house.
He glanced down at his only suit, which was rather seedy, then looked
up, to find the usually roguish eyes of his companion fixed upon him
seriously.
“Thanks, old man. I hope I may have the pleasure at some time, but I
can’t do it now.”
“You said you were broke,” began Douglas, hesitatingly, “can—I——”
“No, no, I’ll see you to-morrow,” interrupted Donald, turning abruptly
and walking swiftly down Granville Street.
Douglas stood watching him until he disappeared. “A mighty good sport,”
he said softly.
Fresh from his exercises and shower, his cheeks red, his dark eyes
shining with the clear glow of health, his step springy and free, Donald
was a picture of rugged health and strength. But for all this apparent
outward brightness, inwardly he felt rebellious. Douglas’s invitation
had brought a great longing for the comforts of his past life. Why
should he assume the rôle of a pugilist to eke out an existence? Why
wear shabby clothes and even know the pangs of hunger? Was it necessary?
He had but to wire his father that he was destitute and plenty of money
would be forthcoming.
A big steak at “Old Joe’s” furnished him a hearty meal. As he selected
the money from his meagre supply of cash to pay his check, Old Joe bent
his grizzled head forward. “Are ye gittin’ short, son?” he asked. “Don’t
go hungry; come in any time.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
Donald was in a dark mood. He heard the sound of happy laughter coming
from a saloon on the corner. There behind those swinging doors was
momentary recess from worldly cares. He stood in the door of the
restaurant and looked across the Inlet at the twin peaks, known as the
“Lions,” which guard the entrance to Vancouver’s harbour. The sun was
setting in a mass of fleecy clouds; the clouds became a luminous gauze,
and a golden splendour spread over the water. The mountains were
suffused in violet, while the snow-fields took on a faint stain of rose.
Donald’s face glowed as he watched.
“Some country!” he breathed. He turned to catch a friendly smile from
Old Joe as he worked over his range. “And some people!” he added
fervently.
Once more he turned to the mountains. The glow had vanished and the
Lions stood in bold relief against the clear sky. The massive
snow-capped peaks seemed to impart a new strength to his being. “I’ll
not quit. I’m going to make good,” he said grimly.