E-text prepared by Al Haines
EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
by
HOPKINS MOORHOUSE
Author of "Deep Furrows"
Toronto
The Musson Book Company Limited
Copyright, Canada, 1920
by Hopkins Moorehouse
The Musson Book Co., Limited
Publishers . . . Toronto
To My Mother
FOREWORD
Although prefaces are not the fashion in these accelerated times, some
word of warning is due those who had the patience to read "Deep
Furrows." It seems but fair to point out that whereas "Deep Furrows"
was historical and its "characters" actual people taking prominent part
in current events, the present pages are purely fictitious and the
characters therein not even composite portraits of living personages.
Similarly the story events are pure invention and as fittingly might
have been staged in any other of the nine provinces. The author humbly
craves indulgence if he has in any way exceeded the license allowed him
in spinning the incidents necessary for a novel of this type while
seeking verisimilitude in settings with which he is familiar.
--H. M.
Winnipeg, February, 1920.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I FOG
II BLIND MAN'S BUFF
III "NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS"
IV THE LISTENING STENOGRAPHER
V THE TAN SATCHEL
VI AGAIN THE TAN SATCHEL
VII CROSS CURRENTS
VIII ABOARD THE PRIVATE CAR, "OBASKA"
IX CONSPIRING EVENTS
X THE STENOGRAPHER STILL LISTENING
XI GROWING ANXIETY
XII KENDRICK MAKES A TOUCHDOWN
XIII AND CONVERTS A GOAL
XIV WHAT HAPPENED ON THE WINNIPEG EXPRESS
XV RAPPROCHEMENT
XVI THE TAN SATCHEL ONCE MORE
XVII DISTURBING NEWS
XVIII MCCORQUODALE EXPLAINS
XIX FURTHER STRANGE PROCEEDINGS
XX A MAN OF MONEY
XXI DOUBLE TROUBLE
XXII LOWERING CLOUDS
XXIII THE FIGHT
XXIV THE RACE BEGINS
XXV EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF
XXVI NIP AND TUCK
XXVII CLOSE QUARTERS
XXVIII SOUVENIRS
Every Man For Himself
CHAPTER I
FOG
Except for the lone policeman who paused beneath the arc light at the
Front Street intersection to make an entry in his patrol book, Bay
Street was deserted. The fog which had come crawling in from the lake
had filled the lower streets and was feeling its way steadily through
the sleeping city, blurring the street lights. Its clammy touch
darkened the stone facades of tall, silent buildings and left tiny wet
beads on iron railing and grill work. Down towards the waterfront a
yard-engine coughed and clanked about in the mist somewhere, noisily
kicking together a string of box-cars, while at regular intervals the
fog-horn over at the Eastern Gap bellowed mournfully into the night.
After tucking away his book and rebuttoning his tunic the policeman
lingered on the corner for a moment in the manner of one who has
nothing to do and no place to go. He was preparing to saunter on when
footfalls began to echo in the emptiness of the street and presently
the figure of a young man grew out of the gray vapor--a young man who
was swinging down towards the docks with the easy stride of an athlete.
As he came within the restricted range of the arc light it was to be
seen that his panama hat was tilted to the back of his head and that he
was holding a silk handkerchief to one eye as if a cinder had blown
into it.
"Good-night, Officer," he nodded as he passed without halting his
stride. "Some fog, eh?"
"'Mornin', sir," returned the dim sentinel of the Law with a respectful
salute as he grinned recognition. "Faith, an' 't is, sir."
High up in the City Hall tower at the head of the street Big Ben boomed
two ponderous notes which flung eerily across the city.
Already the young man had faded into the thickening fog. He was in no
mood to talk to inquisitive policemen, no matter how friendly or
lonesome. It was his own business entirely if concealed beneath the
silk handkerchief was the most elaborate black eye which had come into
his possession since Varsity won the rugby championship some months
before. If his face ached and his knuckles smarted where the skin had
been knocked off, that was his own business also. And when the
judgment of calmer moments has convinced a respectable young gentleman
of spirit that there is nobody but himself to blame for what has
happened he is inclined to solitary communion while taking the measure
of his self-dissatisfaction.
It was indeed the end of a very imperfect day for Mr. Philip Kendrick.
As he descended the stairs to the Canoe Club his thoughts were
troubled. At that hour there was nobody about, but he let himself in
with a special key which he carried for such contingencies. He found
the suitcase undisturbed where he had left it and soon had his canoe in
the water. A moment later he was driving into the thick wall of fog
with strong, practiced strokes, heading straight across the bay for
Centre Island.
The fog gave him little concern. This land-locked Toronto Bay he knew
like a well-marked passage in a favorite book and at two o'clock in the
morning it was not necessary to nose along cautiously, listening for
the approach of water craft. Away to the right the lights of the
amusement park on Hanlan's Point had gone out long ago, before the fog
settled down like a wet blanket. The ferries had stopped running for
the night. Even the "belt line boat," _Lulu_,--last hope of bibulous
or belated Islanders--was back in her slip, funnel cold, lights out.
The whole deserted waterfront lay wrapped in the shroud of the fog,
lulled by the lap of water against pilings and the faint creakings of
small craft at their moorings.
As the solitary canoe poked out for the open bay these minor sounds
fell behind and were replaced by the steady purl of water under the
bow. It filled with pleasing monotone the interludes between the
fussing of the yard-engine back on the railway trackage and the
blatancy of the foghorn at the Eastern Gap, every half minute bawling
its warning into the open lake beyond.
There was nobody over at the big summer residence on Centre Island
except Mrs. Parlby, the housekeeper, and her husband who acted as
gardener. The place belonged to Kendrick's uncle, the Honorable Milton
Waring, and it was usual for them to open the big house about the end
of May. This year, however, his aunt and uncle had chosen to spend the
summer at Sparrow Lake and for the past week they had been up at a
rented cottage in the woods, leaving Phil behind in charge of the
Island residence.
In response to a wire from his uncle, requesting him to join them at
once and bring along certain articles which had been overlooked, he had
packed his suitcase and paddled across to the city in the morning,
intending to take the train for Sparrow Lake. A chance meeting with an
old classmate, however, had resulted in a sudden decision to delay his
departure for another twenty-four hours in favor of a good time with
Billy Thorpe.
As if in punishment, things had seemed to go wrong with him all day.
In the afternoon the Rochester baseball team had knocked three Toronto
pitchers out of the box, a blow-up which had cost the loyal Mr.
Kendrick twenty-five dollars and a loss of reputation as an authority
on International League standings. Then in the evening, in the crowd
out at The Beach, somebody had taken hold of his silk ribbon fob and
gently removed the gold watch which his aunt had given him on his
birthday. Later still--!
It was the left eye, so swollen now that it was closed to a mere slit.
There was no optical delusion about its nomenclature and in diameter
and chromatic depth it was at the head of its class; in fact, it gave
promise of being by daylight in a class by itself. It was the sort of
decoration which could be relied upon implicitly to fire the
imagination of misguided acquaintances through several merry weeks of
green and yellow recuperation. And withal it cast a reflection upon
the fistic prowess of young Mr. Kendrick which was entirely unjust, it
being the product of what is known as a "lucky punch"--for the other
fellow.
No, it was not in the result of the fight that dissatisfaction lay, but
in the cause. McCorquodale's remarks about the Honorable Milton Waring
had been addressed to McCorquodale's two companions; there had been no
intent to insult the Honorable Milton Waring's nephew who sat at the
next table in the restaurant, none of the three worthies being aware
that they were within earshot of a hypersensitive member of the
honorable gentleman's family. That being so, it had been distinctly
foolish for the aforesaid nephew to walk over to the other table and
demand an apology. He should have finished his coffee and cigarette
and strolled out. Or, if he had deemed it imperative to participate in
the political discussion, why in the mischief hadn't he just stepped
across, proffered his cigarette-case and made a joke of the situation?
Of a truth the expression upon this fellow McCorquodale's homely,
good-humored face when Kendrick revealed his identity had been
sufficiently quizzical. He had grinned widely as he waved the
indignant young man to a seat at the table and even then the situation
would have adjusted itself had it been left to the principals. But
McCorquodale's companions were a pair of flashily dressed young
"sports" who, thinking they saw a chance for some fun at Kendrick's
expense, had proceeded to tread upon Mr. McCorquodale's professional
pride--McCorquodale, one time known to ringside patrons as "Iron Man"
McCorquodale, one time near middle-weight champion.
"Y'see, it's this way," the ex-pugilist had explained earnestly. "I
aint said nothin' about y'r uncle as aint public anyways. It's in the
papers off an' on, see? An' now another election's comin' down the
pike, y'll have to be gittin' used to all kinds o' spiels. Fac's is
fac's, kid, an' when I says the Hon. Milt aint no sweet-scented
geranium but's out fer all the simoleons he can pick off the little old
Mazuma Tree,--why, I on'y says what I reads an' hears, believe me. You
bein' his nephew aint changin' public opinion none. See?"
Kendrick's anger at this brazenness had prevented him from thinking
clearly. He was getting "touchy" about his uncle's political record of
late and had had occasion to defend it with some heat during certain
discussions among friends; there had been several newspaper attacks
which he had resented greatly also. His uncle's reputation as a public
man he had been Quixotic enough to take to heart as a personal matter
of family honor and, as everyone knows, family honor is a thing to
uphold. He had demanded that McCorquodale retract his statement.
McCorquodale had refused flatly to do so.
One of the two grinning "sports" knew a place where they could settle
it undisturbed--just around the corner in the basement of a pool-room.
It had been a brisk little mix-up while it lasted; but it had not taken
the ex-pugilist long to discover that he was facing the best amateur
boxer Varsity had produced in a number of years and right in the middle
of it he had put on his coat deliberately, to the overwhelming
disappointment of his two friends.
"Nix, you guys!" he had grunted, breathing heavily. "I knows when I'm
up against it. Y'see, I got a date with a Jane to-morra an' I aint
hankerin' to lose me way with no mussed map. Not on y'r tintype!"
Whereupon the "Iron Man" had proceeded to demonstrate his malleability
by assuring Mr. Kendrick that he was ready to agree that the sun rose
in the south and made a daily trip straight north to escape the heat,
if Mr. Kendrick said so. His anxiety to make friends had been
positively funny; but there had been a sincerity in his handshake that
somehow had seemed to rob the apology of its satisfaction. And when
McCorquodale had proffered a broken cigar Kendrick had accepted it with
an uneasy feeling that he had made somewhat of a fool of himself; for
Phil was no prig and he found that McCorquodale was a pretty good sort
with a certain whimsicality that was not to be denied.
He rested his paddle for a moment and floated in the dark, listening.
As soon as he got home he would go to the refrigerator for a piece of
raw beefsteak for his swollen eye. Darn that eye anyway! He would
have to hibernate up in the woods till it became more presentable. Far
behind him in the mist somewhere the yard-engine was still coughing;
across the water came a subdued squeal of protesting flanges, followed
by the distant bang of shunted box-cars. He listened for any sound of
the harbor patrol boat; but even had he bothered to show a light it
would have been obliterated in the fog, which was the worst Kendrick
ever had experienced. A raw beefsteak poultice-- He fancied the
fog-horn was a little louder; he would need to keep more to the left or
he would find himself hitting Mug's Landing, west of Island Park, or
wind up away over at the Point somewhere.
He resumed his paddling. This matter of his uncle-- Was it possible
that in pursuit of political ambitions his uncle was forgetting the
principles for which he professed to stand as a public man? Was it
just possible that this fellow, McCorquodale, knew what he was talking
about? Wasn't it men of that stamp who became the tools for corrupt
practices--the boodlers, the heelers who did the actual
ballot-stuffing, the personating at the polls, the bribing? Did
McCorquodale know of what he spoke?
The thought brought with it a sense of disloyalty to his uncle; but the
young man forced himself to face the idea seriously. He was beginning
to realize that there were many things about which he was woefully
ignorant--practical things entirely outside academic curriculums. For
twenty-two years he had eaten his meals regularly and lived a life
uncolored by any event more significant than his recent graduation from
'Varsity with honors. That he had captained the football team to
victory the fall before was nothing extraordinary; many another fellow
with equally broad shoulders and an equally well balanced head upon
them had done the same thing before him. Financial worries had never
intruded upon his good times, while social standing was something which
he had come to accept as a matter of course. Only of late had he begun
to analyze things for himself and it had been something of a shock to
discover that a college education was just a beginning--that beyond the
campus of his alma mater spread a workaday world which scoffed at dead
languages and went in for a living wage, which turned from isoceles
triangles and algebraic conundrums to solve the essential problems of
food and clothing and shingled roofs. It was a new viewpoint which
planted doubts where what he had supposed to be certainties had been
wont to blossom.
The Honorable Milton Waring's very position as a cabinet minister in
the government of the day always had seemed to carry its own
credentials. As a youth Phil had thrilled with pride on occasions of
public demonstration in his uncle's honor and there had been times of
speech-making when the Honorable Milton's eloquence had swayed his
audience to unrestrained applause. To the unsophisticated eyes of
youth a shiny silk hat, a long-tailed frock coat, a gold-headed cane, a
diamond ring and a prominent place upon the platform had been
indicative of the top rungs of Fame and Success and Honor among men.
The goings and comings of Society's votaries, the bright lights of the
big Waring residence in Rosedale, the orchestras and bands and public
processions and cheering and flags and bunting--these things had
contributed to the awe with which Phil had regarded the Honorable
Milton Waring in the days of boyhood impressions. The mere fact that
his uncle received the acclamations of the people and held high public
office by their gift had seemed to invest the Honorable Milton with all
the attributes of an honorable gentleman of distinction.
Such early impressions are tenacious of place. Yet with maturer years
had come certain doubts that thrust their shadows across moments of
serious thought. Phil Kendrick had begun to think for himself and his
study of political history had awakened him to the knowledge that there
was a very "practical" side to politics as they existed throughout the
country just then--that successful politicians too often were men who
regarded the whole thing as a game wherein the end justified the means,
the end being to carry elections. Was his uncle of this ilk? It had
been hinted. There were those who said that the Honorable Milton
Waring knew much about assembling political machinery around election
time and oiling it for a smooth run. And such rumors aroused thoughts
which Phil had been very loath to entertain.
After all, though, did he really know his uncle? Between them there
had never been any very close bond of sympathy--such, for instance, as
always had existed between Phil and his aunt. His uncle's share in the
growing lad's up-bringing had been of the superficial sort--a pat on
the back, a "run along now, my boy; I'm busy." Always it had been Aunt
Dolly to whom he had taken his childish difficulties for sympathetic
adjustment. It had been that way from the first when the sudden loss
of both father and mother had thrown him upon Aunt Dolly's care. His
own mother could not have meant more to him and Kendrick's smile was
very gentle as he thought of his aunt. First and last, her
happiness----
Ah, but was she happy? That was the question. She pretended to be, of
course; but how much of it was mere pretence? Beneath her smiles Phil
had sensed of late a vague unrest, disappointment--he hardly knew what
to call it, so illusive it was. She had laughed at him fondly and
called him "a foolish boy" when he had ventured to ask her if anything
was wrong. After that she had been careful that he did not surprise
any look upon her face but one of cheerfulness.
The possibility that in some way his uncle was the source of that
subtle change in Aunt Dolly had disturbed Phil's peace of mind not a
little. In his presence she had been the same gentle, smiling,
thoughtful Aunt Dolly that she had always been; but once or twice he
had read fleeting anxiety in the glance with which she had followed her
husband's departure from the room. Her love for the Honorable Milton
was unqualified, Phil knew. It was, in fact, the directing force of
Aunt Dolly's whole life. It had enabled her to overcome her innate
dislike for the everlasting round of social trivialities and assume her
place as a society leader with a brilliance and tact which had earned
the commendation of even her exacting husband. What was going wrong in
the Waring household? Or was it all imagination and Aunt Dolly's look
of concern sum-totalled by the weather in relation to a change to
lighter flannels?
Certainly when it came to considering his uncle's political record
there was always the Rives case to fall back upon, to cast a halo about
the Honorable Milton's head. The Rives case had provided a sensational
aftermath to a strenuous election campaign which had resulted in the
complete overthrow of the former government. The "Honorable"
Harrington Rives with his large head and bushy shock of black curls had
been a picturesque figure on the rostrums of the country districts. He
took a good photo--and knew it! It was displayed in every conceivable
pose in the newspapers and fought the weather on the side of many a
livery barn long after the "Grand Rally" with its crop of
cheer-strained throats was a thing of the past. His ability as a stump
speaker and his hail-fellow-well-met-and-how's-the-baby way of mixing
with the crowd had popularized him to the bamboozlement of his
admirers. So that in election forecasts his seat in the Legislature
always had headed the list at party headquarters, while in the
opposition camp it had been chalked up as "election conceded."
But as is the law of it, there cometh a day when the evil a man doeth
findeth him out. Whispers had stolen abroad in the land and the rumors
had drawn men together in scattered groups. Rivulets of resentment had
run together in widening pools of public opinion till the mysterious
forces which slowly arouse the "Great Common People" had broken loose
suddenly in one of those periodic reform waves which sweep everything
before them. And into the arena with shining sword drawn had stepped a
brilliant lawyer named Waring to pick up the gauge of battle against
Rives and his corrupt associates, with Rives himself as his individual
opponent.
The fight in Rives' constituency had gone to bitter lengths. The
government forces had poured money into the campaign and under the
practiced hand of Harrington Rives the "Machine" had gone to indiscreet
lengths to defeat Waring. Bribery and corruption, which for a long
time had characterized the administration's political organization, had
become more open and Rives' opponent quietly had gathered the
irrefutable evidence which ended in the arrest of Rives and several of
his henchmen on the eve of the election. The exposure had been so
complete and far-reaching--actual misappropriation of public funds in
Rives' case--that the reform forces had made a clean sweep amid great
public rejoicing.
It would require a short memory indeed to forget all this, thought
Kendrick. Remembrance of the Rives case, which he had taken the
trouble once to look up in the old newspaper files, never failed to
re-establish his faith in his uncle and it was with a sweep of
irritation now that he dug in his paddle--and veered sharply to the
left as the rustle of reeds against the canoe warned him that he was
close inshore somewhere. Mechanically he tried to peer through the
dark. This ought to be the sandbar to the left of the Island Park
ferry landing if he had not gone out of his reckoning. He waited for
the fog-horn that presently bellowed loudly off to the left. If this
were the sandbar he would have to skirt it east to the cut that ran in
beside the Yacht Club.
A moment's paddling convinced him that he had guessed correctly.
Something scraped alongside--a yacht, moored in the channel. He turned
to the right and presently was gratified to find himself in quieter
water. A moment later he was safely within the inner channel that
followed the park embankment and led east past private boathouses.
From the canal short streets here cut south across the island to the
lakefront, where many fine residences of the wealthy faced open water.
The steady rhythm of the waves against the breakwater reached him in
sharp contrast to the brooding stillness of the channel water.
Kendrick was almost home now. The Waring boathouse was within a
stonesthrow. He edged the canoe forward gently, close to the bank,
feeling his way toward the familiar landing.
And there was not one thing to prepare him for what immediately
followed. A voice which seemed to be almost at his elbow spoke to him
out of the darkness in low hurried tones--a woman's voice! At the same
time he felt the bow of the canoe pulled in against the bank. Before
he could recover sufficiently from his surprise to speak she had
stepped aboard and he could hear her adjusting a cushion beneath her
knees. Then came her tense whispered warning:
"Stick right here and don't talk. We haven't time to get away, but
they can't see us. Sh! Here they come!"