As people waked up in Milton the Wednesday morning after the shooting of
Philip Strong they grew conscious of the fact, as the news came to their
knowledge, that they had been nursing for fifty years one of the most
brutal and cowardly institutions on earth, and licensing it to do the
very thing which at last it had done. For the time being Milton suffered
a genuine shock. Long pent-up feeling against the whisky power burst
out, and public sentiment for once condemned the source of the cowardly
attempt to murder.
Various rumors were flying about. It was said that Mr. Strong had been
stabbed in the back while out making parish calls in company with his
wife, and that she had been wounded by a pistol-shot herself. It was
also said that he had been shot through the heart and instantly killed.
But all these confused reports were finally set at rest when those
calling at the parsonage brought away the exact truth.
The first shot fired by the man from behind the tree struck Philip in
the knee, but the ball glanced off. He felt the blow and staggered, but
his next impulse was to rush in the direction of the sound and disarm
his assailant. That was the reason he had leaped into the street. But
the second shot was better aimed and the bullet crashed into his upper
arm and shoulder, shattering the bone and producing an exceedingly
painful though not fatal wound.
The shock caused Philip to fall, and he fainted away, but not before the
face of the man who had shot him was clearly stamped on his mind. He
knew that he was one of the saloon proprietors whose establishment
Philip had visited the week before. He was a man with a harelip, and
there was no mistaking his countenance.
When the people of Milton learned that Philip was not fatally wounded
their excitement cooled a little. A wave of indignation, however, swept
over the town when it was learned that the would-be murderer was
recognized by the minister, and it was rumored that he had openly
threatened that he would "fix the cursed preacher so that he would not
be able to preach again."
Philip, however, felt more full of fight against the rum-devil than
ever. As he lay on the bed the morning after, the shooting he had
nothing to regret or fear. The surgeon had been called at once, as soon
as his wife and the alarmed neighbors had been able to carry him into
the parsonage. The ball had been removed and the wounds dressed. By noon
he had recovered somewhat from the effects of the operation and was
resting, although very weak from the shock and suffering considerable
pain.
"What is that stain on the floor, Sarah?" he asked as his wife came in
with some article for his comfort. Philip lay where he could see into
the other room.
"It is your blood, Philip," replied his wife, with a shudder. "It
dripped like a stream from your shoulder as we carried you in last
night. O Philip, it is dreadful! It seems to me like an awful nightmare.
Let us move away from this terrible place. You will be killed if we stay
here!"
"There isn't much danger if the rest of 'em are as poor shots as this
fellow," replied Philip. "Now, little woman," he went on cheerfully,
"don't worry. I don't believe they'll try it again."
Mrs. Strong controlled herself. She did not want to break down while
Philip was in his present condition.
"You must not talk," she said as she smoothed his hair back from the
pale forehead.
"That's pretty hard on a preacher, don't you think, Sarah? My occupation
is gone if I can't talk."
"Then I'll talk for two. They say that most women can do that."
"Will you preach for me next Sunday?"
"What, and make myself a target for saloon-keepers? No, thank you. I
have half a mind to forbid you ever preaching again. It will be the
death of you."
"It is the life of me, Sarah. I would not ask anything better than to
die with the armor on, fighting evil. Well, all right. I won't talk any
more. I suppose there's no objection to my thinking a little?"
"Thinking is the worst thing you can do. You just want to lie there and
do nothing but get well."
"All right. I'll quit everything except eating and sleeping. Put up a
little placard on the head of the bed saying, 'Biggest curiosity in
Milton! A live minister who has stopped thinking and talking! Admission
ten cents. Proceeds to be devoted to teach saloon-keepers how to shoot
straight.'" Philip was still somewhat under the influence of the
doctor's anaesthetic, and as he faintly murmured this absurd sentence he
fell into a slumber which lasted several hours, from which he awoke very
feeble, and realizing that he would be confined to the house some time,
but feeling in good spirits and thankful out of the depths of his
vigorous nature that he was still spared to do God's will on earth.
The next day he felt strong enough to receive a few visitors. Among them
was the chief of police, who came to inquire concerning the identity of
the man who had done the shooting. Philip showed some reluctance to
witness against his enemy. It was only when he remembered that he owed a
duty to society as well as to himself that he described the man and
related minutely the entire affair exactly as it occurred.
"Is the man in town?" asked Philip. "Has he not fled?"
"I think I know where he is," replied the officer. "He's in hiding, but
I can find him. In fact, we have been hunting for him since the
shooting. He is wanted on several other charges."
Philip was pondering something in silence. At last he said:
"When you have arrested him I wish you would bring him here if it can be
done without violating any ordinance or statute."
The officer stared at the request, and the minister's wife exclaimed:
"Philip, you will not have that man come into the house! Besides, you
are not well enough to endure a meeting with the wretch!"
"Sarah, I have a good reason for it. Really, I am well enough. You will
bring him, won't you? I do not wish to make any mistake in the matter.
Before the man is really confined under a criminal charge of attempt to
murder I would like to confront him here. There can be no objection to
that, can there?"
The officer finally promised that, if he could do so without attracting
too much attention, he would comply with the request. It was a thing he
had never done before; he was not quite easy in his mind about it.
Nevertheless, Philip exercised a winning influence over all sorts and
conditions of men, and he felt quite sure that, if the officer could
arrest his man quietly, he would bring him to the parsonage.
This was Thursday night. The next evening, just after dark, the bell
rang, and one of the church members who had been staying with Mr. Strong
during the day went to the door. There stood two men. One of them was
the chief of police. He inquired how the minister was, and said that he
had a man with him whom the minister was anxious to see.
Philip heard them talking, and guessed who they were. He sent his wife
out to have the men come in. The officer with his man came into the
bedroom where Philip lay, still weak and suffering, but at his request
propped up a little with pillows.
"Well, Mr. Strong, I have got the man, and here he is." said the
officer, wondering what Philip could want of him. "I ran him down in the
'crow's nest' below the mills, and we popped him into a hack and drove
right up here with him. And a pretty sweet specimen he is, I can tell
you! Take off your hat and let the gentleman have another look at the
brave chap who fired at him in ambush!"
The officer spoke almost brutally, forgetting for a moment that the
prisoner's hands were manacled; remembering it the next instant, he
pulled off the man's hat, while Philip looked calmly at the features.
Yes, it was the same hideous, brutal face, with the hare-lip, which had
shone up in the rays of the street-lamp that night; there was no
mistaking it for any other.
"Why did you want to kill me?" asked Philip, after a significant pause.
"I never did you any harm."
"I would like to kill all the cursed preachers," replied the man,
hoarsely.
"You confess, then, that you are the man who fired at me, do you?"
"I don't confess anything. What are you talking to me for? Take me to
the lock-up if you're going to!" the man exclaimed fiercely, turning to
the officer.
"Philip!" cried his wife, turning to him with a gesture of appeal, "send
them away. It will do no good to talk to this man."
Philip raised his hand in a gesture toward the man that made every one
in the room feel a little awed. The officer in speaking of it afterward
said: "I tell you, boys I never felt quite the same, except once, when
the old Catholic priest stepped up on the platform with old man Gower
time he was hanged at Millville. Somehow then I felt as if, when the
priest raised his hand and began to pray, maybe we might all be glad to
have some one pray for us if we get into a tight place."
Philip spoke directly to the man, whose look fell beneath that of the
minister.
"You know well enough that you are the man who shot me Tuesday night. I
know you are the man, for I saw your face very plainly by the light of
the street-lamp. Now, all that I wanted to see you here for before you
were taken to jail was to let you know that I do not bear any hatred
toward you. The thing you have done is against the law of God and man.
The injury you have inflicted upon me is very slight compared with that
against your own soul. Oh, my brother man, why should you try to harm me
because I denounced your business? Do you not know in your heart of
hearts that the saloon is so evil in its effects that a man who loves
his home and his country must speak out against it? And yet I love you;
that is possible because you are human. Oh, my Father!" Philip
continued, changing his appeal to the man, by an almost natural manner,
into a petition to the Infinite, "make this soul, dear to thee, to
behold thy love for him, and make him see that it is not against me, a
mere man, that he has sinned, but against thyself--against thy purity
and holiness and affection. Oh, my God, thou who didst come in the
likeness of sinful man to seek and save that which was lost, stretch out
the arms of thy salvation now to this child and save him from himself,
from his own disbelief, his hatred of me, or of what I have said. Thou
art all-merciful and all-loving. We leave all souls of men in the
protecting, enfolding embrace of thy boundless compassion and infinite
mercy."
There was a moment of entire quiet in the room, and then Philip said
faintly: "Sarah, I cannot say more. Only tell the man I bear him no
hatred, and commend him to the love of God."
Mrs. Strong was alarmed at Philip's appearance. The scene had been too
much for his strength. She hastily commanded the officer to take his
prisoner away, and with the help of her friend cared for the minister,
who, after the first faintness, rallied, and then gradually sank into
sleep that proved more refreshing than any he had yet enjoyed since the
night of the shooting.
The next day found Philip improving more rapidly than Mrs. Strong had
thought possible. She forbade him the sight of all callers, however, and
insisted that he must keep quiet. His wounds were healing
satisfactorily, and when the surgeon called he expressed himself much
pleased with his patient's appearance.
"Say, doctor, do you really think it would set me back any to think a
little?"
"No. I never heard of thinking hurting people; I have generally
considered it a healthy habit."
"The reason I asked," continued Philip, gravely, "was because my wife
absolutely forbade it, and I was wondering how long I could keep it up
and fool anybody."
"That's a specimen of his stubbornness, doctor," said the minister's
wife, smiling. "Why, only a few minutes before you came in he was
insisting that he could preach to-morrow. Think of it!--a man with a
shattered shoulder, who would have to stand on one leg and do all his
gesturing with his left hand; a man who can't preach without the use of
seven or eight arms, and as many pockets, and has to walk up and down
the platform like a lion when he gets started on his delivery! And yet
he wants to preach to-morrow! He's that stubborn that I don't know as I
can keep him at home. You would better leave some powders to put him to
sleep, and we will keep him in a state of unconsciousness until Monday
morning."
"Now, doctor, just listen to me a while. Mrs. Strong is talking for two
women, as she agreed to do, and that puts me in a hard position. But I
want to know how soon I can get to work again."
"You will have to lie there a month," said the doctor, bluntly.
"Impossible! I never lied that time in my life!" said Philip, soberly.
"It would serve him right to perform a surgical operation on him for
that, wouldn't it, Mrs. Strong?" the surgeon appealed to her.
"I think he deserves the worst you can do, doctor."
"But say, dear people, I can't stay here a month. I must be about my
Master's business. What will the church do for supplies?"
"Don't worry, Philip. The church will take care of that."
But Philip was already eager to get to work. Only the assurance of the
surgeon that he might possibly get out a little over three weeks
satisfied him. Sunday came and passed. Some one from a neighboring town
who happened to be visiting in Milton occupied the pulpit, and Philip
had a quiet, restful day. He started in the week determined to beat the
doctor's time for recovery; and, having a remarkably strong constitution
and a tremendous will, he bade fair to be limping about the house in two
weeks. His shoulder wound healed very fast. His knee bothered him, and
it seemed likely that he would go lame for a long time. But he was not
concerned about that if only he could go about in any sort of fashion
once more.
Wednesday of that week he was surprised by an unexpected manner by an
event which did more than anything else to hasten his recovery. He was
still confined to bed downstairs when in the afternoon the bell rang,
and Mrs. Strong went to the door supposing it was one of the church
people come to inquire about the minister. She found instead Alfred
Burke, Philip's old college chum and Seminary classmate. Mrs. Strong
welcomed him heartily, and in answer to his eager inquiry concerning
Philip's condition she brought him into the room, knowing her patient
quite well and feeling sure the sight of his old chum would do him more
good than harm. The first thing Alfred said was:
"Old man, I hardly expected to see you again this side of heaven. How
does it happen that you are alive here after all the times the papers
have had you killed?"
"Bad marksmanship, principally. I used to think I was a big man. But
after the shooting I came to the conclusion that I must be rather
small."
"Your heart is so big it's a wonder to me that you weren't shot through
it, no matter where you were hit. But I tell you it seems good to see
you in the flesh once more."
"Why didn't you come and preach for me last Sunday?" asked Philip,
quizzically.
"Why, haven't you heard? I did not get news of the affair until last
Saturday in my Western parish, and I was just in the throes of packing
up to come on to Elmdale."
"Elmdale?"
"Yes, I've had a call there. So we shall be neighbors. Mrs. Burke is up
there now getting the house straightened out, and I came right down
here."
"So you are pastor of the Chapel Hill Church? It's a splendid opening
for a young preacher. Congratulations, Alfred."
"Thank you, Philip. By the way, I saw by the paper that you had declined
a call to Elmdale, so I suppose they pitched on me for a second choice.
You never wrote me of their call to you," he said, a little
reproachfully.
"It didn't occur to me," replied Philip, truthfully. "But how are you
going to like it? Isn't it rather a dull old place?"
"Yes, I suspect it is, compared with Milton. I suppose you couldn't live
without the excitement of dodging assassins and murderers every time you
go out to prayer meeting or make parish calls. How do you like your work
so far?"
"There is plenty of it," answered Philip, gravely. "A minister must be
made of cast-iron and fire-brick in order to stand the wear and tear of
these times in which we live. I'd like a week to trade ideas with you
and talk over the work, Alfred."
"You'd get the worst of the bargain."
"I don't know about that. I'm not doing any thinking lately. But now, as
we're going to be only fifty miles apart, what's to hinder an exchange
once in a while?"
"I'm agreeable to that," replied Philip's chum; "on condition, however,
that you furnish me with a gun and pay all surgeons' bills when I occupy
your pulpit."
"Done," said Philip, with a grin; and just then Mrs. Strong forbade any
more talk. Alfred stayed until the evening train, and when he left he
stooped down and kissed Philip's cheek. "It's a custom we learned when
in the German universities together that summer after college, you
know," he explained with the slightest possible blush, when Mrs. Strong
came in and caught him in the act. It seemed to her, however, like an
affecting thing that two big, grown-up men like her husband and his old
chum showed such tender affection for each other. The love of men for
men in the strong friendship of school and college life is one of the
marks of human divinity.