MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY
It was eleven o'clock at night. Mrs. Betty had retired, while her
husband was still struggling to finish a sermon on the importance of
foreign missions. Ordinarily, the work would have been congenial and
easy for him, because he was an enthusiast in the matter of missionary
work: but now for some reason his thoughts were confused; his
enthusiasm was lacking, and his pen dragged. He tried hard to pull
himself together, but over and over again the question kept repeating
itself in his tired brain: Why should the Church support foreign
missions, while she lets her hard working clergy at home suffer and
half starve in their old age, and even fails to give them decent
support while they are working in their prime? Why should a doctor
reach his highest professional value at seventy, and a parson be past
the "dead-line" at forty-five? Here he was, subject to the caprice and
ill-will of a sour and miserly Senior Warden, and a cowed and at least
partially "bossed" vestry--and he, the rector, with no practical power
of appeal for the enforcement of his legal contract. It was only
thanks to Jonathan Jackson, the Junior Warden, that any revenue at all
reached him; for Bascom had used every grain of influence he possessed
to reduce or stop Maxwell's salary. Mrs. Betty, plucky and cheery
though she was, already showed the results of the weary struggle: it
was not the work that took the color from her cheeks and the freshness
from her face, but the worry incidental to causes which, in any other
calling in life but his, would be removable.
Already he had parted with a considerable number of his books to eke
out, and meet the many calls upon him--urgent and insistent calls. It
became abundantly clear, as his mind strayed from the manuscript
before him and turned to their immediate situation, that he was
already forced to choose between two alternatives: either he must give
up, and own himself and all the better influences in the place beaten
by Bascom and his satellites; or he must find some means of augmenting
his means of living, without allowing his time and energy to be
monopolized to the neglect of essential parish and church duties.
As he thought on these things, somehow his enthusiasm for foreign
missions ebbed away, and left him desperately tired and worried. He
made several abortive attempts to put some fire into his missionary
plea, but it was useless; and he was about to give up when he heard
Mrs. Betty's gentle voice inquiring from the next room:
"May I come in? Haven't you finished that wretched old missionary
sermon yet?"
"No, dear; but why aren't you asleep?"
"I have been anxious about you. You are worn out and you need your
rest. Now just let the heathen rage, and go to bed."
Maxwell made no reply, but picked at his manuscript aimlessly with his
pen. Betty looked into his face, and then the whole stress of the
situation pierced her; and sitting down by his side she dropped her
head on his shoulder and with one arm around his neck stroked his
cheek with her fingers. For a few moments neither of them spoke; and
then Maxwell said quietly:
"Betty, love, I am going to work."
"But Donny, you are one of the hardest working men in this town. What
do you mean?"
"Oh, I mean that I am going to find secular work, the work of a day
laborer, if necessary. Matters have come to a crisis, and I simply
cannot stand this sort of thing any longer. If I were alone I might
get along; but I have you, sweetheart, and----"
Maxwell stopped suddenly, and the brave little woman at his side
said:
"Yes, I know all about it, Donald, and I think you are fully justified
in doing anything you think best."
"And you wouldn't feel ashamed of me if I handled a shovel or dug in
the street?"
"I'd be the proudest woman in the town, Donny; you are just your fine
dear self, whatever you do; and if you have the courage to put your
pride in your pocket and work in overalls, that would make you all the
finer to me. Manual work would relieve the tension of your nerves. You
seem to be in fairly good physical condition. Don't you worry one bit
about me. I am going to wash some lace curtains for Mrs. Roscoe-Jones,
and that will keep me out of mischief. Now, if you will allow me, I am
going to tear up that sermon on foreign missions, and start a little
home mission of my own by sending you to bed."
The second morning after this ruthless destruction of Maxwell's
eloquent plea for the mission at Bankolulu, Danny Dolan drove up to
the tent-rectory at half-past six, and Maxwell emerged and jumped up
by Danny's side, dressed in a rather soiled suit of overalls: Danny
was a teamster, a good looking youth, and a devoted friend of
Maxwell's since the parson had taken care of him and his family
through an attack of malignant diphtheria. But while Danny was a most
loyal friend, he was not of the emotional type, and so, when Maxwell
had seated himself comfortably and had lighted his briar pipe, Danny
started down the road at a vigorous pace, grinning broadly at
Maxwell's attire as he remarked:
"So you're really goin' to work like the rest of us, I reckon."
"Right you are, Danny--four days a week, anyhow. Don't I look like the
real thing?"
"Sure you do; only you better not shave every day, and you'll have to
get your hands dirty before you can fool anybody, and maybe your
face'll give you away even then. Be you comfortable in them clothes?"
"Sure thing; I'm never so contented as I am in working clothes."
"That's all right. You're the stuff. But how about the proper old
maids in the parish who ogle and dance around you; they won't cotton
to your clothes a little bit. They'll think you're degradin' of
yourself and disgracin' of the parish. Here you be ridin' on a stone
wagon, and you don't look a bit better than me, if I do say it."
"I'm afraid they'll have to survive the shock somehow or other; a man
has to dress according to his work."
"Hm! Now there's that there Mrs. Roscoe-Jones and Miss Bascom; I'll
bet if they saw you in that rig they'd throw a fit."
"Oh no; it isn't as bad as that, Danny."
"They'd think you'd been disgraced for life, to become a laborin' man,
you bet."
"A what?"
"A laborin' man."
"Then you think that a parson doesn't labor?"
"Well, I always thought that bein' a parson was a dead easy job, and a
nice clean job too."
"Danny," Maxwell inquired after a momentary silence, "don't you
suppose that a man labors with his brain as well as with his muscles?
And sometimes a parson labors with his heart, and that is the hardest
kind of work a man ever does. The man who is most of a laboring man
is the man who labors with every power and faculty he possesses."
"Well, now, I guess that may be right, if you look at it that way."
"Yes; you speak of a laboring man, and you mean a man who uses his
muscles and lets his brain and his feelings die of starvation. To try
to help some one you're fond of, who is going to the bad, is the most
nerve-racking and exhausting work which any man can possibly do."
"Hm! you always was a dum queer parson, more like the rest of us,
somehow. And you don't hold that you're disgracin' your profession
ridin' with me, and shovelin' gravel?"
"I don't seem to be worrying much about it, do I?"
"No," he agreed--and added, "and I'm dum sure I would like a day off
now and then from preachin' and callin' on old maids, if I was you.
But there's times I might be willin' for to let you take my work for
yours."
"Now see here, if you'll do my work for a few days, I'll do yours."
"Well, what'd I have to do? I 'aint makin' any contract without
specifications."
"Well, suppose we say you do my work Saturday and Sunday. That means
you finish up two sermons, which must be original and interesting
when you are preaching to the same set of people about a hundred and
fifty times a year. Then you must go and see a woman who is always
complaining, and listen to her woes for three-quarters of an hour.
Then you must go and see what you can do for Tom Bradsaw, who is dying
of tuberculosis. Then you must conduct a choir rehearsal--not always
the highest gratification of a musical ear. Sunday, you must conduct
four services and try to rouse a handful of people, who stare at you
from the back pews, to some higher ideals of life and common decency,
Then----"
"Oh, heavens, man! Sure, an' that's enough; I stick to the stone wagon
every time."
"You'd be a fool if you didn't," replied Maxwell straightly. "Then
again you get your pay promptly every Saturday night. I never know
when I am going to get mine."
"You don't? Begad, and I wouldn't work for anybody if I wasn't paid
prompt. I'd sue the Bishop or the Pope, or somebody."
"Parsons don't sue: it's considered improper."
"Well, well," muttered the astonished Danny. "Be you sure you can
shovel stone then?" he asked.
Maxwell unbuttoned his wristband, rolled up his sleeve. "If I can't,
I'll know the reason why," he remarked tersely.
"That's the stuff," laughed Danny, looking at Maxwell's muscle. "I
guess I don't want to meet you out walkin' after dark without a gun.
But say, why don't you swat the Bishop one, and get your pay?"
"The Bishop isn't responsible."
"Well, I'll bet I know who is, dang him; and I'd like to swat him one
for you, the miserable old bag-of-bones."
"Never you mind, Danny; I can take care of myself."
"Sure you can, and I guess you're a laborin' man all right, even if
you don't belong to the Union. Why don't you get up a parson's Union
and go on strike? By Jove! I would. Let your parish go to----"
"Danny, don't you think it looks like rain?"
"No, neither do you; but here we are at the stone pile. My! but how
the fellers will grin when they see a tenderfoot like you, and a
parson at that, shovelin' stone. But they won't think any the less of
you for it, mind you," he reassured his companion.
Maxwell knew most of the men, and greeted them by name, and when he
rolled up his sleeves and began work, they quickly saw that he was "no
slouch," and that he did not "soldier," or shirk, as many of them
did--though sometimes they were inclined to rest on their shovels and
chaff him good-naturedly, and ask him if he had his Union card with
him.
Shoveling stone is no picnic, as Danny and his fellows would have put
it. It is not only the hard, obstructed thrust, thrust of the shovel
into the heap of broken stone, and the constant lift and swing of each
shovelful into the wagon; it is the slow monotony of repetition of
unvarying motion that becomes most irksome to the tyro, and wears down
the nervous system of the old hand till his whole being is leveled to
the insensibility of a soulless machine.
But, though new to the process itself, Maxwell was not ignorant of its
effects; and soon he found himself distracting his attention from the
strain of the muscular tension by fitting the action to the rhythm of
some old sailor's chanteys he had learned at college. The effect
amused the men; and then as some of them caught the beat, and others
joined in, soon the whole gang was ringing the changes on the simple
airs, and found it a rousing and cheerful diversion from the monotony
of labor.
If a pause came, soon one of them would call out: "Come on, Parson;
strike up the hymn."
One by one the wagons were loaded, and driven to the road. After they
had filled the last wagon, Danny put on his coat, and he and Maxwell
mounted and drove out of the yard.
"Where are we going with this?" Maxwell inquired.
"Down on the state road, first turn to the left."
"Why, that must be near Willow Bluff, Mr. Bascom's place, isn't it?"
"Right opposite. Bascom, he come out yesterday, and said he wouldn't
stand for that steam roller snortin' back and forth in front of his
house. But Jim Ferris told him he had his orders from Williamson, and
he wasn't goin' to be held up by nobody until Williamson told him to
stop. Jim isn't any kind of fool."
When they arrived in front of Willow Bluff, they stopped, dismounted,
and dumped the crushed stone, and then returned to the stone yard. At
noon they camped out on the curb in front of Willow Bluff. After
Maxwell had done full justice to the contents of his dinner pail, he
stretched himself full length on the grass for a few moments, chatting
with his mates in friendly fashion. Then he went over to the roller
and assisted the engineer in "oiling up." Being a novice at the
business, he managed to get his hands black with oil, and smeared a
streak across one cheek, which, while it helped to obscure his
identity, did not add to his facial beauty. He was blissfully
unconscious of this. About three o'clock Bascom returned from his
office, just as Maxwell was dismounting from the wagon after bringing
a load. At first Bascom did not recognize the rector, but a second
glance brought the awful truth home to his subliminal self, and he
stopped and stared at Maxwell, stricken dumb. Maxwell politely touched
his hat, and smilingly remarked that it was a fine day. Bascom made no
reply at first.
[Illustration: "I CONSIDER IT A SHAME AND A DISGRACE TO THE PARISH TO
HAVE OUR RECTOR IN FILTHY CLOTHES, DRAWING STONE WITH A
LOT OF RUFFIANS"]
"Can it be possible that this is you, Mr. Maxwell?" he almost
whispered, at last.
"It is, to the best of my knowledge and belief."
"What in the name of heaven are you working with these men for, if I
may ask?"
"To earn sufficient money to pay my grocer's bill."
Bascom colored hotly, and sputtered:
"I consider it a shame and a disgrace to the parish to have our rector
in filthy clothes, drawing stone with a lot of ruffians."
Maxwell colored as hotly, and replied:
"They are not ruffians, sir; they are honest men, supporting their
families in a perfectly legitimate way, giving their labor
and"--significantly--"receiving their pay for it."
"And you, sir, are engaged to work for the parish, as a minister of
God."
"Unfortunately, I am not being paid by the parish; that is why I am
working here. Neither my wife nor myself is going to starve."
"You haven't any pride, sir!" Bascom fumed, his temper out of control.
"We have had many incompetent rectors, but this really surpasses
anything. We have never had anyone like you."
Maxwell paused again in his work, and, leaning on his shovel, looked
Bascom in the eye:
"By which you mean that you have never had anyone who was independent
enough to grip the situation in both hands and do exactly what he
thought best, independent of your dictation."
"I will not converse with you any more. You are insulting."
"As the corporation is paying me for my time, I prefer work to
conversation."
Bascom strode along the road towards his home. Danny Dolan, who had
been a shameless auditor of this conversation, from the other side of
the wagon, was beside himself with delight:
"Holy Moses! but didn't you give it to the old man. And here be all
your adorers from town after comin' to tea at the house, and you
lookin' like the stoker of an engine with black grease half an inch
thick on your cheek."
Maxwell pulled out his handkerchief, and made an abortive effort to
get his face clean.
"How is it now, Danny?"
"Oh, it 'aint nearly as thick in any one place; it's mostly all over
your face now." Then Danny laughed irreverently again. "Sure, an' you
certainly do look like the real thing now."
Maxwell was raking gravel when the guests for the afternoon tea were
passing; and though he did not look up, he fully realized that they
had recognized him, from the buzz of talk and the turning of heads.
Danny returned from his safer distance when he saw the coast was
clear. Maxwell had a shrewd suspicion that the boy had taken himself
off believing it might embarrass Maxwell less if any of the ladies
should speak to him.
"Did none of 'em know you, then?" he asked.
"Not one of them spoke; I guess my disguise is pretty complete."
"Thank hiven!" Danny exclaimed. "Then the crisis is passed for to-day
at least, and your reputation is saved; but if you don't get out of
this they'll be comin' out again, and then nobody knows what'll
happen. Better smear some more oil over the other cheek to cover the
last bit of dacency left in you."
At the end of the day's work, Maxwell threw his shovel into Dolan's
wagon and jumped up on the seat with him and drove back to town.
"Well," said Maxwell's friend, delightedly, "you done a mighty good
day's work for a tenderfoot; but you done more with that old Bascom
than in all the rest of the day put together. My! but I thought I'd
split my sides to see you puttin' him where he belonged, and you
lookin' like a coal heaver. But it's a howlin' shame you didn't speak
to them women, goin' all rigged up for the party. That would've been
the finishin' touch."
He swayed about on his seat, laughing heartily, until they drew up
before the rectory, where Mrs. Betty was waiting to greet Maxwell.
Danny touched his cap shyly--but Betty came down to the wagon and gave
him a cheery greeting.
"Well--you've brought him back alive, Mr. Dolan, anyway."
"Yes ma'am! And I reckon he'll keep you busy puttin' the food to him,
if he eats like he works: he's a glutton for work, is Mr. Maxwell."
[Illustration]