CHAPTER XIV
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
The debate was well advanced when Pritchen entered the building. The rough benches were all filled, so he stood with his back to the door among several who were in a similar situation. The chairman of the meeting, Caribou Sol, was sitting at the farther end of the room before a small table. At his left sat Keith, by the side of the mission harmonium, which had been brought over from the church for this special occasion. A portion of the room behind the chairman was hidden by a bright coloured curtain. This was a source of wonder to the audience, and aroused in their minds various conjectures.
"That's where they keep the goat," said one talkative fellow. "Don't you see his horns?"
"No, but I hear him blat outside," replied another, at which a general laugh ensued.
"But really," continued the other, undisturbed by the merriment at his expense, "there is something behind that curtain. Joe, the kid, knows all about it, but he's as tight as a clam. He said the parson put it up at the last moment like greased lightning."
"Maybe he keeps his thunder there," laughed another. "I understand he's dead set against whiskey, and has some hot bolts to hand out to-night. But say, here he comes, looking mighty pleased about something."
At first the debate was conducted in a formal and orderly manner. The leaders in carefully prepared speeches opened up the subject, and received hearty applause. Gradually the men thawed out, the speaking became general, and in some cases regular harangues ensued, punctured by witty remarks from the listeners.
One of these had the floor when Pritchen arrived. He had been talking for some time about the evils of whiskey and the misery it caused to so many people.
"Think of the homes it has ruined," he was saying; "the young lives it has blighted; the prisons it is filling; the——"
"What about the snakes, Mickie?" came a voice from the audience.
"Sure, you're right there. I don't intind to leave the snakes out. And say, Dave Groggan, did yer grandfather ever tell ye where the sarpents wint to whin Saint Patrick drove thim out of ould Ireland?"
"Into the sea, of course."
"Ay, ay; into the sea, sure enough, the sea of Irish and all ither kinds of whiskey."
"Did ye ever see them, Mickey?"
"See thim? Haven't I seen thim, and if you drink enough of the stuff ye'll see thim too."
The laugh which followed this remark was silenced by the chairman rising to his feet. He rose slowly, and stood for a time with his hands upon the table. He was a man to be noticed in any company, with his tall, gigantic figure, thin gray hair, and long white beard. His faded eyes looked calmly over the heads of the men before him while waiting for the noise to subside.
"B'ys," he began, "I ain't used to makin' speeches, but I must say a few words to-night. Ye've talked about the miseries of war an' whiskey. Ye've brought forth facts an' figures a-plenty, but ye don't seem to be in earnest."
"What are ye giving us, Sol?" spoke up one.
"Ye may think what ye like, but if you'd been through the furnace as I have ye'd not make so many jokes about whiskey. Ye'd speak from yer hearts, an' then ye'd be in earnest, never fear. Look at me, b'ys, the oldest man here, an' when I heered one young chap boast that to drink moderately was no harm, I trembled fer 'im. I thought so too once, an' I said so to Annie, my wife, God bless her. I can't make a long speech in eloquent words, but I jist want to show yez a page from an old man's life."
"What, a sermon?" asked one of Pritchen's gang, who was getting restless and anxious for something exciting to happen.
"Mebbe a few sarmons wouldn't hurt ye," and Sol fixed his eye sternly upon the young man.
"As I was a-sayin'," he continued, "I want to tell yez somethin'. When I was fust married me an' Annie were as happy as any couple in—oh, well, ye'd better not know whar. We had a fine farm, snug house, and good-sized barns, with kind neighbours a-plenty. By the time our two little uns were born we had laid by a neat sum of money.
"'It's fer Danny an' Chrissie, to eddicate 'em,' says Annie. An' oh, b'ys, I remember the last time she laid any away. I had come back from town, whar I had sold my load of produce, an' I handed her what money I had. She looked at it an' then at me kinder scared like.
"'Sol,' says she, 'is this all? An' what's the matter with ye? Ye've been drinkin'!'
"'Only a few drops with the b'ys, Annie,' says I, but I didn't tell her it had been a-goin' on fer some time.
"'Don't ye do it any more, Sol,' says she. 'Remember the little uns, an''—then her voice kinder quavered, 'the habit may grow upon ye.'
"I laughed at her—yes, I laughed then, but oh, God, b'ys!" and the old man leaned over the table with a look of agony in his face, "I ain't laughed since! Would any of yez laugh if ye'd left a wife like Annie, an' such sweet wee uns fer the devil whiskey? If it had lost ye yer farm, home, respect of all, and drove ye away a drunken sot?
"After a while a bit of my manhood returned. I swore I would make good agin, an' with that resolve I worked in a lumber camp. With feverish energy I swung the axe an' handled the peevie till my name was known fer miles around. My wages I did not spend, as did most of the men, in gamblin' an' drinkin', an' at last I went to town to send the money to my wife. Then, may God forgive me, I fell. But what could I do, with rum shops starin' at me from every corner, doggin' my very steps, allus allurin' me, an' the men coaxin' me on all sides?"
"I'll take jist one glass," says I, "an' no more.
"But that was enough, an' when I sobered up my money was all gone."
"And brains too," jeered some one from the back of the room.
"Ah, yer wrong there," calmly replied Sol. "I didn't have any to lose or I wouldn't have acted the way I did.
"I fled from the place. I wandered, ever wandered, God knows whar. I struck minin' camps, worked like a slave, an' spent my wages to satisfy the devil within me. But once I let up. A young chap, the parson of Big Glen, reached out a hand an' gave me a lift. He stuck to me through thick an' thin. He made me feel I was a man, till down I went agin, an' I ain't seen 'im since.
"One day, after a drunken spree, an old paper from my own town somehow drifted into my hands. Here is a piece of it. Look," and Sol held up a small note book, with a clipping pasted on the inside. "See the headin':
'Died in the Poor House!'
"It was my Annie! the trimmest lass an' best wife a man ever had. An' what did it, b'ys? I ask yez that. What did it? Whiskey, that's what did it, an' ye'll joke about it, an' say it doesn't hurt to take a drop now an' then."
"He's a weak fool who can't," spoke up Pritchen. He was not satisfied at the silence which followed when Sol finished, and the impression he had made upon the men.
"Weak fool! Weak fool, did ye say?" returned Sol. "But mebbe yer right when I come to think of it. An' I guess thar are many more of us who are weak fools, too, fer what do we do? Walk right into a saloon an' see writin' there plainer than on the walls of Bill Shazzar's palace, which doesn't need a Dann'l to tell its meanin', either."
"I never saw any writing on saloons," sneered Pritchen. "You've had the D. T.'s, old man, that was the trouble with you. What you thought was writing was nothing but snakes."
"Ye see, b'ys," continued Sol, ignoring Pritchen's thrust, "the words, 'Homes Ruined Here,' 'Disease, Insanity, an' Murder Found Here,' 'This Way to the Poor House an' the Grave.' That's what we see, an' yit we walk right in an' buy with them words a-starin' us in the face."
"You're a d— fool and a liar," shouted Pritchen, at which his men set up a roar, delighted to know that something was about to happen.
Caribou Sol started; the colour fled from his face, and with one bound he leaped forward, scrambled over the seats, and confronted the man who had dared to use such insulting words.
"Take 'em back!" he cried. "Take back them words, or by heavens I'll pin ye to the wall!"
Pritchen was taken by surprise, it was easy to see that. He had reckoned on a disturbance, but had not expected the sudden action of Caribou Sol. Inwardly he cursed his men for their slowness in stirring up the meeting. He wished to remain in the background in order to further his future designs. But with this towering form confronting him matters assumed a different aspect. He shrunk back from those blazing eyes, but only for an instant. It would not do to show any sign of weakening in the presence of the miners.
"To h— with you!" he cried. "Do you think I'm a dog? I mean all I give, and I give more than words."
Quick as lightning his hand slipped to his hip pocket, a revolver flashed for an instant in sight, and then whirled through the room to strike heavily against the opposite wall, while Pritchen staggered back, and sank heavily to the floor, felled like an ox by one blow of Caribou Sol's clenched fist.
Instantly an uproar arose. Pritchen's followers with a cry of rage surged forward and bore down upon the gray-haired giant, while the rest of the men sprang to his assistance.
So quickly had everything taken place that Keith stood dumbfounded. He had noticed the presence of Pritchen and his gang, and felt rather uneasy as to their purpose in attending. But as time passed and nothing happened he hoped that the debate would end quietly. Now, instead of peace, a general fight was on. Blows were being exchanged, cries and curses were ringing through the room. It must be stopped. He leaped over the benches and besought the assailants to desist, but his voice was drowned in the general clamour.
"Oh, God," he mentally prayed, "help me, tell me what to do to stop these brutes!"
And even then his prayer was answered. The commotion gradually subsided. The men, some with faces scratched and bleeding, were staring in one direction as if they saw a ghost. Keith looked, too, and instead of a ghost he beheld the trembling form of Constance Radhurst.
In the moment of excitement he had forgotten her, and when he saw her standing there on the rude platform before the curtain, in the presence of those rough men, he was tempted to rush up and lead her gently away. A groan almost escaped his lips. What a different ending to the debate from the one he had expected. It had been planned that Constance should appear, but only as a pleasant surprise, to sing some old songs when the debate was over. He had taken a step or two towards the platform, when in a clear, rich voice Constance began to sing:
"Come, sing once more to-night, my lads,
Come, sing some old refrain,
Of love, of home, of childhood days,
And live them o'er again.
Chorus:
"We've drifted far away, ye ken,
From home and kith and kin,
Fling open wide your hearts to-night,
And let the old times in.
"Put strife aside, and banish care,
And sink them out of sight,
Oh, comrades of the weary trail,
Be brothers for to-night!
Chorus.
"And then let fall whate'er betide,
The trail be steep and long,
We'll quicker step and keener fight,
Cheered by some old, sweet song."
Chorus.
It was but a simple song which Constance and Kenneth had often sung together in the good old happy days. She little realized then to what purpose it would one day be used. But with the men the words affected them not so much as the sight of that sweet face, whiter than it should be, and the trim figure on the platform. Into many a mind flashed the memory of other days.
For an instant there was silence when Constance ended. Then, "Three cheers for the lady," shouted one strapping fellow. "Three cheers," came the response, and how their voices did ring as they roared and stamped their approval.
Keith in the meantime had taken his place at the harmonium, and when the men's voices had died down he played the air of "Annie Laurie." With Constance leading, and the miners joining in the chorus, it was a time never to be forgotten at Klassan.
Pritchen was a surly witness of this marvellous transformation. Regaining his feet, he tried to speak to his men. But they had forgotten him in the new excitement. They were in a rollicking humour, these husky fellows, who but a few minutes before were tearing at one another in the wildest confusion. In his anger Pritchen seized one by the shoulder.
"D— you!" he shouted. "What's wrong with you all? Are you going to let a bit of lace turn your heads?"
The only response he received was the man wheeling square around, and bawling full into his face:
"And for bonnie Annie Laurie,
I'll lay me doon an' dee."
"Curse you all!" he cried. "You confounded idiots!" and in a rage he left the building and started for Perdue's store.
The sound of the last verse followed him into the darkness, and then silence. He stopped and listened. Presently there floated through the air the old, familiar tune of "Jesus, Lover of My Soul." All were singing it, he could easily tell that, and his men, too! He turned and shook his fist at the building.
"My time will come!" he cried. "You d— missionary! I'll get even with you! You may laugh at me now, but beware!"