When he set me down at my door, I had said hardly a word. There seemed nothing that could be said. I remember I stood for some time watching the old man as he rode away, his wagon jolting in the country road, his stout figure perched firmly in the seat. I went in with a sense of heaviness at the heart.
“Harriet,” I said, “there are some things in this world beyond human remedy.”
Two evenings later I was surprised to see the Scotch Preacher drive up to my gate and hastily tie his horse.
“David,” said he, “there's bad business afoot. A lot of the young fellows in Swan Hill are planning a raid on Old Toombs's hedge. They are coming down to-night.”
I got my hat and jumped in with him. We drove up the hilly road and out around Old Toombs's farm and thus came, near to the settlement. I had no conception of the bitterness that the lawsuit had engendered.
“Where once you start men hating one another,” said the Scotch Preacher, “there's utterly no end of it.”
I have seen our Scotch Preacher in many difficult places, but never have I seen him rise to greater heights than he did that night. It is not in his preaching that Doctor McAlway excels, but what a power he is among men! He was like some stern old giant, standing there and holding up the portals of civilization. I saw men melt under his words like wax; I saw wild young fellows subdued into quietude; I saw unwise old men set to thinking.
“Man, man,” he'd say, lapsing in his earnestness into the broad Scotch accent of his youth, “you canna' mean plunder, and destruction, and riot! You canna! Not in this neighbourhood!”
“What about Old Toombs?” shouted one of the boys.
I never shall forget how Doctor McAlway drew himself up nor the majesty that looked from his eye.