"Did you see the watch they gave Davie? Get him to show it to you! It's a dandy—solid gold—got a whole lot of writing on the back—something about 'a tribute to Mr. Dave Minehan's courage and skill in the face of grave danger and difficulty.' He don't say much, but he's as tickled about it as the fellow what got a Christmas-box of sealskin underclothes. Davie's alright, you bet. I'd rather fire for him on 'Old 98' than for any guy I know on a big Mogul. He's a bit rough-like sometimes, but if he can help anybody he's on the job; he'd break his neck to do somebody a good turn."
Such was the brakeman's narration of Dave Minehan's final race on "Old 98," on the day that Carlton Mines was levelled by the bush fire.
* * * * *
The shadows of evening had fallen over Twyford on what is still regarded in Carlton Mines as "disaster day." The afternoon had been a busy one for the inhabitants of the almost verdureless village that is known chiefly for its long lines of coke-ovens. Generous hearts had made shacks and homes have an expansive hospitality that would have seemed incredible before the homeless throng arrived. But after every available lodging device had been resorted to there were many people unprovided for. And so the coke-ovens were the best accommodation that could be offered those still unhoused.
In one of these unusual lodging-houses a candle cast its dim light over the figures of two men and a woman who were kneeling in the attitude of prayer. In one corner a black box rested on two backless chairs. It had been made an hour or two before by the local carpenter, and covered with black cloth by the kindly hands of Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson. Little Annette was to be laid away in the early morning, and this was the best that loving hearts could devise in that place and under those circumstances. The manse valises had made their contribution to the final robing of little Annette, and the weeping mother, looking upon what Christ-like friends had done, clasped and kissed the hands that had dealt so kindly with her and her "leetle Annetta." For nearly eight hours the father had walked seeking his wife, and now they were kneeling together in the presence of their dead child.
Walter Nicholson's voice was tremulous with sympathy as he commended the sorrow-stricken strangers to the all-pitying Father. The mourners did not understand all that was uttered, but they understood the spirit that was manifested and were deeply grateful. A few words of comfort were spoken, and the minister passed out into the darkness to another oven in which his own loved ones were awaiting his return. Mrs. Nicholson was sitting on a box with Dorothy on her knee. Angus and the five-year-old stranger had fallen asleep on the ashy floor. No trace had been discovered of the lad's friends. He could give little information beyond the fact that his name was Hans Kuyper, and that he was "losted." Mrs. Nicholson had quieted the wee chap's fears, by assuring him that his mother would come soon, and though, with darkness at hand and no sign of mother, a few tears had been shed, it was not long before the wearied and worn child was asleep.
The husband and father sat alongside of his loved ones in sympathetic silence for a few minutes. The all-night's toil, the hours of solicitude for others, the heat of the day, the burdens carried, the sympathy extended and the discomforts endured, had combined to produce a feeling of depression. "We have lost everything, Jess: maybe I'll feel better by morning, but to-night I've lost my courage as well as everything else, and I can scarcely bear to think of the future."
Little Dorothy placed herself between her father's knees, and looking lovingly into eyes where the unbidden tears had forced themselves, said quietly, "Isn't it a good thing, daddy, that you haven't lost mamma and Angus and me?"
Walter Nicholson enfolded the child in his big arms and kissed the curl-encircled face. "Yes! God bless you, little sunbeam, that is a good thing, and maybe daddy was forgetting. Now let us say the twenty-third Psalm and have our good-night prayer."
With sometimes unsteady voices the three repeated the Psalm they had so often joined in at home under such different circumstances. Then father, mother and child knelt beside the box, and a prayer of thanksgiving and a cry for strength came from a thankful but needy heart. Walter Nicholson's arm rested on Dorothy's shoulder, and his voice quivered again as he thought of the little black box in the near-by oven; and prayed for those to whom the past hours had brought a double sorrow that had left them homeless and childless.