The Miracle Man

by Frank L. Packard

White as death itself was Madison's face; and at times his fingers with a twitching movement curled into clenched fists, at times his open palms sought his temples in a queer wriggling way and pressed upon them. Doubt, anger, fear, a rage

unhallowed—in cycles—buffeted him until his brain reeled, and he was as a man distraught.

It began at the beginning, that cycle, and dragged him along—and left him like one swooning, tottering, upon the edge of a precipice. And then it began over again.

And it began always with a picture of the Roost that night—the vicious, unkempt, ragged figure of the Flopper—the sickly, thin, greedy face of Pale Face Harry, the drug fiend, winching a little as he plunged the needle into his flesh—the easy, unprincipled gaiety and eagerness of Helena for the new path of crime—crime—crime—the Roost exuded crime—filth—immorality—typified them, framed them well as they had sat there, the four of them, while that bruised-nosed bouncer had brought them drink on his rattling tin tray. And then his own self-satisfied, smug, complacent egotism at his own cleverness, his unbounded confidence in his own ability to pull off the game, and—

Well, he had pulled it off—he'd won it—won it—won it—everybody had fallen for it—the boobs had been plentiful—the harvest rich. What was the matter with him! He'd won—was winning every time the clock ticked. Somebody back there was probably throwing good hard coin at him this minute—the damned fool! Madison threw back his head to laugh in derision, for there was mocking, contemptuous laughter in his soul—but the laugh died still-born upon his lips.

It was fear now—fear—staggering, appalling him. He was facing something—something—his brain did not seem to define it—something that was cold and stern and immutable, that was omnipotent, that embodied awe—a condemnation unalterable, unchangeable, before which he shrank back with his soul afraid. Before him seemed to unfold itself the wagon track, the road to the Patriarch's cottage; and he was there again, and whispering lips were around him, and men and women and children were there, and in front of them, leading them, slithered that twisted, misshapen, formless thing—and now they were upon the lawn, and about him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere was a sea of white faces out of which the eyes burned like living coals. What power was this that, loosed, had stricken them to palsied, moaning things!

Madison shivered a little—and a sweat bead oozed out and glistened upon his forehead. Hark—what was that! Clarionlike, clear as the chimes of a silver bell, rang now that childish voice—rang out, and rang out again—and the crutch was gone—and the lame boy ran, ran—ran! And who was that, that stood before him now—that golden-haired woman beside an empty wheel-chair, whose face was radiant, who cried aloud that she was cured! And who were these others of later days, this motley crowd of old and young, that passed before him in procession, that cried out the same words that golden-haired

woman by the wheel-chair had cried—and cried out: "Faith! Faith! Faith!"

Madison swept the sweat bead from his forehead with a trembling hand. It was a lie—a lie—a lie! He had taught them to say that—but it was all bunk—and all were fools! He could laugh at them, jeer at them, mock at them, deride them—they were his playthings—and faith was his plaything—and he could laugh at them all!

And again he raised his head to laugh; and again the laugh was choked in his throat, still-born—Helena was straight! To his temples went his twitching hands. Anger raged upon him—and died in fear. Anger, for the instant maddening him, that he should lose her; rage in ungovernable fury that the game, his plans, the hoard accumulated, was bursting like a bubble before his eyes—died in fear. No, no; he had not meant to laugh or mock—no, no; not that, not that! What was this loosed titanic power that had done these things—that had brought this change in Helena; that had brought a change in the Flopper, transforming the miserable, pitiful, whining thief into a man reaching out for decent things; that had wrought at least a physical metamorphosis in Pale Face Harry—that had transfigured those three who, in their ugly, abandoned natures then, had hung like vultures on his words in the Roost that night! What was this power that he was trifling with, that brought him now this cold, dead fear before which he quailed! What was this something that in his temerity he