CHAPTER XIII. THE CHAIN OF THE PAST
For once in its career, Lebanon was absolutely united. The blow that had brought down the Master Man had also struck the town between the eyes, and there was no one—friend or foe of Ingolby—who did not regard it as an insult and a challenge. It was now known that the roughs of Manitou, led by the big river-driver, were about to start on a raid upon Lebanon and upon Ingolby at the very moment the horseshoe did its work. All night there were groups of men waiting outside Ingolby’s house. They were of all classes-carters, railway workers, bartenders, lawyers, engineers, bankers, accountants, merchants, ranchmen, carpenters, insurance agents, manufacturers, millers, horse-dealers, and so on.
Some prayed for Ingolby’s life, others swore viciously; and those who swore had no contempt for those who prayed, while those who prayed were tolerant of those who swore. It was a union of incongruous elements. Men who had nothing in common were one in the spirit of faction; and all were determined that the Orangeman, whose funeral was fixed for this memorable Saturday, should be carried safely to his grave. Civic pride had almost become civic fanaticism in Lebanon. One of the men beaten by Ingolby in the recent struggle for control of the railways said to the others shivering in the grey dawn: “They were bound to get him in the back. They’re dagos, the lot of ‘em. Skunks are skunks, even when you skin ‘em.”
When, just before dawn, old Gabriel Druse issued from the house into which he had carried Ingolby the night before, they questioned him eagerly. He had been a figure apart from both Lebanon and Manitou, and they did not regard him as a dago, particularly as it was more than whispered that Ingolby “had a lien” on his daughter. In the grey light, with his long grizzled beard and iron-grey, shaggy hair, Druse looked like a mystic figure of the days when the gods moved among men like mortals. His great height, vast proportions, and silent ways gave him a place apart, and added to the superstitious feeling by which he was surrounded.
“How is he?” they asked whisperingly, as they crowded round him.
“The danger is over,” was the slow, heavy reply. “He will live, but he has bad days to face.”
“What was the danger?” they asked. “Fever—maybe brain fever,” he replied. “We’ll see him through,” someone said.
“Well, he cannot see himself through,” rejoined the old man solemnly. The enigmatical words made them feel there was something behind.
“Why can’t he see himself through?” asked Osterhaut the universal, who had just arrived from the City Hall.