After a glance over the crowd, Craig said, ‘There’s the manager; that means war.’ And I saw a tall man, very fair, whose chin fell away to the vanishing point, and whose hair was parted in the middle, talking to Mrs. Mavor. She was dressed in some rich soft stuff that became her well. She was looking beautiful as ever, but there was something quite new in her manner. Her air of good-fellowship was gone, and she was the high-bred lady, whose gentle dignity and sweet grace, while very winning, made familiarity impossible.
The manager was doing his best, and appeared to be well pleased with himself. ‘She’ll get him if any one can. I failed,’ said Craig.
I stood looking at the men, and a fine lot of fellows they were. Free, easy, bold in their bearing, they gave no sign of rudeness; and, from their frequent glances toward Mrs. Mavor, I could see they were always conscious of her presence. No men are so truly gentle as are the Westerners in the presence of a good woman. They were evidently of all classes and ranks originally, but now, and in this country of real measurements, they ranked simply according to the ‘man’ in them. ‘See that handsome, young chap of dissipated appearance?’ said Craig; ‘that’s Vernon Winton, an Oxford graduate, blue blood, awfully plucky, but quite gone. When he gets repentant, instead of shooting himself, he comes to Mrs. Mavor. Fact.’
‘From Oxford University to Black Rock mining camp is something of a step,’ I replied.
‘That queer-looking little chap in the corner is Billy Breen. How in the world has he got here?’ went on Mr. Craig. Queer-looking he was. A little man, with a small head set on heavy square shoulders, long arms, and huge hands that sprawled all over his body; altogether a most ungainly specimen of humanity.
By this time Mrs. Mavor had finished with the manager, and was in the centre of a group of miners. Her grand air was all gone, and she was their comrade, their friend, one of themselves. Nor did she assume the role of entertainer, but rather did she, with half-shy air, cast herself upon their chivalry, and they were too truly gentlemen to fail her. It is hard to make Western men, and especially old-timers, talk. But this gift was hers, and it stirred my admiration to see her draw on a grizzled veteran to tell how, twenty years ago, he had crossed the Great Divide, and had seen and done what no longer fell to men to see or do in these new days. And so she won the old-timer. But it was beautiful to see the innocent guile with which she caught Billy Breen, and drew him to her corner near the organ. What she was saying I knew not, but poor Billy was protesting, waving his big hands.
The meeting came to order, with Shaw in the chair, and the handsome young Oxford man secretary. Shaw stated the object of the meeting in a few halting words; but when he came to speak of the pleasure he and all felt in being together in that room, his words flowed in a stream, warm and full. Then there was a pause, and Mr. Craig was called. But he knew better than to speak at that point. Finally Nixon rose hesitatingly; but, as he caught a bright smile from Mrs. Mavor, he straightened himself as if for a fight.
‘I ain’t no good at makin’ speeches,’ he began; ‘but it ain’t speeches we want. We’ve got somethin’ to do, and what we want to know is how to do it. And to be right plain, we want to know how to drive this cursed whisky out of Black Rock. You all know what it’s doing for us—at least for some of us. And it’s time to stop it now, or for some of us it’ll mighty soon be too late. And the only way to stop its work is to quit drinkin’ it and help others to quit. I hear some talk of a League, and what I say is, if it’s a League out and out against whisky, a Total Abstinence right to the ground, then I’m with it—that’s my talk—I move we make that kind of League.’
Nixon sat down amid cheers and a chorus of remarks, ‘Good man!’ ‘That’s the talk!’ ‘Stay with it!’ but he waited for the smile and the glance that came to him from the beautiful face in the corner, and with that he seemed content.
Again there was silence. Then the secretary rose with a slight flush upon his handsome, delicate face, and seconded the motion. If they would pardon a personal reference he would give them his reasons. He had come to this country to make his fortune; now he was anxious to make enough to enable him to go home with some degree of honour. His home held everything that was dear to him. Between him and that home, between him and all that was good and beautiful and honourable, stood whisky. ‘I am ashamed to confess,’ and the flush deepened on his cheek, and his lips grew thinner, ‘that I feel the need of some such league.’ His handsome face, his perfect style of address, learned possibly in the ‘Union,’ but, more than all, his show of nerve—for these men knew how to value that—made a strong impression on his audience; but there were no following cheers.