CHAPTER VIII
THE “BOYS” OF THE VILLAGE
The saloon was well filled, and it was evident from the atmosphere pervading the place that something unusually welcome was afoot.
As a rule evenings spent in the saloon at Barnriff were not gatherings one would readily describe as being “gay.” At least it would require a strong imagination to do so. A slight modification would be best. The Barnriff men were rarely lightsome, and when they disported themselves it was generally with a sombre sort of joy. That was their attitude just now. There was a peculiar earnestness about them, even in the fact of living. They seemed to be actuated by a deadly thoroughness which had a tendency to kill, not so much levity as lightness, and leave them mourning.
To-night such an atmosphere of sombre joy was prevailing. It was a similar attitude to that which they adopted on election day, Independence Day, at a funeral, or a wedding. It was the way anything out of the ordinary always affected them.
The fact of the matter was Doc Crombie, who was doctor, veterinary surgeon, horse dealer, and a sort of self-elected mayor of the place, was going to hold a meeting in the saloon. He was going to make a formal speech, and the speech was the point.
Now, if there was one thing Barnriff bowed the knee 87 to it was the man who could, and would, make a speech. It had all the masses’ love for oratory, and was as easily swayed by it as a crowd of ignorant political voters. Besides, Doc Crombie was a tried orator in Barnriff. He had addressed a meeting once before, and, speaking on behalf of a church mission, and asking for support of the cause, he had created a great impression by his stern denunciation of the ungodly life in Barnriff, and his flowery laudation of those who allowed themselves to respond to the call of “religion.”
On that occasion he said with all the dignity and consequence of his position at the moment––
“It ain’t your dogone dollars we want. It’s your souls. D’you git that? An’ when we’ve sure got ’em wot’ll we do with ’em, you ast? Wal, I don’t guess we’re doin’ a cannibal line o’ business. Nor ain’t we goin’ to stuff ’em an’ set ’em up as objec’s o’ ridicool to the ungodly hogs wot wallers in the swill o’ no adulteratin’ son-of-a-moose of a dealer in liver pizen. No, gents, that ain’t us. We’re goin’ to save ’em. An’ I personal guarantees that savin’ racket goes. Did I hear any mangy son-of-a-coyote guess he didn’t believe no such guarantee? No, an’ I guess he best not. I’m a man of peace, as all knows in this yer city, but I’d hate to try an’ shut out a blizzard in winter by stuffin’ that gopher’s perforated carkis under the doorjamb when I was thro’ with it. I say right here we’re out to save carkises––I mean souls. An’, say, fellers, jest think. Gettin’ your souls saved for a few measly cents. Ain’t that elegant? No argyment, no kickin’. Them souls is jest goin’ to be dipped, an’ they’ll come up white an’ shinin’ out of the waters of righteousness a sight cleaner than you ever got your faces at Christmas, washin’ 88 in Silas Rocket’s hoss trough, even when his hoss soap was plenty. Think of it, fellers, and I speak speshul to you whiskey souses wot ain’t breathed pure air sence you was let loose on the same gent’s bowel picklin’ sperrit. You’ll get right to Meetin’ on Sundays with your boots greased elegant, an’ your pants darned reg’lar by your wimmin-folk wot’s proud of yer, an’ don’t kick when you blow into a natty game o’ ‘draw.’ You’ll have your kids lookin’ up at your fancy iled locks, an’ your bow-tie, an’ in their little minds they’ll wonder an’ wonder how it come your mouths ain’t drippin’ t’baccer juice, an’ how they ain’t got cow-hided ’fore the breakfast they mostly have to guess at, an’ how it come you’re leadin’ them, ’stead o’ them leadin’ you, an’ how their little bellies is blown out with grub like a litter o’ prize hogs. Think of it, fellers, an’ pass up your measly cents. It ain’t the coin, it’s the sperrit we want, an’ when I think of all these yer blessin’s I’m personal guaranteein’ to the flower o’ Barnriff’s manhood I almost feel as though I wus goin’ to turn on the hose pipe like a spanked kid.”
He talked till he had half of Barnriff’s “flower” blubbering, and he had emptied the last cent out of their pockets, and the mission was set on a sound financial basis. But as to his guarantee––well, the doctor was well understood by his fellow citizens, and no one was ever heard to question its fulfilment.