"Forget it, Pilot," said the spokesman, "We're ashamed of the way we came at you, but you know it wasn't us, it was Whiskey. That's your only enemy in these woods. Say you'll forget it and shake."
"Thanks, boys, I have already. Give me your hands."
The pastorate has its trials, as every minister knows, but for unbounded variety of the unexpected the camp missionary has the city man far in the rear. Church quarrels have bounds, but where are the limits of the quarrels of the lumberjacks? From words they readily pass to blows and in a moment's flight blood-shed results. In February of this year the writer received a letter from Mr. Higgins, describing a railway trip. A portion is appended:
"I recently left Deer River on the Itasca Logging Railroad for Fourtown, and experienced the worst trip it was ever my lot to take. The car was crowded with lumberjacks, few of whom were sober. The woodsmen had over twenty quarts of Deer River squirrel whiskey, and in a short time things were moving at a terrific rate. You may call it a tempest in a teapot, but never have I seen anything like the affair; no human tongue could describe the sight. The Irish, the Swedes and the Glengarry Scotch were filled with whiskey, and every man was out for blood, and blood they had,—an abundance of it. An old time lumberjack said that in all his days in the woods he has yet to see the equal of the scene.
"I took a hand in trying to keep the boys in order and although I succeeded in preventing three fights, the conditions were soon beyond me, for it was impossible, even for a traveling missionary, to be in more than one part of the car at the same time and the performance was more than a three ring affair.
"When matters got to this pace I had to content myself with taking a hand only when it seemed that permanent injury would be done to the participants. One old man, very much under the influence of liquor, had his face battered beyond recognition. I pulled off the chastiser, but did not succeed in releasing the old man before one of his eyes had been closed and the mouth and face were covered with blood. No sooner had the champion of this affair been separated from the old man than another lumberjack was at the bully and the bully was taking the same medicine he had so liberally given to the old fellow. This second scrap placed another patient on my hands.
"When we came to the different camps and the men began to get off the train, I had to literally drag them through the snow away from the track, so they would not be killed, for many of them were too drunk and excited to realize the danger.
"I hope I shall never see such a condition again. Was it not Paul who said, 'I have fought with beasts at Ephesus.' I had a like experience on that logging train. A sober woodsman who saw the fight of the drunken lumberjacks said, 'Pilot, why do you continue to work among such men?' and I made answer, 'Because my Master died to save such.' This is to me a sufficient answer. The conditions need changing, and the only thing that will bring about a change is the Gospel."
In the sleigh of the Sky Pilot antiseptic bandages and a few medicines are carried. Through them he is able to relieve the wounded and assist the sick. His sleigh is often converted into an ambulance and men who have met with accidents are carried to the nearest hospital for treatment. If the accident is severe he visits the wounded to give cheer and hope. There, in the hospital, the men have time to think of eternal things, and the comfort of Christ is often the stimulus of the recovering and the solace of the dying.
When death is approaching, the last letters are written and assurance of decent interment is given. The poor lumberjack may have no money to meet the expense, but the minister makes all arrangements for the funeral and after the body is entombed he goes back to the camp and tells the boys of their comrade's request for Christian burial. The campmen pay back every cent the Sky Pilot has expended.