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LIBRARY OF THE THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
 PRINCETON, N. J. 
 
 Purchased by the Hamill Missionary Fund. 
 
 BV 4915 .R62 1922 
 Robinson, F. A. 1874- 
 Mastered men 
 
MASTERED MEN 
 J\ A. ROBINSON, B.A. 
 
MASTERED MEN 
 
 BY 
 
 F. A. ROBINSON, B.A. 
 
 /$\W 0F Hj ^ 
 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 REV. CHARLES W. GORDON 
 (RALPH CONNOR ) 
 
 NEW X5T YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
COPYRIGHT^ 1922, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 This book has this virtue among others, that it 
 is a true rescript of events that have happened in 
 the author's personal experience. It is made up 
 of human documents that deal with matters of 
 surpassing interest. The book tells in simple 
 and vivid style the story, always fascinating and 
 thrilling, of the triumph of the Gospel in the 
 souls of men. It is a heartening book and a mov- 
 ing. It will bring courage and hope to those who 
 read it, and awaken in their hearts a deeper pas- 
 sion to share in God's great mission to men. 
 
 The new west is full of the broken driftwood 
 of humanity, showing the marks of the attrition 
 of time and conflict and defeat — good stuff it is, 
 but waste and lost. This book tells of its salvage 
 to the infinite joy of men, and to the glory of 
 God. 
 
 The author has the further distinction of hav- 
 ing seen himself a large part of the events he 
 describes. 
 
 The book will do good wherever it goes. 
 
 Charles W. Gordon 
 Winnipeg, Canada. Olph connor) 
 
AUTHOR'S NOTE 
 
 "Mastered Men" is a new edition of 
 "Trial-Tales of Western Canada," con- 
 taining the material of the original vol- 
 ume with additional sketches. The new 
 title has been chosen as being more sig- 
 nificant of the underlying theme of the 
 book. 
 
 F. A. R. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I OLD KEN'S ROUND-UP ..... r „ . 11 
 
 II CHARL ww • i.i . 22 
 
 III THE BANNER MINES ........ 32 
 
 IV THE "HOP" 38 
 
 v "thy touch has still its ancient power" 51 
 
 vi "if a man be overtaken" ...... 64 
 
 vii the superintendent's visit 76 
 
 viii the cookee . 88 
 
 ix the regeneration of bill sanders . . . 97 
 
 x the snake-room . . 106 
 
 xi the bush fire 129 
 
 xii ruth and the prodigal . . . . . . 158 
 
 XIII THE CORD OF LOVE r.i . 189 
 
 xiv nell's home-going 196 
 
 XV THE HERMIT 207 
 
 XVI THE MAKING OF ROSS K ;. . 243 
 
 Vll 
 
MASTERED MEN 
 
MASTERED MEN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 OLD KEN'S KOUND-UP 
 
 Old Ken was "down on his luck." For well- 
 nigh fifty years he had "gone the pace" in a 
 district where certain men say glibly, "there's 
 no God west of the Rockies." The old pros- 
 pector had been, according to those who knew 
 him best, in one of three conditions for some 
 years. He was either "getting drunk, drunk, or 
 sobering up." And yet in spite of his weakness 
 and sin, and in spite of the curses he got, there 
 was no more popular man in the whole camp 
 than Old Ken, although likely he was not con- 
 scious of it. One of the miners had once ex- 
 pressed a conviction about Ken that was dan- 
 gerously popular. It was at the time Frank 
 Stacey's mother died, in the East, and Frank had 
 not "two bits" to his credit. As might have been 
 expected, it was Old Ken who started the hat 
 to wire that Frank was leaving on the next train, 
 
 and to see that he had "enough of the needful 
 
 11 
 
12 MASTERED MEN 
 
 to do the decent thing." "It's his last chance, 
 boys," said Ken, as he made the rounds during 
 the noon hour. "I got twenty-two dollars since 
 eleven o'clock, so I guess, with what you fellers 
 is a-going to do, the old camp's on the job, as 
 usual, when a chap like Frank wants to pay his 
 last respects." There was some mystery about 
 those twenty- two dollars until Andy the bar- 
 tender told how Old Ken had "got it out of the 
 boss" on the solemn promise that for two weeks 
 he would "work like a Texas steer" without 
 touching a cent until the debt of thirty dollars, 
 minus eight for board, was discharged. Then it 
 was that one of the boys expressed himself thus 
 about Ken: "By gosh, fellers, he's white clear 
 through, that same old soak is, when there's any 
 trouble on. He's a pile decenter than his thirsty 
 old carcase'll let him be." 
 
 On a particular morning some months ago 
 the old prospector stood at the little station a 
 mile or so away from the camp centre. The 
 "mixed" was winding her way slowly around 
 the curves of the summit of the Rockies. From 
 the windows of the solitary passenger car a 
 young man looked somewhat anxiously across 
 the valley below. A few shacks nestled among 
 the poplar brush, and in the distance an un- 
 painted building stood, with distinct outline, 
 towering against the dark background of the 
 
OLD KEN'S ROUND-UP 13 
 
 mountain range opposite. The young man knew 
 well enough, from his work among the miners 
 and loggers, that yonder building was as a moral 
 cancer eating out the best life of the community. 
 The outlook was not bright, but he was on the 
 King's Business, and he knew that he had in his 
 care the mightiest thing, and the greatest 
 remedy, the world knows of. 
 
 Alone he stepped off the train, and being the 
 only arrival he received the entire benefit of 
 Old Ken's curious but not unfriendly gaze. The 
 new-comer, who was conducting special services 
 at selected mining and lumbering camps that 
 were considered especially needy, looked around 
 for a district missionary who was expected to 
 act as his pilot for a few days. No one but Old 
 Ken and the station agent were in sight, so after 
 friendly greetings to the former the young 
 preacher made known the purpose of his visit. 
 Old Ken listened courteously. "Well, stranger, 
 you've hit the right spot all right; we kin stand 
 the gospel in big doses here for sure; most of us 
 is whiskey soaks or bums, and some of us is both. 
 I wish you luck, partner, but I'm feared most 
 of us is incurable. Yes, partner, I'm feared 
 you've come too late, too late." 
 
 The Frenchman who was hotel-keeper, pro- 
 fessional gambler, lumberman and mine-owner, 
 was not enthusiastic about allowing the sky-pilot 
 
14 MASTERED MEN 
 
 to board in his notorious hotel and gambling den, 
 but eventually accommodation was secured. 
 
 The dance-hall was procured for the services, 
 and Ken volunteered the information that the 
 preacher wouldn't likely be disturbed, because 
 there were only four women left in the camp, 
 and he added, "two of 'em can dance like ele- 
 phants and one's got ingrowing toe-nails or some- 
 thing else, so there's only one on duty, and that 
 ain't enough variety for a good hop." 
 
 A few days after the services commenced, Old 
 Ken managed to replenish his treasury by the 
 fortunate desire on the part of two men to get 
 a haircut. The old man boasted that he knew 
 how to do most things. "I'm never idle, 
 preacher," he said with a wink; "when I ain't 
 doing something I'm a-doing nothin', so I'm al- 
 ways a-doing something you see." 
 
 No sooner were the locks shorn than the old 
 man made his way to the bar-room. He was 
 emerging from his favourite haunt when the 
 preacher met him. " 'Tain't no use pretending 
 I'm what I ain't, preacher," he said after a few 
 minutes' conversation. "I'm an old fool and I 
 know it, but what does it matter? Who cares'?" 
 
 "It matters a good deal to you, Ken," the 
 preacher replied quietly, "and there are some of 
 us who care. Ken, if you would give God as big 
 a place in your life as you've given whiskey there 
 
OLD KEN'S ROUND-UP 15 
 
 wouldn't be room for the things that have made 
 you call yourself an old fool. I know He could 
 make a mighty good man of you, Ken." 
 
 "Thank you kindly, preacher, but you don't 
 know me: I'm the hardest old guy in this coun- 
 try; the fellers around here think they can go 
 it some, but let 'em all get as full as they kin 
 hold and I'll take as much as any one of 'em 
 and then put twelve glasses more on top of that 
 to keep it kind of settled, and then pile the whole 
 gang under the table and walk out like a gentle- 
 man. Yes, sir, I kin do it; and if a feller's as 
 big as a house I'll whittle him down to my size 
 and lick him. Yer intentions are good, partner, 
 but you're about fifty years late on this job." 
 
 The days allotted to the mission were rapidly 
 passing away, and while not a few had given 
 evidence of seeing "the vision splendid," there 
 were some after whom "the little preacher," as 
 he had come to be generally spoken «of in the 
 camp, greatly longed. 
 
 Coming down the stairs one day he saw Old 
 Ken standing with his back to the stair rail. 
 Putting his hand on the old man's shoulder he 
 entered into conversation. 
 
 "Ken, you haven't been to one of the services 
 yet, and I want you to come to-night." 
 
 "Lord bless you, preacher, if I went to a re- 
 
16 MASTERED MEN 
 
 ligious meeting the roof 'ud fall in for sure, and 
 I don't want to bust up the dance-hall.'* 
 
 But the little preacher was not in a mood to 
 be "jollied" that day. "Ken," he continued, 
 "I'd like you to give God a chance. Do you 
 know, I like the look of you, and " 
 
 The old prospector cut the sentence short, 
 straightened up, and gazed appreciatively into 
 the speaker's eyes. "What's that you said, 
 preacher? What's that you said 1 ? You like the 
 look o' me! Well, siree, that's the decentest 
 thing that's been said to me in thirty years ! Yes, 
 sir, it is: I'm treated like a yaller dog around 
 here; but you speak decently to a yaller dog, he'll 
 wag his tail. He likes it, you know. Say, 
 preacher, when you need me just you whistle and 
 I'm on the job!" 
 
 "I take your offer, old man," said the preacher. 
 "I've been here for some time and I've heard a 
 good deal that I didn't want to hear. Some of 
 you fellows have been cursing pretty nearly day 
 and night since I came. I didn't want to hear 
 it, but I couldn't get away from it. I've heard 
 the boys; it's only fair they should hear me. 
 Ken, you round them up and bring them to the 
 dance-hall." 
 
 Ken's hand was extended. "Here's my hand 
 on it, preacher; I'm yer man. If the boys ain't 
 
OLD KEN'S ROUND-UP 17 
 
 there you'll see my head in a sling in the 
 morning." 
 
 At 7:30 Ken organized himself into an Invi- 
 tation Committee. There were rumours that he 
 even brushed his coat. At any rate, at 7:45 he 
 stood at the door of the gambling den, and with 
 an air of unusual importance he succeeded in 
 getting silence long enough to tell "the boys" 
 that there was "a religious show on in the dance- 
 hall." "The procession will form in ten 
 
 minutes," he continued, "and every man in 
 
 this place has got to be in it." A few laughed; 
 some cursed at the interruption, and others were 
 so engrossed in their game that they appeared 
 not to have heard. 
 
 In a few minutes Ken entered the bar-room 
 and started his round-up. After telling one or 
 two quietly that it was "up to him" to get the 
 boys to the religious show, he made his procla- 
 mation. "Come out of this, you fellers, and 
 
 come up to the dance-hall and give the 
 
 little preacher a fair show, or I'll kick the 
 
 hide off you." The writer has no apology 
 
 to make for blasphemy either in the East or 
 West, but like classical music, to some ears, Old 
 Ken's blasphemous language was not so bad as 
 it sounded. 
 
 After the old man had brought into use all 
 his remarkable reserve of Western mining camp 
 
18 MASTERED MEN 
 
 vocabulary, there was only one man besides the 
 bar- tender who failed to join the procession. 
 
 The services had become well advertised 
 throughout the entire district by this time, so 
 that when Old Ken arrived with his company the 
 little hall was fairly well filled. But the old 
 man was "going to see this thing through," and 
 so, despite the protestations that almost upset the 
 gravity of the preacher conducting the prelimi- 
 nary song service, the gang was coaxed and 
 forced to the front seats. Ken directed the seat- 
 ing operations in a way that suggested his owner- 
 ship of the entire place. In a stage whisper he 
 instructed the boys to "get a squint at the 
 preacher's hair." With pride he continued, 
 "mighty good cut that, I performed the opera- 
 tion this afternoon." 
 
 At the close of the service he came to the 
 platform. "Say, preacher, that was a great 
 
 bunch. There ain't a (excuse me, preacher, 
 
 I forgot you don't swear), but say, there ain't 
 a man of 'em but's done time. I'll tell you, 
 preacher, we'll run this show together. I'll round 
 'em up and you hit 'em"; then with a swing of 
 his big arm he added, "and hit 'em hard. See 
 here, preacher, you take a tip from me; us old 
 sinners don't want to listen to none of yer stroke- 
 'em-down-easy preachers; we wants a feller 
 what' 11 tell us we're d fools to be hood- 
 
OLD KEN'S ROUND-UP 19 
 
 winked by hitting the pace, and what'll help us 
 to get up after he shows us we're down." 
 
 A few nights later the preacher had Ken's 
 "bunch" particularly in view as he delivered his 
 message. Near the close he asked during one of 
 those times of reverent silence that may be felt 
 but not described: "Are not some of you men 
 tired of going the pace? You know it doesn't 
 pay. Many a time you curse yourselves for being 
 fools, and yet you go back to the old ways that 
 blast your life. Men ! God knows how some of 
 you are tempted, and He is ready to help. His 
 Son came into the world to save sinners. He 
 stood in the face of the fiercest temptations, and 
 with the command of a conqueror He said, 'Get 
 thee behind Me.' And, Men! He is ready to 
 stand alongside of every passion-torn man to-day 
 and to help him to overcome. Isn't there some 
 man here to-night who wants to do the decent 
 thing, and who will accept His offer of help in 
 the biggest fight any man has*?" 
 
 The words were simple and commonplace 
 enough, but the One who uses stumbling lips was 
 present that night. Unexpectedly one man arose, 
 pulling himself up by the back of the seat in 
 front of him — a sin-marred man, trembling as a 
 result of daily dissipation — and said in a muf- 
 fled voice, "I want to do the decent." A con- 
 firmed gambler not far away stood up and merely 
 
20 MASTERED MEN 
 
 said, "Me too, Bob." Another, in a tone of de- 
 spair, cried, "God and me knows there's nothing 
 in this kind of life ! Oh the d , d whis- 
 key, it's ruined me." Late into the night the 
 preacher walked along the trail with one of these 
 sin-wrecked men; but the transformation of that 
 life and other lives must constitute a separate 
 story. 
 
 A few days before the mission closed Old Ken 
 came to the preacher and announced his intended 
 departure from the camp. "You see, stranger, 
 the camp's pretty quiet, and I ain't a-making 
 enough money to buy a dress for a humming- 
 bird. I ain't got the wherewithal for a ticket, 
 but if I strike the right kind of conductor I guess 
 I'll make the grade. You see they can't put a 
 feller off between stations in this country. So 
 I'll get one station along anyway, and if they 
 chuck me off I'll wait for the next train, and a 
 few chucks and I'll get to N anyway." 
 
 The following morning prospector and 
 preacher walked together down the railway track 
 to the little station. A farewell word was 
 spoken, and a farewell token slipped into the big 
 hard hand. Old Ken stood a moment or two on 
 the steps of the car. There was a far-away look 
 in the old man's eyes as he gazed in the direction 
 of the distant Cascade range. "Good-bye, 
 preacher. Yes, maybe, maybe we'll strike the 
 
OLD KEN'S ROUND-UP 21 
 
 main trail that leads home. I hope so — God 
 knows — maybe it ain't too late for me yet. I 
 kinder think lately that God wants Old Ken. 
 Good-bye, preacher; God bless you." 
 
 Three months later "the little preacher" re- 
 ceived a letter from a British Columbia miner. 
 One paragraph may be quoted here: "Poor old 
 
 Ken was burned to death in a hotel fire in S 
 
 three weeks ago. He was the kindest old man I 
 ever met, and as long as I live I shall thank God 
 for the night he rounded us up and brought us 
 to your meeting in the dance-hall." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 CHAEL 
 
 When Charlie Rayson passed out of the 
 dance-hall in the little mountain mining town 
 a few nights after Old Ken's round-up, he was 
 on the border-line between despair and hope. 
 Was there any chance*? For years he had ap- 
 parently worked with the logging gang only that 
 he might give full rein to the lusts that devoured 
 him; and if he remained in the bush the whole 
 winter it was with an impatience for the days to 
 pass so that the spring might bring him to the 
 bar-rooms and dens of vice, where the awful 
 monotony might be relieved in a spring-long 
 spree. Nobody had any particular interest in 
 Charlie, and no one knew from whence he came. 
 
 And yet there seemed to be some slight ray of 
 hope to-night. He had listened for the first time 
 since boyhood to the pearl of the parables, and 
 then Old Ken had asked the preacher to "sing 
 that there Wandering Boy piece." Charlie knew 
 not if his mother still lived, but the words, "Oh! 
 could I see you now, my boy, as fair as in olden 
 times," came like his mother's call through the 
 
 22 
 
CHARL 23 
 
 sin-stained past. For thirteen years he had cut 
 himself entirely off, so far as his whereabouts 
 was concerned, from that one who had never 
 ceased to love him. 
 
 In a few minutes after the close of the service 
 Charlie and the preacher were alone on the moun- 
 tain trail. Suddenly Charlie stopped and said, 
 "Good God, preacher, you can't, you don't un- 
 derstand what I'm up against. For nineteen 
 years I've been in the hands of either the doctor or 
 the policeman — my passions rip me to pieces — 
 men can't help me; I wonder if God can 4 ? I want 
 to believe what you said to-night is true, but I've 
 always wanted to do the thing that damns me, 
 worse than I have wanted to do anything else, 
 and yet I never do it without something saying 
 'don't.' " 
 
 In the silence of the lonely hills the two men 
 stood, while one asked Him who is the Help of 
 the helpless to be the Refuge of the passion- 
 pursued man. Poor Charlie could utter but few 
 words: "God, oh, God," he sobbed, "I'm like 
 that prodigal, and I'm sick of it all. Oh, God, 
 can you help me ? I want to see my old mother." 
 With the mention of the word mother the man 
 burst into a passion of weeping. For several 
 minutes no word was uttered, as the preacher 
 steadied the trembling man. It was no easy task 
 for Charlie to do what he was counselled to do 
 
24 MASTERED MEN 
 
 after he had made the Great Decision. But that 
 night he read, from the Testament given him, a 
 portion of the third chapter of St. John's Gospel, 
 and knelt by his bunk and asked for strength 
 sufficient. To kneel down and pray in certain 
 Western mining camp bunk-houses is a man's 
 job, but Charlie had realized that only One was 
 able to deliver from the passions that rend, and 
 to that One he appealed. 
 
 A fortnight later an old woman in a far-away 
 Ontario village received a letter bearing a British 
 Columbia postmark. She was a poor, lonely, 
 half-crippled individual, but the message of that 
 letter enriched and cheered her and quickened 
 her footsteps as nothing had done in years. To 
 everybody she knew, and to a good many people 
 she did not know, she told of her new joy. In 
 her trembling old hands she held the precious 
 letter. "Do you know, I've got a letter from 
 my Charl. I thought he was dead. I haven't 
 heard from him in thirteen years, but he's in 
 British Columbia, and he says he's a Christian 
 man now, and he wants to see his mother — and 
 he's going to save up so's he can come home, and 
 till he comes he's going to write every week — 
 and he sent me some money. Oh, how good God 
 is to give me back my Charl!" The poor old 
 soul seemed raised as if by a miracle from her 
 invalidism. 
 
CHARL 25 
 
 Charlie toiled on in the logging gang, and 
 when pay-day came the hotel-keeper reaped the 
 usual harvest from most of the men, and was 
 hoping that Charlie and Bill Davis, two of his 
 best customers, would be coaxed back to their old 
 habits. Bill had been known as the "little devil" 
 of Primeau's gang, and his professed change of 
 heart was a thing incredible to the entire com- 
 munity. But Charlie and Bill had been a good 
 deal together of late, and the latter had told 
 Charlie all he purposed to do and be with God's 
 help, and so the two men became mutually 
 helpful. 
 
 Five months passed, and besides having pur- 
 chased new clothes, Charlie Rayson had one hun- 
 dred and fifty dollars in the savings bank at 
 Brandon Falls. 
 
 And so at last the home journey was to be 
 made. It would be hard to say who was the 
 more excited, Charlie or his loyal friend Bill 
 Davis. For some time Bill thought he would 
 "pull out" when Charlie went, but later he de- 
 cided to stay on his job a few months longer. 
 Nothing would do but that Charlie should take 
 "just a little remembrance" of twenty-five dollars 
 from Bill to the aged mother. 
 
 On Saturday afternoon the final arrangements 
 were made, and Bill did a score of things to 
 make Charlie's get-away easier and pleasanter. 
 
26 MASTERED MEN 
 
 k 
 
 While Bill was purchasing a few little necessi- 
 ties at the company store, Charlie stepped across 
 the threshold of the bar-room for the first time 
 in months. He wanted to say good-bye to Andy 
 the bar-tender. A number of Charlie's old pals 
 were sitting or lounging around, some of them 
 well on the way to their terrible monthly de- 
 bauch. Numerous hands were extended and not 
 a few glasses offered to Charlie. "Not for me, 
 boys — I've cut it out for good, thanks all the 
 same," was Charlie's firm response. 
 
 "Oh, come off," cried one, "you ain't a-going 
 back on your old pals just 'cause you've got a 
 new suit o' clothes." 
 
 Numerous sallies followed this, but to each 
 one Charlie gave a similar reply, and backed 
 towards the door. It has always been supposed 
 that it was Primeau himself who tripped Charlie, 
 but be that as it may, somehow Charlie stumbled 
 backwards to the bar-room floor; and when Bill 
 Davis was returning through the hall some of 
 the men were holding Charlie while others were 
 pouring whiskey through his lips, "just to give 
 him a lesson in sociability." Bill Davis could 
 scarcely believe that the boys had tried to make 
 Charlie drink, but when he realized what had 
 happened, his indignation prompted the pro- 
 fanity that had become a life habit. He checked 
 the words, however, and shouted at the scoffing 
 
CHARL 2Tt 
 
 group to leave Charlie alone or somebody would 
 get a headache. There was a laugh from one 
 
 and a muttered "mind your own d business" 
 
 from another. And then Bill took a hand in the 
 affair. 
 
 The following day the affray was being gen- 
 erally discussed. One or two men who were par- 
 ticipants in it were careful to keep out of the 
 public gaze. Bill had not selected places where 
 they should fall when he was defending Charlie. 
 To a little group in the bar-room Andy gave the 
 information that "There was something doing 
 all right, when Bill started in to look after 
 Charlie. Say! the feathers was a-flying. Bill 
 ain't such a blamed good Christian that he's for- 
 got how to fight." 
 
 The taste of whiskey had aroused the old crav- 
 ing in Charlie, and long after the east-bound 
 train had pulled out he was fighting his battle 
 with Bill by his side. 
 
 Never had the two men felt more alone, and 
 never had they more needed a friend than now. 
 All Charlie's confidence in his ability to stand 
 firm seemed to be shaken. "Bill!" he said, "I 
 swallowed some, and it seems like it was run- 
 ning all through me to find some more to keep 
 it company. Bill ! for God's sake don't leave me. 
 I feel as if I was going to lose the game." 
 
 Bill hardly knew what to say or do. The fight 
 
28 MASTERED MEN 
 
 in Charlie's behalf and the disappointment over 
 the delayed journey had left a great depression. 
 Neither of the men went down to the evening 
 meal. To pass the bar-room door and to face 
 the men again seemed more than Charlie dare 
 undertake. 
 
 The next train for the East passed through 
 at 3 a.m., and after thinking over the events of- 
 the afternoon, Bill made up his mind that they 
 would flag Number 56, and that he would jour- 
 ney a hundred miles or so with his sorely-tempted 
 chum. In the darkness of midnight, the two men 
 passed quietly out of the building and along the 
 trail to the railway station. 
 
 At last they were really on the train, and hav- 
 ing found an empty double seat the men made 
 themselves as comfortable as possible, and were 
 soon, like their fellow-passengers, getting such 
 fitful sleep as one may obtain on the average 
 "local." 
 
 It was the season of the year when "wash- 
 outs" make journeying dangerous, and frequently 
 in Western Canada trains are delayed many 
 hours, and sometimes days, by the swelling of 
 the mountain streams which in their onward rush 
 sometimes carry culverts and ballast from be- 
 neath ties and track. 
 
 The train had pulled out of Sinclair, and was 
 making her usual time through the eastern sec- 
 
CHARL 29 
 
 tion of the Pass, when passengers were suddenly 
 thrown from their seats by a terrific jolt. Lamp 
 glasses crashed to the aisle, and baggage was 
 dislodged from the racks. Charlie pulled him- 
 self to his feet almost instantaneously, despite 
 the knocks he had received. The lamps were 
 flickering and smoking, but fortunately there ap- 
 peared no danger of fire. The brakeman, hat- 
 less and with a bleeding face, came rushing 
 through the cars seeking to allay the fears. 
 "Stay in the cars, please — there's no danger of 
 fire. You're better here than outside. Doctors 
 will be here soon." 
 
 Bill had not escaped serious injury. He found 
 it impossible to rise, and as tenderly as he knew 
 how, Charlie pillowed his head and stooped be- 
 side him as he lay in the aisle. "I'm feared I'm 
 pretty badly hurted, pardner," groaned Bill. 
 "There was something kind o' crushed inside. 
 Guess I'll just lie here for a bit." 
 
 The engine had plunged through an under- 
 mined piece of track, and engineer and fireman 
 were terribly cut and scalded, while the baggage- 
 man had been pinned beneath some heavy trunks 
 that had shot forward and downward when the 
 engine crashed into the washout. 
 
 "It's the hospital for you, my man," said the 
 doctor kindly, after a hurried examination of 
 Bill's injuries. "We'll make you as comfortable 
 
30 MASTERED MEN 
 
 as we can before the 'special' pulls out, but you 
 need a little attention that you can't get in the 
 camp even if you were able to stand the journey." 
 
 Charlie got permission to accompany his pal, 
 and for Bill's sake he kept a brave heart, al- 
 though the events of the past twenty-four hours 
 robbed him of the lightheartedness that had been 
 his in anticipation of the home-going. 
 
 Two days later Charlie decided to continue 
 his journey eastward. The doctors were still 
 anxious about Bill, but there was nothing Charlie 
 could do, and he knew the old mother was wait- 
 ing for her boy. 
 
 It was a touching farewell as the sick man's 
 hand was clasped. A score of times Charlie had 
 expressed his sorrow that he had ever let Bill 
 accompany him, and yet each time in his own 
 way he thanked Bill for standing by him when 
 he was "near bowled out." 
 
 Bill tried to say that he was glad Charlie was 
 going home, but his tone and look revealed his 
 sense of loss and loneliness at the prospect of his 
 pal's departure, and Charlie's eyes needed a good 
 deal of attention, which they received surrepti- 
 tiously. 
 
 Motioning for Charlie to come nearer, the sick 
 man whispered: "You're a brick, old pard, to 
 stay by me this long. I guess she's getting anx- 
 ious for yer. Say, Charlie, when yer away down 
 
CHARL 31 
 
 there I'll be kind er lonely; how would it be if 
 yer made a bit of a prayer once in a while for 
 me?" Then with a last pressure on the still 
 clasped hand, he added, "Good-bye, old pal, God 
 bless yer; maybe we'll hit the trail together again 
 some day, but say, Charlie!" (the voice was 
 throbbing with emotion, and the eyes reflected 
 well-nigh a mother's tenderness) — "say, Charlie ! 
 we'll stay by it, won't we? If the whole world 
 goes back on Jesus Christ we two' 11 stick to Him, 
 'cause we know what He can do; don't we, 
 Charlie?" 
 
 Thus they parted. Inside of three days the 
 one was clasped in a mother's arms and there 
 was great joy in the little village home; and al- 
 most at the same hour the other reached his 
 Father's Home, and there, too, was great joy. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE BANNER MINES 
 
 Charlie Rayson was the man who first sug- 
 gested the holding of special services at the 
 "Banner." "Oh! boys, but it's a hard spot. I 
 mind when Old Ken hit the trail to get a job 
 there. Somebody brought word they was pay- 
 ing six bits an hour for rough carpentering, and 
 next morning Ken took over the mountain with 
 his pack. He never stopped even long enough 
 to get on a spree. In about a week he was back 
 at the old spot. That night he was in the bar- 
 room telling the boys about his trip. I mind he 
 told 'em they could judge what it was like when 
 he was 'the only gentleman in the place.' ' 
 Those who knew Ken needed no further report 
 of conditions at the Banner Mines. 
 
 When the District Superintendent heard that 
 the men were planning to go to the "Banner," 
 he wrote to tell them not to be too much dis- 
 couraged if it took a week's hard work to get half 
 a dozen hearers. "The spot is known to many as 
 the 'hell-hole of the Province,' and the Church 
 
 does not begin to figure in importance with the 
 
 32 
 
THE BANNER MINES 33 
 
 corner grocery, but with two special workers and 
 the amount of earnest prayer that is everywhere 
 being offered, I am hopeful that the heartrend- 
 ing indifference may be overcome." 
 
 And so on a certain Monday morning the mis- 
 sioners made their way to the Junction, and then 
 took the dirty work-train up the gulch to the 
 camp. In a community where men have for 
 years read anti-church, anti-religious literature, 
 and where "parasite" is hissed under the breath 
 every time a minister of the Gospel is seen, it 
 could scarcely be expected that anything ap- 
 proaching a welcome would be given the new- 
 comers. 
 
 Inside of an hour the work of getting ac- 
 quainted was commenced. On the trail, along 
 the railway track, at the tipple, at the entrance 
 to the mines, in the wash-room, wherever men 
 could be met, the missioners sought to enter into 
 conversation with the miners. Some answered 
 civilly, a few were almost cordial, many were 
 surly, and many others either absolutely indif- 
 ferent and silent, or openly antagonistic. 
 
 Dave Clements, a disabled miner, who looked 
 after the wash-room, expressed himself thus: 
 "Religion ain't no good here; most of the mine- 
 owners is supposed to hev got it, and so the rest 
 of us don't want it. Look at the houses what 
 they make us live in — my missus has been sick 
 
34 MASTERED MEN 
 
 most all winter — jest frozen, that's why! We 
 
 pays eighteen dollars a month for the 
 
 places. The company owns everything around 
 here: land, houses, stores, train — even the air 
 belongs to 'em, 'cause it's full of their coal-dust. 
 We has to pay about three times the proper price 
 for things; but, then, that's what helps 'em to 
 be religious; that's what gives 'em the front seats 
 in the synagogue, you bet; we fellers sweat to 
 buy church organs and plush cushions, and then 
 the parasite parcons pat the mine-owners on the 
 pate and give thanks for such generous brethren. 
 If anybody needs revivalling, stranger, it's that 
 gang of hypocrites back yonder what makes us 
 poor devils raise the wind to blow their glory 
 trumpets." Yet even Dave was compelled to say 
 of Him whom the missioners sought to exalt, "I 
 fold no fault in this man." 
 
 In response to an invitation to attend an eve- 
 ning service one miner replied: "Meeting, eh'? 
 Any booze going? No? Any dance after? 
 Something better than that? Gee! it must be 
 swell!" Then the tone was contemptuous: "No, 
 siree; you couldn't get me into a religious meet- 
 ing with a couple of C.P.R. engines." 
 
 Yet the daily conversations and invitations 
 were not all in vain, for when there is a real 
 concern on the part of Christians for non- 
 
THE BANNER MINES 35 
 
 Christians, that concern is likely to be imparted 
 to those whom they seek to win. 
 
 Moses Evans, a Welsh miner, listened some- 
 what impatiently to the missioner's words, as he 
 stood leaning against a telephone pole. Then 
 with apparent weariness he answered, "Look 
 
 here, young fellow, there ain't a man in 
 
 this country can live a Christian life in this camp. 
 I've tried it; you ain't. I know; you don't. I 
 used to be a Christian in Wales — leastwise, I 
 think I was — but you can't be here." The inter- 
 view ended, however, with a promise on Moses' 
 part to be present on the following night. Three 
 nights later he knelt, at the close of the service, 
 behind the old piano, and brokenly asked God to 
 make him "different again." "Forgive my sins," 
 he continued, "and help me like You did in 
 Wales." 
 
 Near the end of the week the missioners 
 planned to hold an open-air service a mile and a 
 half down the gulch, at a spot called "Spanish 
 Camp," where nearly two hundred miners lived. 
 It was hoped that by arranging the meeting be- 
 tween "shifts" a number might hear the Gospel 
 message, who had not previously been reached. 
 Every tent and shack was visited twice preceding 
 the meeting, and hand-printed signs were posted 
 wherever likely to arrest attention. At the time 
 for the meeting to commence there were five chil- 
 
36 MASTERED MEN 
 
 dren and eight dogs present. It was not a "dig- 
 nified" course to pursue, and probably merited 
 the disapproval of the "church fathers," but one 
 of the missioners, yearning to get a hearing for 
 his message, got possession of a large tin can from 
 a nearby rubbish heap, and with the aid of a club 
 succeeded in getting considerable noise from its 
 emptiness. The people may have appreciated his 
 advertising ability, or it may be they preferred 
 to hear the Gospel rather than the noise that was 
 coming from the tin can; but, at any rate, in a 
 few minutes a circle of thirty or forty gathered 
 around the speakers. 
 
 A few minutes after the meeting had com- 
 menced the limping figure of Moses Evans might 
 have been seen on the mountain-side near No. 3 
 Mine. Hurrying down the trail he crossed the 
 rustic bridge over the little mountain stream, and 
 came to where the crowd had gathered. With- 
 out any hesitation he pushed through the circle 
 and stood in the centre. Reverently removing 
 his miner's cap, he said, "I'd like to pray." A 
 few faces expressed a sneer, but Moses clasped 
 his hands and uttered his petition, which was 
 written down immediately thereafter. "Oh, God, 
 you know as how the devil has been at me all 
 day, saying as I dasn't stand out in the public air 
 and confess Thee. You know, oh, my God ! that 
 I want to be a good man again. You know I 
 
THE BANNER MINES 3*7 
 
 can't read nor write in English, but You've put 
 words in my mouth ; put them into my heart, and 
 keep it clean, for Jesus' sake. Amen." 
 
 Moses Evans and other men, who with him 
 made open confession of Jesus Christ, were again 
 and again spat upon and cursed, as they passed 
 along the "entry" at their daily toil in the mine. 
 "But it's a great thing," wrote the school-teacher, 
 "that these men can be by tongue damned higher 
 and damned lower than anything else in this 
 world, and yet stand firm. Increase the number 
 of such men, and you have a leaven of righteous- 
 ness that will eventually permeate this whole 
 mining community. This is our only hope of 
 rescue from the mire of sensuality and vice into 
 which many of our miners have sunk. Moses 
 says to please tell you that the words of the 
 hymn you used to sing are true in his own ex- 
 perience : — 
 
 'Through days of toil, when heart doth fail 
 
 God will take care of you; 
 When dangers fierce your path assail, 
 
 God will take care of you.' " 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE "HOP" 
 
 It was the acceptance of the challenge to attend 
 the "Hop" at the Bonanza Camp that popular- 
 ized the services at the Banner Mines. 
 
 After the open-air meeting a number of men 
 lounged around one of the shacks discussing the 
 question of religion. When one of the preachers 
 approached the group to invite them to the meet- 
 ing in the Hall, "Smut" Ludlow at once began 
 to air his grievances against the Church, and to 
 
 inform the preacher that there were "more 
 
 rascals in the Church than in any other organ- 
 ization on earth." Then Frank Stacy contrib- 
 uted his bit of condemnation: "See here, 
 preacher! The last time I was back East, I 
 thought I'd see what sort of a show they was still 
 running in yer House o' God, and so I went in. 
 Just over the archway inside was a fine piece of 
 writing, something about 'the rich and the poor 
 meeting together, and going snooks.' I thought 
 it sounded pretty good, so I made myself as com- 
 fortable as I could in one of them soft seats. 
 After a while some dude started to play the or- 
 
 38 
 
THE "HOP" 39 
 
 gan, and folks dressed up fit to kill strutted into 
 their seats and bobbed their heads down and pre- 
 tended to say their prayers. Then I watched an 
 old guy trying to get his overcoat off: I mind 
 how his other coat well-nigh come off with it; 
 he sure was scared when he saw his shirt sleeve, 
 and he hustled both his coats on again like he'd 
 been caught stealing. Just then somebody tapped 
 me on the shoulder, and a coon with a silk tile in 
 his hand told me to sit at the back where the 
 seats weren't rented. I went back looking like a 
 fool, but you bet I didn't stop for a back seat: I 
 decided I'd take an outside berth, and it'll be a 
 few hundred years before this chicken gets caught 
 again. Rich and poor meet together, and go 
 snooks! It looked like it, didn't it 1 ? See here, 
 preacher, ain't it about time you fellers stopped 
 talking one thing and serving up another % The 
 whole thing is tommy-rot, that's what I say." 
 
 Hal Rinnell was not antagonistic, but objected 
 to an illustration that the preacher had used. 
 "Say, preacher, warn't that there story about the 
 Bishop and the silver candlesticks a bit fishy? 
 You mind you said about the feller swiping 'em 
 after the Bishop had give him a bed, and then 
 he got away with 'em through the night; and 
 when the p'liceman saw him with 'em next morn- 
 ing, and know'd they belonged to the Bishop, 
 they jest nabbed him and brought him back. 
 
40 MASTERED MEN 
 
 And you mind you said the Bishop told 'em the 
 man didn't swipe the candlesticks, but got 'em 
 from him as a present. Then when the p'lice was 
 gone, the Bishop called the thief 'brother,' and 
 made him keep his haul and promise to be square 
 from that on. Now that ain't reasonable: it 
 ain't human nature. I'd like to see the pumpkin- 
 head what would swipe my candlesticks, if I had 
 any, arter I'd give him a decent bed. He'd hev 
 his next breakfast in Hades, you bet. Some o' 
 you preachers ain't reasonable; you kinder get 
 yer wires crossed." 
 
 The cross-firing ended by a proposition from 
 "Smut." "There's going to be a hot old time 
 to-morrow night at the Bonanza, preacher. I'll 
 make a deal with you. You don't like our style; 
 we don't like your hot air. You attend the ball 
 at Bonanza, we'll attend your show, providing 
 you start when we start, and leave when we leave, 
 and get home as soon as we do. How's that, 
 boys?" The "boys" trusted Smut's judgment, 
 and knew by his wink that the proposition was 
 safe, hence their unanimity to make it a "go." 
 None of them dreamed that the proposal would 
 be accepted, but after a moment's conference 
 with his fellow-worker the preacher agreed; and 
 in order that there should be no misunderstand- 
 ing, he repeated Smut's proposition. 
 
 The following evening the six-mile walk to 
 
THE "HOP" 41 
 
 the Bonanza was commenced, and the second 
 party to the contract followed the leaders. The 
 first mile of trail was familiar to the preacher, 
 then the way led over rarely-travelled paths. 
 Carefully he took his bearings when that was 
 possible, for few landmarks existed. He ob- 
 served the whisperings and smiles when the way 
 was wide enough for two or three of the men 
 to walk together, and surmised that he was the 
 subject of the conversation. 
 
 At last the Bonanza was reached, and already 
 the gaudily-decorated dining-room of the board- 
 ing-house resounded with laughter and shouting 
 from well-nigh a hundred guests. From all cor- 
 ners of the district they had gathered, for where 
 social opportunities are so rare the camp ball is 
 a great event. 
 
 The "band" consisted of violin, cornet, and 
 horn, accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of 
 the performers' feet. 
 
 Women were scarce in the district, and most 
 of the men desired to dance with every woman 
 present, so that the periods of rest were few and 
 short. 
 
 Liquor was dispensed freely, and some of the 
 dancers became hilarious and others quarrelsome. 
 
 Only once was there anything approaching 
 a fight. "Nell" Webster, a notorious character, 
 who was once well known in the crime colony 
 
42 MASTERED MEN 
 
 of an American city because of her more than 
 ordinary attractiveness, had passed through 
 many degrading experiences, and had eventually 
 taken up her abode at the Bonanza. Excessive 
 use of drugs and liquor had wrecked her attrac- 
 tiveness, but a dance was considered incomplete 
 without her, and when excited by intoxicants she 
 could "hold the floor with any of them." It was 
 through one miner attempting to monopolize 
 Nell's dances that the quarrel arose. Heated 
 words, then curses and threats, created an ugly 
 situation, until a few of the more sober man- 
 aged to separate the angered ones. It was the 
 last night they would quarrel over Nell. Her 
 mad race was ended. The girl of beauty had let 
 sin become her taskmaster, and now for years her 
 cup of pleasure had contained only the dregs. 
 Step by step the progress had been downward. 
 Once, "respectable" men with refined brutality 
 had made her think she was their valued com- 
 panion, and then, like an orange from which the 
 sweetness had been extracted, they had cast her 
 off. For a time she gained notoriety by being the 
 wife of Len Walsh, counterfeiter, burglar, con- 
 fidence-man, and all-round crook. At that time 
 she was known as "Len Walsh's woman," but 
 when Len lapsed from clever crime to simple 
 drunkenness, she left him and took another name. 
 
THE "HOP" 43 
 
 And now for years her associates had been drunks 
 and crooks. 
 
 Once during the revelry, as an opportunity 
 presented itself, the preacher spoke a few words 
 to her about her terrible mode of living. He 
 thought there was a shadow of remorse as, with 
 
 a forced smile, she replied, "I don't give a d 
 
 now; better try it on somebody younger." 
 
 Two days later the preacher was asked to re- 
 turn to the Bonanza and "make a last prayer 
 over Nell." They had found her lifeless body 
 the morning following the camp ball. Her grimy 
 shack was littered with bottles and glasses, and 
 there were evidences of a fracas — sin-marred, sin- 
 mauled Nell lay on the filthy floor in the dress 
 she had worn at the dance. They buried her half 
 a mile from the camp, and one of the boys crudely 
 carved the word "Nell" on a cedar post, and 
 placed it at the head of the solitary grave amid 
 the lonely mountains. Few sadder moments has 
 the preacher ever spent than the ones occupied 
 in the burial of Nell. Again and again were her 
 last words to him recalled — words that have 
 since become an appeal in behalf of the wander- 
 ing: "I don't give a d now; better try it 
 
 on somebody younger." 
 
 But to return to the dance. It was long past 
 midnight when the "Banner" contingent started 
 for home. There was something of interest that 
 
44 MASTERED MEN 
 
 Smut had to confidentially communicate to each 
 man. Then there was a hurried shout, "All right, 
 boys," and the crowd immediately disappeared 
 in the darkness. Thus far the preacher had kept 
 his part in the agreement, but Smut Ludlow was 
 planning that on the homeward journey the rest 
 of the contract must be made impossible. 
 
 The miners struck a furious pace, and the 
 preacher was for a few minutes unable to see the 
 winding way, but he stumbled along as rapidly 
 as the hindmost of his fellow-travellers. Very 
 soon he realized that many of the men could not 
 maintain that pace for long, and so, refraining 
 from conversation, he held himself well in re- 
 serve, being content to take his pace from the 
 slowest in the line. For half an hour no change 
 in position took place. The foremost men were 
 chuckling to themselves over "shaking" the 
 preacher, and were wondering how far back on 
 the trail he was, and whether he would spend 
 the next few hours in the woods waiting for day- 
 light. But their mirth was short-lived. The 
 preacher decided that it was his move next. He 
 could hear the panting of the men immediately 
 ahead of him, and at a favourable opportunity 
 he increased the length and speed of his stride, 
 and passed two of the boys. At each widening 
 of the trail he performed the same feat, until 
 only Smut remained ahead. 
 
THE "HOP" 45 
 
 Smut was mightily amazed when he discovered 
 who was his nearest fellow traveller, and an oath 
 escaped him. With vigorously swinging arms he 
 made every effort to keep the lead, trying for a 
 while to do a "jog-trot," but his feet began to 
 drag heavily, and once or twice he stumbled. No 
 word was exchanged, for Smut was being pressed 
 to the utmost expenditure of his strength, and the 
 other contestant had never more longed for vic- 
 tory. More than once he had received the cheers 
 of the thousands when he was the favourite on 
 McGill's field-day, but somehow he felt to-night 
 larger issues were at stake than the athletic glory 
 of a college. He was still comparatively fresh, 
 for he had been only an onlooker at the dance, 
 and had no alcohol in his system. Narrating 
 his final contest to his fellow-worker, he said, 
 "If ever I prayed Samson's prayer with all my 
 heart it was right then: 'Strengthen me, I pray 
 Thee, only this once, O God.' " 
 
 At last the two men were side by side, but 
 only for a few seconds. With the enthusiasm 
 of a victor the preacher quickly lengthened the 
 distance, and managed to spare enough breath 
 to call back, "Come on, boys; it's no use hang- 
 ing around here all night." At the first winding 
 of the trail he broke into a run, and kept it up 
 until he reached the bunk-house. With all pos- 
 sible speed he unlaced his boots, threw off his 
 
46 MASTERED MEN 
 
 coat, made himself as comfortable as possible, 
 and when the boys filed in he was sitting along- 
 side of the dining-table with his feet on a box 
 and a book in his hand, looking as though he had 
 been having a quiet night of reading. 
 
 Poor Smut! If ever a man had it rubbed in, 
 it was Smut Ludlow. Even before the camp 
 was reached the attack commenced. "Smut, 
 
 you're a fool, and you've made fools 
 
 of every man in the camp," started Frank 
 
 Stacey. 
 
 But with characteristic Western fair play the 
 preacher's stock went up rapidly. "That sky 
 pilot ain't no slouch." "Gee! whiz! you should 
 have seen him give Smut the go-by when he was 
 plunging around like a whale in shallow water, 
 and puffing like the 'dummy' when she's trying 
 to make the grade with too big a haul." Many 
 similar expressions went the round the next day, 
 and the preacher was no longer regarded as the 
 under-dog. 
 
 "Say, pilot," said Frank at the noon hour, 
 "where d'you learn that gait you struck last 
 night?" With a smile came the quiet reply, "I 
 was brought up on the farm, and used to drive 
 the calves to the water." As Frank walked away 
 he remarked, "Yer guv'nor must have raised 
 blamed good calves." 
 
 The most annoying result of the whole inci- 
 
THE "HOP" 47 
 
 dent, so far as the men were concerned, lay in 
 the fact that they were in honour bound to at- 
 tend the evangelistic meeting. To some it was 
 so exasperating that they suggested the violation 
 of the contract. But that was not to be thought 
 of in the opinion of the majority. "We was 
 licked, and we'll take our medicine, though it's 
 hard to swaller," said Hal Rinnell. 
 
 For the meeting that night the hand-printed 
 signs gave the information that a series of lan- 
 tern slides would be exhibited at the commence- 
 ment of the service. 
 
 A few minutes after the opening, and while a 
 popular Gospel hymn was being sung, about a 
 dozen men availed themselves of the merciful- 
 ness of the semi-darkness, and slipped into back 
 seats. By the time the lights were turned up 
 they had become accustomed to their surround- 
 ings, and bore with fair grace the suggestive 
 glances that were directed towards them. 
 
 The appeal was based on the words: "I find 
 no fault in this Man." All the controversial 
 weaknesses of the Church were dismissed, and 
 the great problems of heart and life were dealt 
 with in a manly, sympathetic manner, and men's 
 thoughts were directed to that One whose name 
 still occupies its splendid solitary pre-eminence. 
 Before any person left the building, the speaker 
 was in his accustomed place at the door to speak 
 
48 MASTERED MEN 
 
 a personal word and give a handshake. Frank 
 Stacey clasped the proffered hand with genuine 
 cordiality, and in a voice that was heard by all, 
 said, "You're playing a bully good game, 
 preacher. You hit as good a pace to-night as 
 last night, and if you keep it up you'll lick us 
 to a finish before your innings is out." 
 
 Smut Ludlow was not in good humour, and 
 as the boys sat around the bunk-house stove hav- 
 ing their last smoke for the day, he was clearly 
 disgusted and maddened at the changed attitude 
 of the camp toward the preacher. Once he ex- 
 pressed himself after Frank had praised the 
 
 preacher for his "grit." "You're a lot of 
 
 turncoats; things are in a of a mess if you 
 
 fellows can be bamboozled by one of these 
 
 parasites." 
 
 "Well! we ain't the only ones what were bam- 
 boozled, Smut. He sure put in all over you last 
 night, and if you had enough brains to fill a 
 thimble you'd keep your fool mouth shut." 
 Never in their long acquaintance had Frank op- 
 posed Smut to the extent of this deliverance, but 
 there was no question but that the preacher had 
 overcome Frank's opposition and aroused his ad- 
 miration. "Anyhow," he continued, "that chap's 
 a different brand to most of 'em, and I kinder 
 think he can put up the genuine goods." 
 
 Frank threw his clothes over the line and 
 
THE "HOP" 49 
 
 clambered into his untidy bunk, and long after 
 the heavy breathing of wearied men had become 
 general he lay with strangely new thoughts. He 
 agreed with the preacher that it wasn't a square 
 deal to "find no fault in this Man," and then to 
 deliver Him to be crucified. And that night the 
 preacher had, by numerous illustrations, com- 
 pelled the worst of men to pay their tribute to 
 Him who was the highest that humanity has 
 known; and yet were they any "squarer" to Him 
 than Pilate was*? Had they not much more evi- 
 dence than Pilate had, and yet, in the face of 
 an absolutely unanimous verdict of "not guilty," 
 they pronounced what was equal to the death 
 penalty. Again and again Frank said to himself 
 "That ain't square." 
 
 There was not a seat to spare in the dance- 
 hall during the subsequent nights. Frank Stacey 
 missed no service, and when, at the mission's 
 close, a meeting was called of those interested in 
 the organization of a Church and the erection of 
 a building, he was one of the little company. 
 
 When six months later they were ready to oc- 
 cupy the new church, Frank was insistent that 
 
 Mr. , "the man who showed Smut where to 
 
 get off," should be the preacher for the day. 
 "Impossible," said a number; "it would cost over 
 thirty dollars for railway fare alone." "Impos- 
 sible nothing!" was Frank's response; and 
 
50 MASTERED MEN 
 
 twenty-four hours later he handed fifty dollars 
 to the Treasurer for railway fare and pulpit sup- 
 ply, and after two weeks of correspondence the 
 announcement was made that the desired speaker 
 was coming. 
 
 No one enjoyed the day of the opening more 
 than Frank. The building of the church had 
 absorbed all his interest, and now the effort was 
 crowned with success. For several nights a dozen 
 Welsh and English miners had practised the 
 hymns "to give the thing a good send-off." They 
 sat in the corner near the reading-desk, and led 
 the music with increasing confidence as the day's 
 services progressed. 
 
 C T guess the devil over-reached himself when 
 he tried to make a fool of the preacher the night 
 of the dance," said Frank, as a group stood out- 
 side at the close of the afternoon's Communion 
 service. " 'Tain't often he gets as hard hit in 
 the neck by his friends as he was that night." 
 
 The Church at the "Banner" has had its ups 
 and downs during the past three years. One of 
 the mines has closed, and many shacks are now 
 unoccupied. Frank Stacey has gone over to Van- 
 couver Island, and some of the "charter mem- 
 bers" have ceased their earthly labours; but each 
 Sabbath-day a few faithful ones, "the salt of the 
 earth," gather for worship in the Church that 
 Smut Ludlow unwittingly caused to be built. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 "THY TOUCH HAS STFLL ITS ANCIENT POWER" 
 
 Jack Roande was on one of his periodical 
 sprees. For eight years he had been going the 
 pace. They had been long, weary years to the 
 one whom Jack had vowed to love and cherish. 
 Night after night, through these long years, she 
 had listened for the awful home-coming. There 
 were few in the little mining town but had often 
 seen her eyes reddened by weeping, and all knew 
 of the Eastern home she had left. Among those 
 who had joined in the "send-off," nearly fifteen 
 years ago, were two men whose names are still 
 honoured household words throughout the Do- 
 minion. There was no note of sadness that day, 
 for Jack was a "model young man," and every 
 one agreed that there was "no finer girl than 
 Nell." 
 
 Jack blamed his downfall to dabbling in poli- 
 tics. "Politics are rotten in this province," said 
 he, as he endeavoured to excuse his condition; 
 but perhaps, as a chum of Jack's said, he only 
 blamed politics " 'cause a fellow generally tries 
 to find a soft place to fall." Whatever the 
 
 51 
 
52 MASTERED MEN 
 
 cause, at least the fact was plain to all in the 
 town that Jack was "down and out." 
 
 The business men said so, and agreed with the 
 authorities that Jack was a nuisance to the town. 
 Some of those who had assisted in his downfall 
 spoke of him as a "dirty loafer," and even the 
 bar-rooms, where he had "spent all," tolerated 
 his presence only when the cruel pity of some 
 patron called him in for a treat, or when he could 
 exhibit some coin. 
 
 It was through the "tender mercies of the 
 wicked" to Jack that there were three empty 
 stockings in the Roande home on the recent 
 Christmas Eve. "For the children's sake," there 
 had been a tearful plea that the husband would 
 be home Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. 
 With glad expectancy the meagre resources of 
 the pantry were combined by loving hands to 
 give the nearest possible approach to a feast. 
 From the near-by woods the children had brought 
 cedar and pine for decorative purposes, and 
 these, with stray bits of brightly-coloured tissue 
 paper, had done much to give the home a Christ- 
 mas appearance. The usual notes had been writ- 
 ten to Santa Claus, and the mother-heart had 
 lovingly suggested a curtailment of such re- 
 quests as Santa might find it difficult to grant. 
 The little ones had thrown their letters into the 
 fire, and watched some of the gauzy ashes car- 
 
"THY TOUCH" 53 
 
 ried up the chimney to the mysterious but gen- 
 erous friend of the children, who would soon be 
 loading his sleigh somewhere in the far north. 
 
 Jack appeared to respond to his wife's plead- 
 ings, and so on account of her many home duties 
 she confided to him some of the requests the chil- 
 dren had made, and how the much-coveted toys 
 were parcelled and waiting to be called for at one 
 of the down-town stores. No word was spoken 
 of the sacrifice the purchases had involved, nor 
 of the sting love had endured when for the chil- 
 dren's sake she began to take in sewing. It was 
 therefore agreed that Jack should bring the par- 
 cel home shortly before tea on Christmas Eve, 
 and in the darkness it could be hidden away until 
 the little ones were asleep. 
 
 Jack was true to his word, and started for 
 home with the precious toys under his arm, in 
 ample time for the evening meal. 
 
 "Merry Christmas, Jack," called a voice as 
 Jack was rounding the saloon corner; "come on 
 in and have one." 
 
 "Guess I'd better get home," was the hesitat- 
 ing reply. It needed little persuasion, however, 
 to get Jack inside, and after a second treat he 
 lost all anxiety to reach home, and was ready 
 for a night's debauch. 
 
 During the tea-hour the bar patrons became 
 fewer, and Jack's chances for further drinks were 
 
54 MASTERED MEN 
 
 far apart. In response to a request to "chalk up 
 a couple of whiskeys," he received an emphatic 
 "not on your life" from the bar- tender. 
 
 There was a momentary conflict within Jack, 
 and then the beast became lord over the man. 
 Going to the corner he brought his parcel from 
 the bench and placed it on the bar. "How much 
 can I draw on for that?" There was a wild de- 
 termination in the voice. Unwrapping the par- 
 cel beneath the bar, the bar-tender at once knew 
 what the consents meant. 
 
 "I don't want 'em, Jack: you better get home 
 to your kids." But Jack was insistent, and grad- 
 ually the other weakened. "Well, it's your prop- 
 erty, and if you're going to sell 'em I guess I 
 may as well buy 'em as anybody else. I'll chalk 
 you fifty cents." The articles were worth three 
 times the amount offered, but Jack was being 
 consumed with that hellish thirst that he had de- 
 veloped through many years, and he at once 
 started to use up his credit. 
 
 A mile away an anxious wife awaited Jack's 
 return. Cheerfully she had gone about her work 
 until the hour for the evening meal, but with the 
 passing moments the husband's absence caused 
 her fears to increase. 
 
 With forced smiles she did her best to bring 
 into the home the gladness that belongs to Christ- 
 mas Eve, but the heart was heavy, and the little 
 
"THY TOUCH" 55 
 
 ones saw now and again the tears that could not 
 be suppressed. 
 
 Bedtime was prolonged to two hours beyond 
 the customary time, but still there was no sign 
 of the father. Once the mother expressed the 
 fears that were in her heart when she suggested 
 that sometimes Santa Claus did not get to homes 
 when the father was away, at which suggestion 
 there were tearful little eyes and oft-expressed 
 wishes that "daddy" would come home. Bravely 
 the mother gathered the three children around; 
 her chair for their good-night sing. Favourite 
 hymns of the Sabbath School were sung, and all 
 the time four pairs of ears were alert for the 
 sound of Jack's return. 
 
 It was while Grace's favourite hymn, "I am 
 so glad that our Father in Heaven," was being 
 sung, that footsteps were heard at the door. In- 
 stantly the little ones ceased their singing, as 
 Grace joyously shouted, "It's daddy; Santa Claus 
 will come now, won't he, mother*?" 
 
 For a minute or two before Grace's glad shout 
 two men had stood in the darkness outside the 
 Roande home. After he had been turned out of 
 the "Kelby House," Jack had staggered and 
 stumbled around the streets for some time, and 
 at last lay prostrate in the snow not far from 
 the home of one who had often befriended him. 
 A woman hurrying along the street suddenly saw 
 
56 MASTERED MEN 
 
 the dark form on the snow, and with a cry of fear 
 ran to the near-by house. The minister, who 
 resided there, at once recognizing poor Jack, 
 dragged him into the house, and after securing a 
 neighbour's sleigh and a driver, started for Jack's 
 home. 
 
 From the sleigh to the house he managed to 
 conduct Jack safely, but when the strains of "I 
 am so glad" from childish voices reached his ears, 
 he stood still for a moment. How could he take 
 such a father home at such a time! Yet it was 
 impossible for him to remain long outside with 
 Jack as he was, and so he guided the poor drunken 
 father onward. Jack stumbled and fell heavily 
 against the door just as Grace's glad shout si- 
 lenced the hymn-singing. The minister was 
 dragged almost to the floor as the door sprang 
 open and Jack lurched into the room. 
 
 Few words were spoken, for all hearts were 
 sad as the stupefied man almost immediately fell 
 asleep on the) floor of the sitting-room, and filled 
 the air with the drunkard's stench. The little 
 ones were tenderly told to go to their beds. 
 
 "Had he a parcel when you found him*?" 
 whispered the mother as soon as she could control 
 her voice. Then followed the narration of her 
 plans to fill the three stockings that had already 
 been hung up at the back of the stove. And now 
 it was too late to find out what had happened 
 
"THY TOUCH" 57 
 
 to the parcel. The minister looked into the 
 mother's face, and then at the three empty stock- 
 ings with their mute appeal for a visit from 
 Santa Claus. 
 
 "I could bear this, hard as it is," she con- 
 tinued, glancing at the drunken sleeper, "but the 
 
 poor children " Her head dropped on her 
 
 arms which were resting on the table, and quietly 
 she wept over the bitter disappointment the little 
 ones must bear on Christmas morning. 
 
 "Mrs. Roande" — a hand touched her shoul- 
 der lightly — "if you are not too wearied to wait 
 up I'll do my best to locate the parcel." The 
 look from the grateful mother was all that was 
 needed to send the minister forth on his errand 
 of love. 
 
 The store from which the toys were secured 
 was closed, but the proprietor had not yet re- 
 tired, and was able to reassure the midnight vis- 
 itor that Jack had procured the parcel shortly 
 before supper-time. It was not long before the 
 clue led the minister to the home of the bar- 
 tender. Wearied, but with mingled sorrow and 
 anger, he rang trie door bell. The man he was 
 looking for came downstairs partly disrobed, and 
 was manifestly surprised at a pastoral call, espe- 
 cially at such an hour. The minister stepped 
 unasked into the hall. "Mr. Klint, I apologize 
 for disturbing you, but Mr. Roande left a par- 
 
58 MASTERED MEN 
 
 eel somewhere that I must find to-night, and I 
 understand he was in your bar-room. Do you 
 know anything about it?" 
 
 The answer not being satisfactory, a further 
 question was put. 
 
 "No, sir, he left nothing; we had a square 
 deal, but that's nobody's business but mine and 
 his." 
 
 "May I then ask if a parcel containing toys 
 had any place in that deal?" No answer being 
 given, the minister said with quiet firmness, "I 
 must have an answer to that question before I 
 leave this house. Mr. Klint, this is Christmas 
 Eve! There are three empty stockings hanging 
 in the room where Jack Roande lies drunk, and 
 the things intended for those stockings must be 
 there before morning." 
 
 "I'm not obliged to tell you or anybody else 
 anything about my business," answered Klint 
 surlily; "but if you are so anxious to know, then 
 I can tell you that I bought that parcel to oblige 
 Jack, and it was his deal, not yours." 
 
 "This is not the time for much talking. Be 
 good enough to tell me where the parcel is now, 
 and what you paid for it." Again there was hesi- 
 tancy, and again there was pressure. At last the 
 information was elicited that the toys were be- 
 neath the roof that sheltered them, and that the 
 price paid was fifty cents. 
 
"THY TOUCH" 59 
 
 "Be good enough for the children's sake, if not 
 for your own, to take back your fifty cents and 
 let me take the parcel." 
 
 Eventually the deal was consummated. When 
 the toys were safely in his possession the minister 
 said, "Mr. Klint, if you were dealt with as you 
 deserve, you would spend Christmas day, not in 
 your own comfortable home, but in the hospital 
 or in jail: I only hope you are not as contemp- 
 tible as your deed. I shall see you again, some 
 
 other day." 
 
 The hand-clasp from the thankful mother was 
 ample repayment for the midnight search, and 
 in the early morning the exclamations of delight 
 from her little ones in turn lifted something of 
 the burden from her trouble-worn life. 
 
 Thus had it been, sorrow after sorrow, for 
 poor Nell Roande for over eight years, and at 
 times she felt there was little hope of any change, 
 but the new day was soon to come, and the night 
 of weeping was to be turned into the morn of 
 song. 
 
 On the Tuesday night following the com- 
 mencement of special services, as a little group 
 of young men were leaving the Pool-room ad- 
 joining the Opera House, Jack Roande came 
 stumbling along. It was a great joke, so Bill 
 Thornton thought, to "jolly" Jack into believ- 
 ing that there was a "free show in the Opera 
 
60 MASTERED MEN 
 
 House, with pretty girls and swell dancing." 
 Within a few minutes Jack was sitting with eyes 
 as wide open as he could get them, ready to take 
 in the "swell dancing." He quickly realized that 
 he had been fooled, and catching the word "re- 
 ligion" he shook his fist as he departed saying, 
 
 "Religion! it's all d d rot. There's nothing 
 
 in it." The missioner was down the aisle in a 
 few seconds, and as Jack was passing through 
 the swinging doors a kindly hand was laid upon 
 his shoulder, and a voice, made tender by ac- 
 quaintance with the Friend of sinners, said 
 "Good-night, friend; you have the marks of a 
 gentleman although you have made a slip to- 
 night. I hope you will come again." 
 
 Returning to the platform he continued his 
 message, but it was easy to see that the speaker's 
 heart was out in the nigljt wherever Jack was. 
 Was it that yearning that brought Jack back 
 again in less than half an hour? Be that as it 
 may, the man who had left with a curse, stag- 
 gered in again before the closing hymn, and made 
 not the slightest disturbance after he reached a 
 seat. At the close he conversed in as intelligent 
 a way as his intoxication permitted. The con- 
 versation need not be recorded. It was one of 
 several. Five nights later, twenty minutes after 
 the clock had made its lengthiest strike, a sub- 
 dued knock was heard at the door of the home 
 
"THY TOUCH" 61 
 
 in which the missioner was being entertained. 
 The burner of midnight oil hurried downstairs. 
 Jack stood in the doorway. "Mr. Williams, I've 
 got to settle it, and I've got to do it now." Two 
 souls tarried in the upper room, and while they 
 tarried He came. At last the broken cry as- 
 cended, "My Father, I want to get back to Thee. 
 Help me to walk in the paths of righteousness, 
 for Jesus' sake. Amen." 
 
 It was a great night for the fisher of men. 
 Like the wearied disciples of old, he said "It is 
 the Lord." 
 
 The following night, Jack Jr., Mamie and 
 Grace accompanied their father to the service, 
 and happily united their voices in the service of 
 praise. 
 
 Grace — they called her "Gay," for that was 
 the best pronunciation wee Jean, now departed, 
 could once give — told several of her schoolmates 
 confidentially in her mother's words, that she had 
 a "new daddy." And the subsequent days have 
 proven the truth of her assertion. 
 
 The closing night arrived. The Opera House 
 was crowded, and from the opening words, "Our 
 Father," until the "And now I commend you to 
 God," every one present seemed to feel that this 
 was no ordinary religious gathering. An oppor- 
 tunity was given for a word from new converts. 
 
62 MASTERED MEN 
 
 Tenderly, prayerfully, these were urged to in 
 some way publicly confess their new-found Lord. 
 There was a hush as Jack stood erect. In a low, 
 clear voice he addressed himself particularly to 
 the half -hundred young men at the back. "I do 
 not need to tell you what I was. Two weeks 
 ago it would have been inconceivable to you and 
 to me that the change I have experienced could 
 take place. There is only One who could do it, 
 and He has done it. I cannot say more now, but 
 if you want to know all about it, come to me at 
 the close of this service, or come to my home." 
 
 The eyes of the wife at his side were red again, 
 but the tears were tears of joy. "It is very won- 
 derful : we are all so happy. Oh, how glad I am 
 that these services have been held," were her 
 farewell words. 
 
 Jack's hand was the last one the missioner 
 clasped. "Jack, you will be God's man. I go, 
 but He remains. This change is all His doing, 
 and He will hold you fast if you only trust Him. 
 Many a day I'll pray for you, Jack. Remember 
 that your feelings may change, but your pur- 
 poses must endure. Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Williams; God helping me I 
 won't fail. It'll be no easy business, but I'm not 
 in the fight alone; God's in it too. Good-bye." 
 
 And the years that have passed since these 
 
"THY TOUCH" 63 
 
 words were spoken have shown clearly enough 
 that Jack is not fighting alone. Once again 
 prayerful hearts are returning thanks for the 
 touch that "has still its ancient power." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 "if a man be overtaken" 
 
 George fell — all the people knew that was 
 what would happen. When he told in the church 
 that he was going, with God's help, to be a 
 Christian and "act the square," there was only 
 one at the close of the meeting to say an encour- 
 aging word to him; the rest left him alone. On 
 the whole, they did not believe in "results" from 
 Special Services, and, despite the pastor's fre- 
 quent appeals for their unprejudiced and whole- 
 hearted support, none were enthusiastic over the 
 effort being put forth, and many were antago- 
 nistic. In the opinion of the majority the regu- 
 lar, "well-ordered" Sabbath services gave ample 
 opportunity for those who wanted to lead dif- 
 ferent lives, and so far as reaching the outsiders 
 was concerned, the endeavour to invite per- 
 sonally the non-churchgoers was quite unneces- 
 sary — all such knew they were welcome, because 
 the fact had been on the announcement board 
 outside the church for over ten years. 
 
 The missioner was told on all sides what 
 a notoriously untrustworthy man George was: 
 
 64 
 
'IF A MAN BE OVERTAKEN" 65 
 
 "You see, we know his past, and you have been 
 here only two weeks, or you'd know better than 
 to put any faith in what he did and said last 
 night. It was just a passing emotion, and it 
 won't mean anything." So George fulfilled their 
 expectations when he returned from the city 
 uproariously drunk one night three weeks after 
 the mission closed. 
 
 The morning following the outbreak the min- 
 ister's wife made a special trip down street. The 
 door of the carpenter's shop was fortunately 
 open, and George was leaning against his bench 
 looking, as he felt, far from happy. Pleasantly 
 the little woman greeted him, and passed on. 
 Then, with an exquisite piece of deception, she 
 appeared to have a sudden after-thought, and 
 turning quickly, she said, "Oh, George, the doors 
 in the pantry cupboard are so swollen that I 
 cannot close them. Could you fix them for me?" 
 
 The carpenter looked wearily at her. "I ain't 
 feeling much like fixing anything, Mrs. Lamb, 
 but I'd try to do most anything for you." 
 
 "Thank you, George," was the reply, "I be- 
 lieve you would; come as soon as you can." 
 
 George had said what was true ; he believed in 
 Mrs. Lamb, and what was still better, he felt 
 that she believed in him. When, on the night of 
 his confession, she took his hand and said, "I'm 
 so glad, George," he valued her word and tone, 
 
66 MASTERED MEN 
 
 and look and hand-clasp, as only the friendless 
 man can. 
 
 But George was thoroughly disheartened to- 
 day. Everybody knew what he had said in the 
 meeting, and by now they would know that he 
 had failed. Yet no one would blame him more 
 than he blamed himself. He called himself a 
 fool for going to the city. The business could 
 have been done equally well by correspondence. 
 From the time he decided to go he feared that 
 he would return home intoxicated. He was quite 
 aware of a terrible craving, that he knew only 
 too well made it dangerous for him to frequent 
 the old haunts so soon, but in spite of inner warn- 
 ings he made up his mind to go, so that the battle 
 was lost before the temptation was actually met. 
 
 Twice that afternoon George took up a few 
 tools to go to the Manse in response to Mrs. 
 Lamb's request, and twice he put them down 
 again. The prison cell would have been entered 
 with less fear than the Manse that day. He felt 
 he had betrayed one of the best friends he had 
 ever had. And so night came, and the pantry 
 doors were untouched. 
 
 Family prayers were about to be conducted 
 at the Manse. Baby Jean was on mother's knee, 
 and Harold's chair was close to father's. Just 
 before kneeling the good wife said quietly: 
 "Please remember George, papa." There were 
 
"IF A MAN BE OVERTAKEN" 67 
 
 tears in her eyes when the petition was offered 
 "for those who have failed," and a whispered 
 "Amen" followed each clause that was uttered in 
 behalf of George. 
 
 The following morning George made his way 
 to the Manse and attended to the pantry doors. 
 When the work was finished, Mrs. Lamb led the 
 way through the dining-room to the front door. 
 Her hand rested on the door-knob, and she 
 seemed in no hurry to let George out. It was 
 evident she wanted to say something, but the 
 words did not easily come. 
 
 At last George broke the silence, and his voice 
 quivered with penitence as he looked for a mo- 
 ment into Mrs. Lamb's sympathetic eyes. "I 
 suppose you've heard all about it, Mrs. Lamb, 
 and the mess I've made of things*?" 
 
 "Yes, George, I know, and I'm so sorry; but 
 you are going to win yet: God's going to help 
 you win. Perhaps, George, you trusted too much 
 in your own strength, and you forget how weak 
 we all are when we stand alone. You know the 
 hymn that says — 'Christ will hold me fast'? 
 You cannot get along without Him, George. 
 Tell Him all about it, when you and He are 
 alone, and ask forgiveness, and, George, I know 
 God can and will make you a good, strong, true 
 man; He loves you, and we love you." 
 
 "You are going to win yet," and "He loves 
 
68 MASTERED MEN 
 
 you, and we love you," were sentences that gave 
 the man, overtaken in a fault, new hope. Deep 
 yearnings were in his heart as he walked back 
 to the shop. He believed his better moments 
 were his truest moments, and yet it seemed to 
 him that no one except Mrs. Lamb credited him 
 with noble aspirations. He knew very well that 
 there were Christian people who were suspicious 
 and unsympathetic toward him, and so his better 
 nature seemed to retire in their presence. 
 
 Later on he told how he used to feel like say- 
 ing, "Why won't you believe in me, and stand by 
 me, and give me a fighting chance'?" Often he 
 felt like a man who had been injured, and who 
 needed support until he could reach a place of 
 safety; and yet few did more than look with 
 disgust on him, and think it unlikely that he 
 could make the journey without falling. But, 
 despite his weakness and his sin, George believed 
 there were possibilities of noble living even for 
 him. 
 
 The following Sabbath he was back in his 
 place in church, a humble, penitent man. The 
 sermon that day was different from the ones the 
 people were used to hearing; not that it was 
 better, for all Mr. Lamb's sermons were of a 
 high order, but it had an element that was un- 
 usual, an element of great tenderness. The 
 text was: "Go, tell His disciples and Peter." 
 
"IF A MAN BE OVERTAKEN" 69 
 
 Peter's past traitorous conduct was graphically 
 pointed out, but so also was his weeping. "We 
 cannot think too harshly of our sins," said the 
 preacher, "but we may think too exclusively of 
 them. Peter thought of his sins, but he also 
 thought of His Saviour, and when he saw his 
 Risen Lord, the erring but penitent disciple said : 
 'Thou knowest that I love Thee,' and the Mas- 
 ter forgave all and sent him out to service." 
 
 The God whom the minister was accustomed 
 to preach about was a splendid, strong, but rather 
 pitiless Being; now they heard of a loving, pitiful 
 Father who was ever seeking those who had 
 turned from Him, and who was more than ready 
 to receive them as they turned again home. All 
 He wanted was to hear from their own lips, 
 "Father, I have sinned." That confession opened 
 Heaven's wardrobe for the man made disrepu- 
 table by wandering. 
 
 At the close of the evening service George 
 accepted Mrs. Lamb's invitation to "slip in and 
 have a cup of cocoa." "Just the three of us," 
 she added. "You know the way; walk right in." 
 Hurriedly she passed on to give kindly greetings 
 to a few strangers she had noticed. 
 
 For nearly two hours George and the minister 
 sat in the glow of the firelight. It was a great 
 relief to the disheartened man to be with those 
 who knew all, and who yet loved him, and who, 
 
70 MASTERED MEN 
 
 by their faith in him, gave him a little more faith 
 in himself and in God. 
 
 Referring to his drinking habit, he said, 
 "Sometimes I feel I'd rather drop dead in my 
 tracks than touch it again; and then there are 
 other days when it seems as if some slumbering 
 devil had awakened within me, and I'm so crazy 
 for it that I'd give the whole of Canada, if I 
 had it, for another drink." Then, after a pause, 
 he continued, "I suppose a man shouldn't try to 
 blame his sin on others, but one of the earliest 
 things I can remember, Mr. Lamb, is being held 
 in my mother's arms and putting my hands 
 around the beer jug while she gave me a drink. 
 Many a night, when I was 'knee-high to a grass- 
 hopper' as we say, I have clung to her skirt, as 
 she dragged me from bar to bar, around High 
 Street and George Street in old Glasgow. I 
 guess my father and mother were drunk every 
 Saturday night for five years. One night I can 
 remember as clear as if it was only yesterday. 
 It was the time of the Glasgow Fair, and I was 
 wishing they'd go home. I must have been about 
 six years old, and my sister Janet was two years 
 younger, and then there was a baby they called 
 Bobbie. Mother had Bobbie fastened around 
 her with an old shawl. She and father had been 
 on a spree all the evening. Father was leaning 
 against a lamp-post, just drunk enough to say 
 
«IF A MAN BE OVERTAKEN" 71 
 
 the fool things that amuse some of them folks 
 who don't think anything about the big price 
 somebody is paying for that kind of fun. Maybe 
 you think it's queer of me to talk that way, when 
 God knows I've been guilty enough myself. 
 Well! Let me finish my story, anyway. My 
 mother was dead drunk, sitting on the curbstone 
 near him, and maybe Bobbie was stupefied with 
 liquor like I had been many a time. Once in a 
 while she'd rouse up, and press her hands against 
 her maddened head and shriek all kinds of curses. 
 Police! why, Mr. Lamb, the Glasgow police 
 couldn't have handled the crowds that was drunk 
 them days. I've seen hundreds of drunken men 
 and women in one night around Rotten Row 
 and Shuffle Lane, and other streets near the cor- 
 ner of George and High Streets : so long as they 
 didn't get too awful bad the police let them 
 alone. Mother was a very devil when she got 
 fighting. I've heard father brag about what she 
 could do in that line. When she used to roll up 
 her sleeves for a fight, she was like a maddened 
 beast. I tell you, there isn't much in the fighting 
 line I haven't seen; but it makes me kind of 
 shudder yet when I think of how she'd punch, 
 and kick, and scratch, and all the time she'd be 
 using language that would make a decent man's 
 blood run cold. You were saying something 
 about 'sacred memories around the word "moth- 
 
72 MASTERED MEN 
 
 er" ' in one of your sermons, but that was the 
 kind of mother I had, Mr. Lamb. 
 
 "It must have been near Sunday morning when 
 somebody helped to get us home. Janet and me 
 had been sleeping in the gutter, and I can remem- 
 ber the time they had getting father and mother 
 up the stairs in the 'Close.' Somebody slipped 
 near the top, and there was a heap of us jammed 
 against the wall at the turning of the stairs. But 
 we children were used to bruises, and we learned 
 to keep quiet, or we'd only get more for our 
 trouble. I likely cried myself to sleep on the 
 rotten old floor, and I suppose I'd never have 
 remembered any more about it if it hadn't been 
 for Bobbie. In the morning the poor wee chap 
 was dead. He must have died through neglect; 
 pretty close to murder I call it. Did the death 
 make any difference to the parents'? Not likely! 
 At least I never remember them any different. I 
 was ten years old when my mother died, and she 
 died through stumbling in a drunken fight; her 
 head struck the curbstone, and she never spoke 
 again. After her death I was taken care of in 
 one of the Orphanages until I was sent to Can- 
 ada. But what I often wonder about, Mr. Lamb, 
 is whether God will be hard on those of us who've 
 had parents like that, and who've been brought 
 up where we didn't get a fair chance. God only 
 knows what we kids had to see and hear and 
 
"IF A MAN BE OVERTAKEN" 7S 
 
 suffer. People don't make any allowance for bad 
 blood, and bad food, and bad treatment, except 
 in cattle. I wonder if God does'? Yes, I know 
 I'm having a chance now, and yet God must pity 
 even me when He knows how I've been handi- 
 capped for these years; but some of those boys 
 live and die right there, and they don't get even 
 the chance I've had. It's easy for folks who 
 know nothing about it to say the people 
 should get out of such places; but some of them 
 are like heathen, they don't know there's any- 
 thing better. What did I know about a different 
 kind of life? Where could I have gone? Who 
 would have wanted me? How could a street 
 youngster get out of the place, where a good 
 many of his meals were picked off the streets and 
 out of the ash-barrels, and he never had two 
 coppers ahead? And there were thousands like 
 I was. I think about these things once in a while, 
 when I'm alone in the shop, and I've sometimes 
 thought it was well-nigh a crime to allow children 
 to be born in such hell-like places. And there 
 are some people have no right to be fathers and 
 mothers at all." 
 
 It was only rarely that George unburdened his 
 mind to such an extent; but Mr. Lamb gave him 
 "right-of-way" that night, and many perplexities 
 were expressed with a candour that gave the 
 minister a larger sympathy with the handicapped 
 
74. MASTERED MEN 
 
 man, and a resolve to deal more tenderly withi 
 men of George's type who had such terrific battles 
 to keep the body under. 
 
 At the close of the conversation the evening 
 prayer especially commended George to the 
 Father's care, and while the encouraged man was 
 walking back to his dwelling-place with thankful 
 heart, Mr. and Mrs. Lamb were kneeling to- 
 gether, and in earnest petition were placing their 
 home and all they might ever possess at the ser- 
 vice of the One in whose hands things common- 
 place may be mighty with blessing. 
 
 The missioner has been permitted to visit again 
 the Manse where George did a bit of carpenter- 
 ing. It was a great pleasure to find that George 
 was one of those invited to the evening meal. Dur- 
 ing the after-supper conversation he spoke confi- 
 dentially to the visitor of the mistress of the 
 Manse. "She's the greatest little woman in this 
 country. God knows I'd have still been on the 
 down-grade but for her ; she never let me go. She 
 told me one night how she'd told God that she 
 couldn't go to heaven and leave me outside, and 
 thank God He's taking her at her word." 
 
 The midnight chat which ministers are accus- 
 tomed to have on such occasions revealed the 
 story of George's many and sore temptations and 
 hard battles, and of how the unfailing faith and 
 patience of one in the Manse had heartened the 
 
"IF A MAN BE OVERTAKEN" 75 
 
 discouraged man, had led him into active service, 
 and had brought a new sense of responsibility 
 and possibility to many of the church members 
 who were beginning to practice Paul's injunc- 
 tion: "If a man be overtaken in a fault, ye 
 which are spiritual restore such an one in the 
 spirit of meekness, considering thyself, lest thou 
 also be tempted." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE SUPERINTENDENT'S VISIT 
 
 "Hope to visit your field Wednesday, February 
 nineteenth — arrive M Station mid- 
 night, eighteenth. Andrew Ransom." 
 
 The Western minister had been "house- 
 cleaning" his study, and in separating the valued 
 from the useless he ran across the above telegram, 
 which had been buried away for several years. 
 He handled it almost reverently and then put it 
 away in his Home Mission folder for future 
 reference. The story connected with it was told 
 one night as the missioner sat after the evening's 
 service in the quiet of the prairie manse, exchang- 
 ing reminiscences of one of the greatest and best- 
 loved men that ever crossed the prairie provinces 
 — Andrew Ransom, the great Home Missionary 
 Superintendent. 
 
 Within fifteen minutes from the time the 
 student missionary received the above message, 
 the people in McLean's general store, in Steven- 
 son's boarding-house, and in Mallagh's black- 
 smith's shop had heard the good news, and all 
 
 76 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S VISIT 77 
 
 knew that Wednesday the nineteenth would be 
 a great day for those whose homes the old Doctor 
 could visit, and for the people who could get into 
 the little church at night. 
 
 Those who had met and heard Dr. Ransom 
 before, vied with each other in recalling events 
 connected with his former visits. They remem- 
 bered his appeal for their "fair share" of money 
 to help build the little church. Everybody said 
 the amount could not be raised until Dr. Ransom 
 came, but after he had painted his word-picture 
 of their glorious heritage — after he had pleaded 
 that that heritage should never become "the wild 
 and woolly West" — after he had shown the Gos- 
 pel as the "antiseptic influence" in the life of the 
 great Westland — after he told them what they 
 got their land for and what it was worth that 
 day, and after that strong voice, with its down- 
 right sincerity, had been lifted in prayer, every- 
 body in the dining-room of the boarding-house 
 knew the amount was raised. 
 
 And then that hand-clasp, and that identifica- 
 tion of himself with the poorest settler's prob- 
 lems, and sorrows — who could forget these 
 things'? 
 
 "D'ye mind," said Dick McNabb, "the time 
 he was here just after Alex. McLaren's son was 
 killed on the railway? Well, sir, I'll never 
 forget seeing them two old men standing with 
 
78 MASTERED MEN 
 
 hands clasped. The Doctor looked as if it might 
 'a been his own boy what was killed. 'Mc- 
 Laren,' he said, Tm sorry for you. I once lost 
 a boy, and I know what it means' ; then he whis- 
 pered something, and Alex, wiped away the tears 
 as he still clung to the old Doctor's hand, and I 
 guess they stood that way for two or three min- 
 utes." 
 
 "Well, sir, you bet Grant Sinclair won't miss 
 Wednesday night," put in Dan McLean from 
 behind the counter. "D'ye mind when Dr. 
 Ransom was here, Grant couldn't walk at all! 
 Say ! will I ever forget that day in the Fall when 
 he fell off the fence on to the scythe he was 
 carrying? The gash was a foot long and there 
 was no doctor within thirty miles, and the road 
 wasn't as good as it is now, and it ain't anything 
 to write home about even yet. Bill Grayson was 
 the only one who had the grit to sew the gash up, 
 and it was fourteen hours before the doctor got 
 here. Nobody thought Grant would get over it; 
 he lost so much blood. He'd been on his back 
 about two months, I mind, when Dr. Ransom 
 came. It was one of them dirty days when it 
 don't know whether to snow or rain, but the old 
 Doctor had heard about Grant and was bound 
 to get out there. The folks said he did him more 
 good than the regular doctor did. Jim Sinclair 
 and the boys had rigged up a pair of crutches so's 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S VISIT 79 
 
 to get Grant a-moving around, but they didn't 
 make a very swell job of it. Well, sir, about 
 three weeks later the slickest pair of crutches you 
 ever set eyes on come out here with some express 
 of mine. They was addressed to Grant and 
 marked 'Rusk.' Mind you, they come from 
 Toronto, and they fitted Grant as if he'd been 
 measured for them. Jimmy said after they got 
 the crutches he remembered the old Doctor kind 
 o' spanning the quilt along Grant's side while 
 he was talking, but he never paid no particular 
 attention to it, but he says that's how he must 'a 
 got the measure." 
 
 The days between the thirteenth and the 
 nineteenth were spent by Mr. Stewart, the stu- 
 dent missionary, in covering the district, so that 
 all the scattered settlers should know of Dr. 
 Ransom's visit. On Tuesday morning he bor- 
 rowed an extra robe, and, hitching up his team 
 
 of bronchos, started on his journey to M 
 
 station. The roads were heavy, and twenty-five 
 miles was a hard journey through the unpacked 
 snow. By mid-afternoon he reached the rail- 
 way, and soon had his ponies comfortably stabled 
 in a near-by barn. 
 
 About midnight he tramped through the deep 
 snow to the dimly-lighted station. The night 
 operator reported the train as an hour late, with 
 the additional information that she would prob- 
 
80 MASTERED MEN 
 
 ably lose a little more time on the grade whicK 
 lay about ten miles away. 
 
 Shortly before two o'clock the welcome whistle 
 was heard, and in a minute or two the midnight 
 
 express slowed down for M . The tall figure 
 
 of the Superintendent was behind the brakeman, 
 on the steps of the day-coach, and there was a 
 wave of recognition before the cordial hand-clasp 
 and words of greeting could be given. "We'll 
 just wait till she pulls out," said the Superin- 
 tendent, as Mr. Stewart started to move away 
 after the exchange of greetings. "Yon operator 
 has the tongue." His duties performed at the 
 baggage car, the operator returned to the office 
 dragging a heavy trunk along the plank plat- 
 form. "Man! but that's a great muscle you 
 have," said the Doctor genially, and in less than 
 a five-minute conversation he knew the man's 
 name, Old Land home, length of time in Canada, 
 and church relationship. As he gripped the hand 
 in bidding good-night, he got in a message that 
 the operator has never forgotten. In recalling 
 the visit to the writer many months later, he said, 
 "He's a gran' man that: he'd be a wechty man 
 gin he lived in Edinburgh. He mak's you think." 
 "Well, Doctor," said Mr. Stewart as they 
 neared the place where a bed had been prepared,, 
 "you'll be glad enough to get right to rest." 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S VISIT 81 
 
 "How far are we from vour field, Mr. Stew- 
 art?' 
 
 "About twenty-five miles," was the reply. 
 "Well, then, if your team is fit, I think we'll 
 not bother about bed just now, but get out there." 
 Despite the protests that were made in the Doc- 
 tor's interests, there was a kindly insistence that 
 resulted in the bronchos being immediately har- 
 nessed for the return journey. In the month of 
 February, with deep snow and zero weather, a 
 twenty-five mile drive between three and eight 
 a.m. is by no means a pleasure trip. As the little 
 animals ploughed their way through the drifts, 
 the Superintendent every now and again raised 
 his mouth above his coat collar to express his ad- 
 miration. "A gr-reat team that — a gr-reat team." 
 The day was dawning as on Wednesday the 
 19th the student missionary and the eagerly- 
 looked-for visitor, frost-covered and shivering, 
 drove up to Mackenzie's barn. Mackenzie and 
 his wife were just getting on the fires, and were 
 not a little surprised at the early arrival of their 
 distinguished guest. Embarrassment could not, 
 however, remain long in any home where Dr. 
 Ransom entered. Everybody but the indolent 
 admired and loved him, and there seemed to be 
 no circumstance or combination of circumstances 
 but he could adapt himself to. 
 
 After breakfast Mr. Stewart was ready enough 
 
82 MASTERED MEN 
 
 to get a few hours' rest, and having conferred 
 with Mrs. Mackenzie regarding the readiness of 
 the spare room for the Superintendent, he invited 
 the latter to retire. "Did you think I came out 
 here to get a sleep, my boy? When would we 
 visit the field? No! no! thank you." Protests 
 were again futile. "I have to meet two Commit- 
 tees on Saturday, in Winnipeg, and you must get 
 
 me back to M Station in time for the 1 1 130 
 
 to-morrow morning. What about a horse? Can 
 we get right away?" 
 
 "Ain't the old Doctor a horse to work," said 
 Mackenzie to Stewart while hitching up his best 
 driver. 
 
 Hurried but helpful and purposeful calls were 
 made until it was time to return for the evening 
 service. The visit that stands out most clearly 
 in the Missionary's memory was one made at the 
 noon-hour. Alex. McDonald's place was the one 
 spot in the whole district where no man who 
 had any respect for his stomach would ever dream 
 of dining. Few, indeed, cared even to enter the 
 dirty little shack. And so it was not to be won- 
 dered at that the missionary was planning to 
 pass McDonald's on the up trip, and to reach one 
 of those bright, clean centres of hospitality that 
 are usually to be found in even the most isolated 
 district. But "the best laid plans of mice and 
 men gang aft agley." 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S VISIT 83 
 
 "Who lives in the shack on the hillside*?" 
 asked the Superintendent. 
 
 "A family named McDonald," was the reply, 
 "but they never enter a church — they live like 
 pigs, and I think we had better leave calling there 
 until we see how our time holds out." 
 
 "We'll go there for dinner," was the almost 
 brusque response of the Superintendent. Stewart 
 laughed incredulously. 
 
 "I don't think you could swallow a homoeo- 
 pathic pill in that shack, Doctor." 
 
 "We'll go there for dinner, Mr. Stewart. It'll 
 do them good." 
 
 "No finer missionary stands in shoe-leather 
 than Caven Stewart" was a testimony that all 
 who knew him heartily agreed with, but Stewart 
 had an absolute horror of dirt, and it was 
 with feelings of distressful anticipation that he 
 dragged open McDonald's rickety apology for a 
 gate, and drove across the rough swamp to the 
 dilapidated shack on the hillside. 
 
 The barking of the dog brought faces to the 
 little four-paned window. "Drive slowly ! Give 
 them time, give them time," said the Superin- 
 tendent, as the faces quickly disappeared. A few 
 fowls fluttered from within the shack, and a 
 family pet in the shape of a pig grunted disap- 
 proval at being forced to take an outside berth. 
 For fully three minutes there was such a house- 
 
84 MASTERED MEN 
 
 cleaning as the old shack had not known for 
 many a month. 
 
 Alex. McDonald, pulling a dirty corduroy 
 coat around him, sauntered over to where the 
 visitors were getting out of the cutter. He 
 "guessed" that the Superintendent and the stu- 
 dent could find accommodation for their horse, 
 and a bite for themselves during the noon hour. 
 "We ha'ena got much of a place," he said, as the 
 Superintendent lowered his head to enter the 
 miserable shack. 
 
 Each member of the family received a cheery 
 greeting from the magnetic superintendent, who 
 never seemed at a loss to say the fitting word. 
 Mrs. McDonald was profuse in explanations and 
 apologies. "We wesna expectin' onybody, and 
 these dark mornings it seems to be noon afore 
 you can get turned round." The visitors entered 
 sympathetically into the various reasons why 
 things "wesna just straight." 
 
 To this day Caven Stewart remembers the 
 deepened convictions that came to him of the 
 Superintendent's possibilities, as he watched him 
 enjoy his dinner. By various excuses Stewart 
 had reduced his own portion to the minimum 
 when the pork and potatoes were dished up, and 
 even then more food went to his pocket than to 
 his mouth. But not so with the Superintendent. 
 Not only did he have a liberal first supply, but 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S VISIT 85 
 
 actually passed back his plate for more, meantime 
 complimenting McDonald on the gr-reat potatoes 
 he grew and the fine pork he raised, and inci- 
 dentally remarking that the best potatoes and 
 the finest pork were easily spoiled in the hands 
 of an incompetent cook. When he told Mrs. 
 McDonald that the dinner was just as he liked 
 it — well-cooked and plain — his place in her 
 highest esteem was fixed. That he was a man 
 of excellent judgment she had no doubt. 
 
 McDonald's Old Land home was well-known 
 to the Superintendent, and as scenes familiar to 
 both were recalled, geniality prevailed. 
 
 At the close of the meal the Doctor asked for 
 "The Book." Anxious looks were exchanged by 
 the occupants of the shack, and ere long three 
 members of the family were uniting in the search. 
 When at last, to the great relief of the searchers, 
 a dusty but unworn Bible was produced, the 
 Superintendent held it reverently in his out- 
 stretched hand. Looking squarely at the head 
 of the home, he said with a yearning that no 
 man could miss, "Eh, mon, but I'm sorry — sorry 
 it's not worn more. It's the best piece of furni- 
 ture you have in the house. If any man ought 
 to have a well-worn Bible it's a Highland Scots- 
 man." A few verses were impressively read, and 
 then for the first time in its history the miserable 
 
86 MASTERED MEN 
 
 shack contained a group kneeling in the attitude 
 of prayer. 
 
 There were no meaningless pleasantries when 
 the little company arose. It seemed as though 
 the place was hallowed ground. A man and his 
 Maker had been in communion. The invitation 
 to "cast thy burden upon the Lord" had been 
 heeded, and with an exquisite tenderness the 
 anxieties, the problems, the hopes and the fears 
 of the little home were brought to the Great 
 Burden Bearer. 
 
 The parting was little short of affectionate. 
 The last hand-clasp was McDonald's. "Mc- 
 Donald, I can scarcely believe you've never dark- 
 ened the kirk door, and you an Aberfeldy man. 
 I want you to give me your word for it that next 
 Sabbath morning you and the good wife and the 
 bairns will make a new start and be found wor- 
 shipping God. Six months from now I expect 
 to hear from Mr. Stewart that you've been regu- 
 lar in attendance at the house of God. McDon- 
 ald ! give me your word that you'll not disappoint 
 me — nor Him!" 
 
 No words came from McDonald's lips, but 
 there were moistened eyes and a lingering hand- 
 clasp that made the Superintendent's heart glad. 
 
 When, nine months later, Stewart was leaving 
 the field for college, and was reporting conditions 
 to the Superintendent, he wrote as follows: 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S VISIT 87 
 
 "You will remember the visit I did not want to 
 make at the McDonalds. May God forgive me 
 for my lack of interest and of faith ! Since last 
 February McDonald, with some of his children, 
 has never missed a service. At the Communion 
 in June, Rev. Mr. Rowatt came over from the 
 Fort and welcomed seven new members, John 
 McDonald, his wife, and their son Bruce being 
 among the number. The Bible you helped them 
 to resurrect has been much 'thumbed' since then. 
 I am thankful I stayed the year on this field. To 
 have seen the change that has taken place in the 
 shack on the hillside has done more for me than 
 the whole year's course in Apologetics." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE COOKEE 
 
 It had been a bitterly cold drive across what 
 was known as "The Plains," and the student 
 missionary was thankful when his pony reached 
 the shelter of the jack-pines. After a few miles 
 of bush a small "clearance" was reached. The 
 low-roofed shack standing at the back of it never 
 looked more inviting than to-day; but though 
 twenty-five miles from the "highway of com- 
 merce," there were homes still more remote that 
 had been expecting a visit from the little preacher 
 for some time, and so, despite his pony's protest 
 against driving by even poor shelter in weather 
 like this, he had regretfully to tell her she might 
 not turn in that road to-day. As was the mis- 
 sionary's custom in passing any dwellings, he 
 waved his greeting in the direction of the humble 
 shack. Before he had gone many yards the good- 
 natured pioneer farmer was outside shouting his 
 "halloos," and, on being heard, signalled for the 
 preacher to stop. Making his way through the 
 snow, he said, "Ain't you going to give us a call 
 to-day"? Better come in and get thawed out; 
 
 soon be grubbing time." 
 
 88 
 
THE COOKEE 89 
 
 "Not to-day, Mac, thanks," was the reply. 
 "I've been to your place pretty often, and I 
 thought I ought to make the end of this road 
 to-day." 
 
 "Well, if you won't come in, I'll tell you what 
 I was a-wanting to ask you. There's a fellow I'd 
 like you to see awful well. Say! do you call 
 on anybody else except Protestants'? You do, 
 eh? Well, I wish you'd see Jimmy Hayson. 
 He's in a bad fix. They shipped him home from 
 the camp. He was cookee there, and I guess he 
 couldn't stand that kind of life. His stummick's 
 gone on a holiday. Anyway, he's most all in. It 
 ain't much of a trail to follow, but after you pass 
 Marston's you'll see a wood road, and then, if you 
 keep your eyes skinned, on the north side you'll 
 see, about forty rod along, a foot track — Jimmy 
 ain't got any team — just follow the track, and 
 you'll stumble into his shack." 
 
 The second stop that afternoon was at Hay- 
 son's. It was a poor place for a sick man to be 
 in. The entire furnishings of the home would 
 not have been a bargain at five dollars. The 
 wife was most grateful for the visit, and before 
 the missionary had spoken to the invalid, she 
 said, "You are the only preacher ever in our 
 house; and will you make a bit of a prayer for 
 Jimmy?" A few flour sacks had been made into 
 a curtain, and the faithful wife pulled them aside 
 
90 MASTERED MEN 
 
 and gazed lovingly at the sick man, and then 
 questioningly at the missionary. The missionary 
 felt that not many prayers would have to be made 
 for Jimmy, and perhaps there was an increased 
 tenderness in his voice as it was lifted to the 
 Friend of the weary and heavy-laden. The five 
 children were not very clear as to what was going 
 on, and during the devotions the dog kept up a 
 low growl of distrust at the whole procedure, but 
 the wasted form of poor Jimmy, and the subdued 
 sobs of the wife, overshadowed minor disturb- 
 ances. 
 
 It was the first of almost a dozen calls during 
 the next two months. A round trip of thirty-two 
 miles once a week meant something over unbeaten 
 tracks; but Jimmy was in need, and there was 
 only One Helper: other helpers had failed, and 
 Jimmy was pathetically eager for something he 
 had not hitherto received. 
 
 On the occasion of the fourth visit, the wife 
 called the visitor as far away from the sick bed 
 as the dimensions of the little shack permitted. 
 "Would you" — the voice was agitated — "would 
 
 you . Oh ! please, you won't mind me asking, 
 
 but would you stay for dinner; we've never had 
 a minister to take a bite in our house, and Jim- 
 my'd be so pleased?" 
 
 The invitation was most gladly accepted. 
 What a time ensued ! How the poor soul exerted 
 
THE COOKEE 91 
 
 herself to prepare that meal! It was over an 
 hour before the "bite" was ready, and in that 
 hour one child had gone over two miles. The 
 preacher saw her fluttering rags as she ran across 
 the snow. He saw her come back with a little 
 newspaper package. It contained a knife and 
 fork — two miles, that the preacher might have 
 a knife and fork ! The meal was not appetizing, 
 but after the trouble it had cost, no man with a 
 heart could leave a morsel which it was possible 
 to dispose of. 
 
 Day by day Jimmy weakened, and it was 
 evident that he needed attention and quiet, such 
 as was not possible in the one-roomed shack. 
 Could he gain entrance to the distant hospital, 
 and was it possible to provide anything like a 
 satisfactory conveyance in which the sick man 
 could safely make the journey from that pioneer 
 district*? These possibilities especially occupied 
 the mind of the missionary on a subsequent visit. 
 
 He talked to the now worn-out wife about the 
 matter. Prejudices against hospitals were very 
 real in that remote district, and it was some time 
 before she could be convinced that such a course 
 would be in the interest of the family. The few 
 neighbours did much coming and going for the 
 next two days, and such blankets and wrappings 
 as the community afforded were provided for the 
 cold journey. Bricks and hardwood sticks were 
 
m MASTERED MEN 
 
 to be heated and placed around Jimmy to keep 
 him as warm as possible. Henry Wallis was to 
 make the trip the day before to arrange for the re- 
 plenishing of these, and for some nourishment 
 for the sick man, at three selected stopping- 
 places. 
 
 It was late in the evening when the sleigh 
 pulled up in front of the hospital. The sufferer 
 had stood the journey better than was expected. 
 The "Sisters" soon had Jimmy in the most com- 
 fortable bed that he had occupied for years. 
 
 Two days later the missionary called at the 
 hospital as early in the morning as he was per- 
 mitted to. Jimmy knew his end was not far 
 distant. He could speak but little, and in order 
 to hear the feeble whisper it was necessary to put 
 an ear close to the patient's lips. Very slowly 
 the words came: "Say — about — Shepherd." 
 Once more the Shepherd Psalm was repeated 
 with its message for those whose lives are over- 
 shadowed. Jimmy's eyes spoke his thanks, and 
 tenderly the student wiped the tears off the 
 sunken cheeks. Something else was wanted. 
 Again the whisper was with difficulty under- 
 stood: "Tell — about — rest." It was the words 
 that only the publican Matthew has recorded 
 that Jimmy wanted to hear. 
 
 Slowly they were repeated: "Come unto Me, 
 all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I 
 
THE COOKEE 93 
 
 will give you rest." Once again the parched lips 
 moved : "If — I — could — see children — that's 
 all." The eyes were so irresistibly pleading that 
 the student could only reply, "I'll try, Jimmy." 
 
 A few words were spoken to the nurse. How 
 long would Jimmy be here*? She thought he 
 might go that night. Certainly within three days 
 the end would come. It was no small undertak- 
 ing to bring a family such as the Haysons' into 
 town. Clothing had to be procured in order that 
 the little ones might be protected on the longest 
 journey any of them had ever taken. Their own 
 scanty attire would afford little protection from 
 the cold wind. And so hurried visits were made 
 to a few homes, and to the stores of one or two 
 merchants. The case was briefly stated, and a 
 dozen hearts instantly kindled into kindness for 
 the needy ones in the lonely home. A wardrobe, 
 such as the Hayson family had never dreamed 
 of, was soon stowed away on the missionary's 
 "jumper." 
 
 Inside of two hours the long, cold drive was 
 commenced. At each shanty and shack word was 
 given as to the sick man's condition, and what 
 the present journey was for. Within five miles 
 of the lonely home, which would soon be the 
 abode of the fatherless and widow, the mission- 
 ary stopped for the night. In the dimly-lighted 
 shack of Sandy MacGregor Jimmy's last request 
 
94 MASTERED MEN 
 
 was made known. MacGregor rose from a nail- 
 keg on which he was sitting, and said slowly and 
 emphatically, "Well, if Jimmy wants to see the 
 children, he's a-going to see 'em." 
 
 The student grasped the roughened hand of 
 the speaker gratefully. "I knew I could count 
 on you, Mac. Thanks. I'm tired, so I'll say 
 good-night. I can sleep now that that's settled." 
 
 Before the missionary appeared the next morn- 
 ing, Mac had everything ready for driving 
 Jimmy's family into the town where the husband 
 and father was rapidly nearing his end. 
 
 The horses were driven as hard as was con- 
 sistent with mercy. Jimmy was still alive, the 
 Sister told them as they stood in the hall. In a 
 moment they were beside the bed. It was one 
 of those scenes that live in the memory. The 
 sobbing wife, kissing again and again the poor, 
 wan face. The little ones weeping, perhaps more 
 in sympathy with the mother than on account of 
 their own realization of the coming sorrow. 
 Quietly the large screen was placed around the 
 group at the bedside, and for a few moments the 
 family was left alone. The journey had been 
 accomplished just in time. In less than an hour 
 Jimmy was gone. His last request was for the 
 passages of Scripture mentioned above. "Yes, 
 that's it," he whispered, "rest — rest." The wast- 
 ed arm was raised a little as if he would put it 
 
THE COOKEE 95 
 
 around the missionary's shoulder, but the poor 
 Cookee's strength had departed. They saw he 
 would say something more, and ears were alert 
 
 to catch his every word. "I — think " Then 
 
 there was a long pause, and the sunken eyes 
 turned from face to face as though seeking to 
 tell them what the tongue refused to utter. They 
 waited with tear-bedimmed gaze, but no other 
 word was uttered. Ere long there was a rattling 
 in the throat, and the death-pallor increased; a 
 few short and long-separated gasps and the 
 Cookee had finished his course. They laid him 
 away in the quiet little cemetery during an al- 
 most blinding snowstorm. 
 
 With less than five dollars in cash, and a rough 
 bit of land heavily mortgaged, the mother went 
 back to the lonely shack to toil through weary 
 days to provide for her five little children. With 
 occasional help from other settlers, the struggle 
 for existence was made a little less severe. 
 
 Ten years have passed away. The poverty- 
 stricken pioneers of earlier days have cleared 
 large sections of land, and the earth has brought 
 forth her fruit. Prosperity abounds. Where 
 Jimmy Hayson's shack stood is an attractive 
 modern farm-house. A mother looks proudly at 
 her farmer son as she introduces him to a city 
 pastor who is visiting the mission field of his 
 
96 MASTERED MEN 
 
 student ministry. A few hours later, in the quiet 
 of eventide, she stands with the visitor exchang- 
 ing incidents of bygone days. 
 
 "It's been a pretty hard road to travel, sir, 
 but the neighbours were just as good as they 
 could be after Jimmy went. But I often say to 
 my boy Allan that there is only One who can 
 help us in such times as I passed through then." 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE REGENERATION OF BILE SANDERS 
 
 A severe snow-storm had raged for over twelve 
 hours, and the home missionary was twenty miles 
 away from headquarters. His little Indian pony 
 was "all grit," as one of the settlers said, but with 
 darkness only two hours away, the preacher be- 
 gan to reconsider his decision to make The Valley 
 and home that night. Not a few days "Queenie" 
 and her driver had travelled fifty miles, but to- 
 day the drifting snow almost blinded man and 
 beast, and with eleven miles of unbeaten path 
 on the storm-swept plain immediately before 
 him, the missionary hesitated. At best it would 
 be dark before he reached the bush, and he had 
 not forgotten a former experience, when anxious 
 hours were spent in a similar storm seeking to 
 find the rarely-travelled road that led from the 
 plain through the bush to The Valley. 
 
 One reason out of several that made him anx- 
 ious to get home was the fact that Widow Nairn's 
 wood-pile needed replenishing. She was a poor 
 friendless old woman, who had remained on a 
 plot of ground to which she had only "squatter's 
 
 07 
 
98 MASTERED MEN 
 
 rights," and while the few scattered neighbours 
 were kindness itself, the widow was, as Grayson 
 said, so "blamed peculiar" that it was "hard to 
 know how to do anything for her without making 
 her mad." Perhaps she could get along for one 
 more day, and the missionary resolved to drive 
 directly to her shack the next morning. 
 
 The decision being made, he spoke cheerily to 
 his pony, and after a little manoeuvring, the cut- 
 ter was turned around and Queenie was headed 
 towards the spot where two solitary pines rose 
 like sentinels from the underbush. The road 
 to Pearson's was not far beyond these landmarks, 
 and the home was one of the few he knew in this 
 rarely-visited district. 
 
 An hour later he peered anxiously through the 
 storm. The snow melting around his eyes made 
 seeing difficult, and he began to fear he had taken 
 a wood-path instead of the one intended. Pull- 
 ing up his pony, he listened for the j ingle of bells, 
 the bark of a dog, the call of a settler, or anything 
 that might help him to locate some abode, but no 
 sound except that made by the winter wind 
 reached him. Tying his pony to a poplar, he 
 plunged ahead in an endeavour to find out some- 
 thing about the road he was on. In a few min- 
 utes he saw that the trees closed together again, 
 and knew that the pony had taken the wrong 
 track. 
 
REGENERATION OF BILL SANDERS 99 
 
 Once more the cutter was turned around with 
 considerable difficulty. It was a hard return 
 journey; every sign of their own recently-made 
 track was gone, and the snow was still falling. 
 
 No more welcome sound had been heard by 
 any ears that day than when distinct, though 
 somewhat distant, the tired traveller heard the 
 bark of a dog. Stopping his pony, he engaged in 
 a barking contest, until he was sure of the direc- 
 tion from which the sound came. "We are all 
 right now, thank God," he said aloud. 
 
 Through the trees a light flickered a few min- 
 utes later, and soon a pioneer's home came into 
 view. The little clearance with its low-roofed 
 log-house was not one the missionary had seen 
 before, but where there was a house there was 
 hospitality on a night like this. 
 
 Bill Sanders was soon assisting the traveller 
 to unhitch, and with the aid of a "bug" * Oueenie 
 was crowded into the roughly constructed stable. 
 There were times when it would have been both 
 difficult and dangerous to have put her into such 
 quarters, but that night she seemed to under- 
 stand, and behaved herself accordingly. 
 
 The occupants of the little home consisted of 
 fatjier, mother, two boys and two girls. When 
 the missionary introduced himself there was 
 
 * A tin lard pail fixed to hold a candle and to serve 
 as a lantern. 
 
100 MASTERED MEN 
 
 manifest embarrassment on the part of the wife, 
 and the children gazed in wonderment from "the 
 room" door; they were unwilling to run any risks 
 through getting too close to this human novelty 
 until they saw how he acted. "You see, sir, we 
 don't have many people here, and they aren't 
 used to strangers: I guess you are the first min- 
 ister that's been in this house" ; and then, as the 
 husband went to bring in a fresh supply of fire- 
 wood, she added half apologetically, "but I was 
 praying all week that God might send somebody 
 in here that loved Him. When I used to work 
 for Home Missions in Ontario, I never thought 
 how much I'd long for the visit of a missionary 
 myself some day; it's very lonesome sometimes." 
 
 Before the missionary retired to his allotted 
 space on the floor, he asked permission to read 
 a few verses of Scripture. There was no response 
 from the father: the mother said, "Yes, please." 
 
 The Scripture and prayer were for the encour- 
 agement of the heavy laden, and tears were wiped 
 away from the mother's eyes as the little group 
 arose from kneeling. 
 
 When prayers were mentioned after breakfast 
 the next morning, Bill Sanders deliberately left 
 the shack. "Two doses of religion within twelve 
 hours" were too many for him, as he often said 
 in after years when recalling the missionary's 
 visit. "We've a lot to be thankful for," said the 
 
REGENERATION OF BILL SANDERS 101 
 
 much-tried wife, as the visitor spoke a few words 
 of encouragement. The missionary glanced at 
 the mud floor, at the roughly-hewn table, at the 
 round blocks used for chairs, at the newspaper 
 curtains, at the flour-sacks that partitioned off 
 the bed-room, at the miscellaneous and damaged 
 collection of dishes and tins that rested on the 
 coverless table, and wondered wherein the "lot 
 to be thankful for" lay. "We don't get along 
 
 well with the farm; somehow Bill don't ." 
 
 The words were checked, and nothing suggestive 
 of complaint at the husband was uttered. "The 
 children are well," she continued, "and they are 
 obedient," and then, with a fine reticence that 
 cannot be written, she added slowly, "I am try- 
 ing to teach them about God; and I often tell 
 them that if the shack isn't a credit to us, we 
 must try to be a credit to it. You see, sir, I'm 
 not strong, and with the little ones to look after, 
 I can't work outside as much as a settler's wife 
 ought; but anyhow, I'd rather leave my children 
 a good character than anything else. Yes, God 
 knows I would." 
 
 Late in the morning the storm was over, and 
 with a promise on the part of the missionary to 
 return again as soon as possible, and on the part 
 of the children to come to a Sunday School being 
 started in the four-mile-distant schoolhouse, 
 good-byes were said. 
 
102 MASTERED MEN 
 
 Many weeks passed before the missionary 
 could visit again the lonely little home. This 
 time the mother, pale and trembling, was 
 struggling from the stable with a pail of milk. 
 Inside the house lay a four-days' -old baby boy. 
 The missionary's heart was heavy. Since his 
 last visit he had heard of the faithfulness and 
 goodness of the wife and mother, and of the bru- 
 tality of the husband and father, but he found 
 it hard to believe that any man would compel 
 his wife to do what this poor creature had been 
 made to do in such a physical condition. 
 
 At first there was fight in the missionary's 
 heart, but when the lazy, cruel husband returned 
 from his rabbit-snaring, the fighting spirit had 
 been replaced by a great yearning for this man's 
 salvation. To angrily rebuke Bill might only 
 add to the wife's burden, while "the soul of all 
 improvement is the improvement of the soul." 
 Bill's need was of a changed heart, 
 
 A prayer for guidance was breathed forth as 
 he walked to meet one who, a few years ago, 
 had promised to protect and love the wife whose 
 spirit was crushed and whose heart was well- 
 nigh broken by neglect and abuse. 
 
 The two men stood talking for some time on 
 the evening of that now memorable day. Often 
 the pale face of an anxious, prayerful wife looked 
 out through the tiny window. Perhaps the 
 
REGENERATION OF BILL SANDERS 103 
 
 prayer within was mightier than the simple mes- 
 sage spoken without, but at any rate new desires 
 and purposes were awakened in Bill's heart that 
 night. There was no sudden "light of glory," or 
 ecstatic condition, but during the next few weeks 
 it was evident that this man was being changed. 
 When the missionary suggested getting his pony 
 hitched, Bill urged him to remain overnight. At 
 retiring time, it was the father who handed a 
 much-soiled Bible to the preacher. Strange that 
 so simple an act as that should cause the wife 
 to weep, but at that hour she saw the dawning 
 of a new day. 
 
 Three weeks later the scattered settlers "visit- 
 ing" outside the schoolhouse on Sunday after- 
 noon were amazed to see Bill Sanders bringing 
 his wife to church on the "jumper." 
 
 The singing in the little service was usually 
 more hearty than harmonious. For two or three 
 years it had been an unsettled and vexed ques- 
 tion as to whether Sam Gadsley or Martha Mc- 
 Leod was the finer singer. One faction deemed 
 the matter settled beyond all controversy when 
 a late arrival at the service confided to a few 
 friends at the close that he "could hear Sam, 
 £ood, clear across the concession," while he 
 "couldn't have told whether Martha was there 
 at all, at all." Martha's friends felt keenly the 
 
104 MASTERED MEN 
 
 consequent verdict of the community, deposing 
 their champion. 
 
 To-day the missionary broke all his own pre- 
 vious records in the singing of "Praise God from 
 Whom all blessings flow." 
 
 People said "it was a great sermon that the 
 little parson preached" that day. Although the 
 congregation may not have known it, the preacher 
 almost broke down in prayer, his heart was so 
 filled with gratitude. When he shook hands with 
 Bill, there was a grip that thrilled newcomer 
 and preacher alike. To the wife he managed to 
 say, "I'm so glad," and the now happy woman 
 looked as though the opening doxology had be- 
 come a large part of her very self. 
 
 The visit of the Home Mission Superintend- 
 ent is always a great day in these isolated places, 
 and when on his next visit he welcomed the new 
 members into full communion, and took father, 
 mother, and two children from the little log- 
 house, not a few felt it was the greatest day the 
 schoolhouse had seen. 
 
 During the subsequent days of the missionary's 
 
 term of service, whenever there was work to be 
 
 done, Bill Sanders could be counted on. 
 ***** 
 
 After a lapse of ten years, the missionary stood 
 once more in The Valley. As is true of most 
 
REGENERATION OF BILL SANDERS 105 
 
 Western communities, everything was changed. 
 A little city had arisen — the old schoolhouse was 
 no more, and the once well-known places could 
 no longer be located. But there stands a beau- 
 tiful little church not far from where the old 
 schoolhouse once stood, and one of the honoured 
 elders bears the name of William Sanders. Two 
 of his daughters teach in the Sabbath School, and 
 of the five children, a well-known business man 
 said, "Why, you'd just be proud of every one 
 of them, if they were your own." 
 
 In the churchyard a marble slab bears the 
 name, "Mary Perry Sanders," and near the base, 
 "She hath done what she could." As was her 
 desire in the days of struggle and isolation, the 
 patient, faithful mother had left the precious 
 legacy of a good character to her children. 
 
 Thus had the seed sown brought forth its fruit 
 after many days. Among hallowed memories, 
 few are so precious to the missionary as that of the 
 day when his now old friend "Queenie" took the 
 wrong road. And whenever on lonely prairie, 
 in quiet hamlet, or noisy city, he hears a con- 
 gregation sing Cowper's hymn, "God moves in a 
 mysterious way, His wonders to perform," he 
 thinks of that distant, stormy winter day when 
 a barking dog led him to a home that is now 
 transformed, and to a darkened life that was in 
 God's goodness guided into that light "that 
 shineth more and more unto the perfect day." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE SNAKE-ROOM 
 
 The hotels in the town on the "boundary" * 
 were crowded. For several days the men had 
 been returning from the bush after the winter's 
 cut, until over a thousand "lumber-jacks" from 
 the various camps in the immediate vicinity had 
 taken possession of the place. For most of these 
 men the bar-room was the only social centre, and 
 the arrival of each gang meant the recognition 
 of old friends and the celebration thereof in a 
 call for "drinks all round." 
 
 In a hallway adjoining a popular barroom 
 the missioner stood sadly watching the proces- 
 sion of hard toilers losing at the one time their 
 winter's earnings and the control of their facul- 
 ties. It seemed useless to plead with the men 
 either collectively or individually. 
 
 "It's the only way we've got to let off steam, 
 boss — it's a fool way, you bet, but here goes." 
 The speaker was a man of not over thirty years 
 of age. With unsteady step he entered the bar- 
 room again, and pushed his way to the double 
 
 * Boundary line between U. S. and Canada. 
 
 106 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 107 
 
 line that kept the bar-tenders perspiring as they 
 sought to respond to the sometimes cursing de- 
 mands for more rapid service. 
 
 Along the hallway were men in various stages 
 of intoxication, and the missioner knew from past 
 experiences that some of the men were only at 
 the beginning of a debauch that would last for 
 several days, perhaps weeks. Much had been 
 done by the lumber companies to improve the 
 conditions in camp and to brighten and turn to 
 good account the long winter evenings. Then, 
 in order to protect the earnings of the men at 
 paytime, arrangements were made to furnish im- 
 mediate facilities for banking or for remitting 
 home; yet everything proved ineffective in the 
 case of some. The open bar with its foolish and 
 dangerous treating system had led to what had 
 become known around town as "the lumber- 
 jacks' annual spring spree." 
 
 The cashier of one of the companies sauntered 
 through the crowd, and the missioner entered into 
 conversation with him, questioning him about the 
 men thronging the bar-room. "Yes, Reverend, 
 I know most of the boys; I make out paychecks 
 for over two hundred of them, and in my time 
 I've run across thousands, and most of them are 
 splendid fellows if you can only keep the booze 
 away from them. They look pretty well dam- 
 aged just now, eh? And they'll be worse yet. 
 
108 MASTERED MEN 
 
 When they get started you can't stop them till 
 they're at the end of their tether. See that fellow 
 lighting his cigar in Ern. Dean's pipe*? Wait 
 till he turns round a bit — there! now! his ear's 
 half gone, see*? He's some fighter, believe me! 
 A year ago last month somebody got a few bot- 
 tles of whiskey into the camp on the q.t. We 
 try to keep it out, but you might as well try to 
 keep out mosquitoes in June. Well, sir, that 
 night Bill got into a fight with a chap called 
 Frenchy, and in about ten minutes Frenchy 
 needed an identification label on him. Bill was 
 clean plumb crazy, and as Frenchy had been 
 looking for a scrap for weeks the boys let them 
 have their innings for a while. Just before the 
 boys pried them apart, the two of them took a 
 deuce of a tumble to the bunkhouse floor, and 
 somehow Frenchy got his teeth on Bill's ear. We 
 couldn't patch the thing together, so Bill had 
 to foot it nearly thirty miles to the nearest town, 
 and you see what the crossbones had to do to 
 trim off his receiving apparatus'? Bill gets 
 ninety dollars a month — I handed him a check 
 for four hundred and fifty last Saturday, and 
 it would be safe to bet the whiskies he hasn't 
 fifty dollars left right this minute. He doesn't 
 know what he's done with it — quite likely a pile 
 of it has been swiped when he was dead to the 
 world. Between ourselves, Reverend, there's lots 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 109 
 
 of dope served out right here, and when the boys 
 come to, a good part of their boodle is gone. 
 Just the other day Dick Booth was yelling blue 
 murder around here, and Bertois came from the 
 office and hooked his arm into Dick's and said, 
 'Come on, Dick, and have one on me.' In less 
 than five minutes there wasn't so much as a chirp 
 from Dick, and he looked like the dickens for a 
 few seconds, and then he slid down the wall to 
 the floor, and Bertois and Sam carried him into 
 the snake-room. You bet Bertois fixed Dick's 
 drink alright. The trouble comes between seasons 
 when the boys are off a few weeks. They come 
 into town to kill time, but it works the other 
 way round." 
 
 Two days later the missioner was sitting writ- 
 ing at the hotel table when Bill, blear-eyed, un- 
 shaven and dirty, came staggering toward him. 
 The voice was almost terrifying in its intensity 
 of appeal, "For God's sake give me something 
 to eat; I've had nothing but that stuff (pointing 
 toward the barroom) for three days." 
 
 Before anything more could be said Bertois, 
 the proprietor, hurried from behind his desk, and 
 grabbing Bill by the shoulder, uttered an oath, 
 and dragged him to a door at the end of the hall. 
 Unfastening the door with his latch-key he gave 
 Bill a vigorous shove, and the intoxicated man, 
 stumbling over some object, fell heavily to the 
 
110 MASTERED MEN 
 
 floor. Banging the door, Bertois turned to the 
 basement stairway just around the corner, and 
 in a sharp voice called "Sam." Sam immedi- 
 ately responded to the call. 
 
 "How in the did Bill Bird get out of 
 
 there." 
 
 "Didn't know 'e was out, sir," was the reply. 
 
 "Did you give anybody your key 6 ?" 
 
 "Hi did not, sir." 
 
 "Well, then, you must have left the door un- 
 locked; mind you don't let any more of them 
 d fools out." 
 
 As calmly as was possible the missioner pro- 
 tested against the treatment Bill received. 
 
 "What would you do with them*? Would you 
 want them around the house"?" was the gruff 
 reply. "Give them a bed 4 ? Not much! We 
 don't keep beds for that brand. The only thing 
 you can do is to kick 'em into the snake-room. 
 You don't know anything about Bill's kind. He's 
 seeing life; them fellows have been counting on 
 this blow-out for months." 
 
 An hour or so later the missioner found Sam 
 alone in the basement. The old man was worthy 
 of a better job than the doing of the dirtiest and 
 most objectionable work around a lumber-town 
 hotel, but times had gone hard with him of late 
 years, and his few relatives were on the other 
 side of the Atlantic. 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 111 
 
 "No, sir, hit ain't the kind of place hi expected 
 to be in at my hage, but beggars mustn't be 
 choosers, you know, sir, and after hi cut me foot 
 half off with a hax I ad to take wot I could get, 
 especially as me rheumatiz bothered me a lot. 
 Wot's the snake-room like, did you say? Hit 
 just depends oo's hin it. Hit's chuck full these 
 days, I'm sorry to say, and it hain't a sight yer 
 reverence would like to see. You want a peep 
 hin, eh? Well, hi don't know as how you'd be 
 allowed; the boss is rather perticlar about who 
 sees 'is customers hin the snake-room. It hain't 
 a very good hadvertisement, hin my opinion." 
 
 Nevertheless Sam agreed, if the territory was 
 clear, to show the missioner the snake-room. By 
 way of apology, the old man explained that he 
 had often told his boss that it was a shame to 
 put men into such a place without any kind of 
 bed, with no food, and frequently, in decidedly 
 cold weather, without any heat. 
 
 When the opportunity afforded itself, Sam 
 and the missioner went quietly upstairs and, un- 
 seen, entered the snake-room. Accustomed as he 
 had been to see the effects of alcohol and evil- 
 living, the scene before the visitor was a fresh 
 and terrible revelation of their destructive power. 
 
 The room was probably fifteen feet square. Its 
 furnishings consisted of one table and two framed 
 pictures — the latter being advertisements of 
 
118 MASTERED MEN 
 
 "popular brands of whiskies," which were said 
 to have "stood the test for nearly one hundred 
 years." Some results of the test were upon the 
 floor. 
 
 In order to get inside, Sam had pushed hard 
 against the door, crowding back the feet of the 
 man nearest. There was scarcely more floor 
 space than the two men needed to stand on. 
 Curses, snores and groans came from the filthy, 
 stench-laden mass of men that covered the floor. 
 Several boards in the wainscotting were spat- 
 tered with human blood. One man with a re- 
 cently made gash across his forehead was lying 
 on his side, and with eyes closed, kept striking 
 out with his fist, sometimes hitting the leg of an 
 old man who seemed absolutely paralysed with 
 liquor, and sometimes hitting the partition. 
 Every blow was accompanied by profanity. 
 
 Partly under the table lay two camp cooks. 
 One of them, Heinrich Lietzmann, was a most 
 generous individual, and a great favourite with 
 his fellow-workers. Because of his appearance 
 he was dubbed "Roly-Poly" Lietzmann. His 
 broken English was very attractive, and nothing 
 pleased the younger men better than to "get him 
 going" on international politics. Judging from 
 his terribly bruised face, he had either fallen 
 heavily or been in a fight. Poor Heinrich made 
 several attempts to raise himself to a sitting 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 113 
 
 posture, each time falling back with a disturb- 
 ing effect on the men nearest him, and receiving 
 therefore their muttered curses, which he re- 
 turned in full measure. 
 
 Along the table, on his back, lay Chris. 
 Rogers. Nobody knew the history of Chris, al- 
 though, because of a remarkable gift of speech 
 which he manifested when excited by liquor, the 
 report that he had once been a "shyster lawyer" 
 in a Western State was generally believed. He 
 was far above the average lumber-jack in knowl- 
 edge, but far below in vice. After the discovery 
 of an unusually mean trick, Bill Bird had, in the 
 opinion of the camp, fittingly described Chris, 
 when he said, "That dirty rascal is so near mon- 
 grel dog, that if he had a bit more hair on him 
 he'd start running rabbits." Just why Chris, had 
 been given charge of the camp stores was a mys- 
 tery, but for nearly two years he had held the 
 position. He was a slender, wiry man with a 
 singularly repulsive face. His teeth were gone, 
 and his long pointed moustache drooped along- 
 side of the hard mouth that was continually 
 stained with tobacco juice. His coat and vest 
 were plastered with grease from careless eating 
 and his whole appearance suggested a dirty 
 demon-possessed man. 
 
 Bill Bird, the fighter, had managed to get into 
 a comer, and was sitting with arms on knees and 
 
114* MASTERED MEN 
 
 drooping head — a picture of wretchedness. 
 Once he managed to look up, and for a moment 
 gazed in a dazed way at the missioner: "By 
 God! I wish I was dead:" then there was a pro- 
 longed cry of the word "Oh," as of a man in 
 great agony. A few of the stupefied men roused 
 themselves enough to utter a curse in Bill's direc- 
 tion. Gazing once more at the missioner, Bill 
 cried out: "Oh! oh! the devil's got me for sure." 
 
 Sam laid his hand on the missioner's arm; 
 "We'd better slip out now, sir, or there might 
 be trouble." 
 
 With a sigh and a heavy heart the missioner 
 passed into the hall and up to the room he had 
 been occupying for ten days. With a whispered 
 cry, "How long, O Lord, how long?" he fell on 
 his knees at his bedside, and then in silence he 
 pleaded with his God that at least Bill Bird 
 might be released from the grip of the Evil One. 
 
 After the regular service that night, a few 
 Christian people met for prayer. The missioner 
 confided in those present, and with sadness told 
 of his visit with Sam to the snake-room. "What 
 are we doing," he asked, "either as a church or 
 as individuals, for these men*? Has Satan any 
 opposition from us as he enslaves our fellow- 
 countrymen"? Surely it is not a matter of indif- 
 ference to us when these men are wrecking their 
 own and other lives, in dens of vice that have 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 115 
 
 been allowed to plant themselves in this town, 
 and that can only thrive as manhood and woman- 
 hood are debased*? 
 
 "Several lumbermen in this district say that 
 in the past fifteen years there has been a steady 
 deterioration in the men employed in the woods. 
 After every payday, by their debauchery, 
 seventy-five per cent, unfit themselves for the 
 work to be done, and take from two to eight 
 weeks to get back to normal condition. There is 
 much that may and must be done along social 
 lines if we are going to arrest these degrading in- 
 fluences, but in the meantime is it not possible for 
 us as individuals to get into personal touch with 
 some of these boys, and throw around them the 
 protection of our Christian friendship and hos- 
 pitality? Preaching is not the only means for 
 advancing the Kingdom. So much may be done 
 if Christian people will put themselves and their 
 possessions at the service of humanity, and learn 
 to love the lowest as well as the best of the race. 
 Some of these lumber-jacks might go back to 
 camp changed men if we gave God a fair chance 
 to use us. Perhaps some of you business men, 
 or some of you ranchers, could get alongside of 
 at least one poor fellow from that snake-room, 
 and live for his reclamation. There are many 
 ways of keeping in touch with these men, even 
 when they return to the bush, and, in this land 
 
116 MASTERED MEN 
 
 of investments, you would find nothing yield 
 such a dividend as the investment of your time 
 in the attractive presentation of the love and 
 power of Jesus Christ. Will you at least make 
 the effort, and leave the results to your Master?" 
 The words were spoken and the question asked 
 with an earnestness that had been intensified by 
 the heart-rending appeal of the broken manhood 
 that the speaker knew was represented by what 
 he had looked upon in the snake-room. 
 
 In the prayerful atmosphere and the silence 
 that followed the question, one man said in his 
 heart, "I will." That man was George Clarke. 
 
 George Clarke had a small ranch a short dis- 
 tance from the town. He was one of the most 
 industrious men in the Province, but his industry 
 had not resulted in the prosperity that most of 
 his neighbours enjoyed. He had met with enough 
 reverses to absolutely dishearten the aver- 
 age man, but he had borne them all bravely, 
 keeping his disposition unsoured, and his char- 
 acter clean. His extreme reticence, however, 
 often led strangers to misjudge him, and to un- 
 derestimate his worth. In public affairs he 
 treated himself as though he had no right to 
 anything but the most inferior position, and to 
 have given expression to his own opinion before 
 even a small audience would, in his own judg- 
 ment, have resulted fatally. Once, under great 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 117 
 
 pressure, he had consented to pass the collection 
 plate at a church service, but after getting on his 
 feet, "everything was a blur." The boys at the 
 rear vowed that he stumbled against every bench- 
 end but one, and that by the time he was half 
 way down the aisle "he didn't know which side 
 of the plate should be up." In replacing the 
 plate on the organ, to the great surprise of the 
 organist, he unceremoniously deposited most of 
 the offering in her lap, and was too much over- 
 come with embarrassment to assist her in replac- 
 ing it. During the closing hymn he made his 
 escape to a quiet spot in the bush, where he could 
 wipe his profusely perspiring brow and where he 
 could solemnly promise himself not to be en- 
 trapped again. But despite his reticence he was 
 an exceptionally intelligent man, and when any 
 individual could get George to express himself 
 on questions of importance, it was not long be- 
 fore "this is what George Clarke thinks," was 
 passed from mouth to mouth throughout the com- 
 munity. All through the years he had resided 
 in the West he had been absolutely upright in 
 his dealings and conduct, and though his reti- 
 cence prevented him from taking an aggressive 
 part in certain moral reforms that were advo- 
 cated from time to time, yet there was never a 
 shadow of a doubt as to which side he would be 
 on. The cynical individual who stated that 
 
118 MASTERED MEN 
 
 "every man has his price," was compelled to 
 make an exception in the case of George Clarke. 
 
 And so it will not be deemed irreverent if we 
 say that when George Clarke said in his heart 
 "I will," God knew he could trust him. 
 
 Very thoughtfully George passed, with his 
 wife, from the meeting out into the darkness. 
 "I'm going to look for Bill Bird, Mary, and if 
 I get him I'll bring him home — how would it do 
 if you go on with the Erasers'?" The sugges- 
 tion was all that Mrs. Clarke needed, and her 
 neighbours, without any questioning, cheerfully 
 made room for her in their democrat. 
 
 George halted several times on his way to the 
 hotel shed where his horse and buggy had been 
 left — he was wondering how best to carry out 
 his resolve. That resolve was to do his utmost 
 to help Bill Bird to a new life. Years ago in 
 the East he had been on very friendly terms with 
 trie Bird family, and though he had once or twice 
 tried to show Bill a kindness, yet he knew he 
 had not measured up to his opportunities and he 
 felt condemned. Quietly he walked down the 
 roadway to the rear of the Imperial Hotel. The 
 shouts and oaths of the drinking and the drunken, 
 and the clatter of glassware reached his ears as 
 he passed along. Was Bill still inside, and if so, 
 how could he get hold of him? A side door 
 opened, and George stepped back into the deep 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 119 
 
 shadow of the building. Bertois, the proprietor, 
 and some man whom George did not know, came 
 to the step and stood in the light for a moment. 
 Then the door was pulled to, and the men stood 
 silent as if listening to assure themselves they 
 were alone. Under ordinary circumstances 
 George would have spoken to Bertois, but this 
 night he deemed it wiser to remain unobserved. 
 The men conversed in low tones at first, but after 
 a while Bertois' words reached him: 
 
 "Don't play too swift a game for a start: give 
 'em plenty of bait; they'll keep on biting till we 
 land 'em. We can easily clear five hundred from 
 those three suckers if you watch yourself. Dick 
 knows the drinks to dish out. Here's for luck! 
 Come on." 
 
 Re-entering they closed the door quietly, and 
 George still waited, hoping that Sam would come 
 out, and that the old man might be persuaded 
 to get Bill Bird into the yard. Many times dur- 
 ing the next fifteen minutes the door opened, and 
 each time George Clarke got, in some form or 
 other, information of the hell that was inside. 
 The hour was late, yet he felt he must remain 
 longer. Bill Bird was in his keeping, for like 
 those near the blind beggar of old, George had 
 heard the call from the Great Physician, "Bring 
 him hither to Me." 
 
 To face the crowd of men he knew would be 
 
120 MASTERED MEN 
 
 inside the hotel was more than he felt equal to, 
 and he knew that in all probability any attempt 
 to get Bill out under such circumstances would 
 fail. 
 
 Once more the side door opened — this time 
 slowly and unsteadily. A man leaned against 
 the jamb for a few seconds as if needing sup- 
 port. Then some one from within slammed the 
 door against him, and he slipped heavily down 
 to the narrow platform. There was a curse and 
 a drunken hiccough, and then the words the mis- 
 sioner had heard were uttered again, "By God, 
 I wish I was dead." 
 
 George Clarke did not immediately recognize 
 the voice, but he did immediately step near to 
 his needy brother-man, and said sympathetically, 
 "What's the matter, mate?" 
 
 Taken by surprise the man asked, "Who in 
 the are you?" 
 
 George recognized the voice and the form and 
 said, "I'm George Clarke, and I'm your friend, 
 Bill Bird." His hand was laid upon the shoul- 
 der of the sickened man, and in a kindly voice 
 he persuaded him to accompany him to his home. 
 "The place here is crowded, and we've got lots 
 of room at our place and can give you a com- 
 fortable bunk for the night: come along, Bill, 
 for old time's sake." 
 
 Linking his arm in Bill's, he led the stagger- 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 121 
 
 ing man to the drive-shed, and after some dif- 
 ficulty and a few arguments, got him safely into 
 his buggy, and not a soul in the place was the 
 
 wiser. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke was a worthy helpmeet for 
 George, and though her household cares were 
 many, she grudged no extra labour that would 
 please her husband and help a fellow-being. 
 And so everything necessary for the comfort of 
 the fallen man had been done. A supper had 
 been prepared, and the guest-room made ready. 
 Bill ate as freely as his condition would allow, 
 and then very willingly acted on the suggestion 
 that he should "creep in." George gave the dirty, 
 tired, whiskey-soaked man such assistance as he 
 felt would be advisable. Once Bill raised his 
 heavy eyelids and appeared to be trying to under- 
 stand the "why" of things. "This is no place 
 for me, George Clarke— by God, no !" The body 
 wobbled wearily, and Bill could think and talk 
 no more. And so with most of his clothes on, 
 filthy from his stay in the snake-room, Bill Bird 
 was placed in the best bed in the best room of 
 one of the truest homes with which the district 
 was blessed. 
 
 Before retiring himself, George Clarke went 
 to a wicker-basket in the parlour, and searched 
 through the family collection of photographs. 
 At last he found the one he sought. It was of 
 
122 MASTERED MEN 
 
 the Bird family, and was taken shortly before the 
 oldest boys went West. George took it out to 
 his wife, who was still working in the kitchen. 
 Pointing to the face of a bright manly boy who 
 stood with hand upon his mother's shoulder, he 
 said to his wife, "If Bertois and his gang changed 
 a boy's face as terribly as Bill's has been changed, 
 and did it in a few minutes, they would be sent 
 to the 'pen' for five years, and yet we let that 
 same gang take their time on the job, and do it 
 in hundred lots, and scarcely raise so much as a 
 finger to stop it — and I'm as guilty as the rest 
 of them. Poor Bill! he used to be as decent a 
 little chap as you could find in the County of Ad- 
 dington." 
 
 The photograph was returned to the parlour, 
 and dropped somewhat carelessly upon the table, 
 but the unthinking, and yet perhaps not unguided 
 act was the first of many influences that brought 
 better days to Bill Bird. 
 
 Long into the morning the occupant of the 
 guest-room slept on. George Clarke had opened 
 the door quietly at breakfast time, but the heavy 
 breathing caused him to leave the wearied man 
 undisturbed. About the middle of the forenoon, 
 after much yawning and stretching, Bill's con- 
 sciousness slowly returned. 
 
 He pushed back the white coverlets and gazed 
 around the room. Many times he had awakened 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 123 
 
 in a drive-shed, twice in the police cell, more 
 than once in the "snake-room." But this morn- 
 ing everything was different. What had hap- 
 pened? Was he dreaming? The room was the 
 most attractively furnished of any he had slept 
 in for years, and his soiled clothes on the chair 
 at the bedside were strangely out of harmony 
 with the surroundings. 
 
 He had confused memories of events since he 
 came out of the camp, but he knew he had spent 
 his money in the way most of his earnings had 
 gone for the last few years, and he condemned 
 himself for having been a fool again. With a 
 half-consciousness of some one being near, he 
 looked to the opposite side of the room. 
 
 The bedroom door had been quietly opened 
 and a bright "good-morning" greeted him. There 
 need be no hurry, he was told, but whenever he 
 was ready he might just as well have a bite of 
 breakfast. 
 
 No word was spoken in explanation of his 
 presence, nor in regard to the trouble George had 
 had in getting him away from the "Imperial" 
 the night before. Slowly and with mingled feel- 
 ings of embarrassment and disgust, Bill at- 
 tempted to clean himself up a little. He knew 
 he was in George Clarke's home, and in his own 
 words, "felt like a fool and looked the part to 
 perfection." 
 
124 MASTERED MEN 
 
 It was not easy to face those he knew had be- 
 friended him, for sin had not yet lost its shame 
 to Bill Bird. 
 
 His bedroom door opened into the parlour, 
 and he stood alone for a few seconds. Then his 
 eyes fell on the old photograph. His hands 
 trembled as he held it and gazed into the faces 
 of mother and brothers and sister. Pictures of 
 the old home and of happy family relationships 
 of past years crowded themselves upon his 
 memory. 
 
 He remembered how his widowed mother had 
 toiled and struggled to bring up her six boys 
 aright and give them the best equipment possible 
 for the battle of life. He recalled his own set- 
 ting out from home — from the home to which he 
 had never returned, and to which he had rarely 
 written. The "Western fever" had gripped him 
 in his early twenties, and nothing could induce 
 him to stay on the Homestead. And so ere long 
 the property had to pass into other kands, be- 
 cause there were no boys left to work the place. 
 The mother's sorrow over the parting with her 
 "Willie" had rested very lightly on him the 
 morning he started Westward. Yet to-day he 
 viewed it in a different light, and he lived the 
 parting over again with very different feelings. 
 The last breakfast had been prepared in silence 
 by the one who had never ceased to love him. 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 125 
 
 More than once she had tried to speak, but the 
 lump in the throat prevented. At last they stood 
 in the hall, and her words were uttered with sobs 
 as she clung to her "baby boy." "Good-bye, my 
 Willie, and remember, that as long as your 
 mother has breath she will pray every day for 
 her boy, and ask God to take care of him." He 
 had assured her he could take care of himself. 
 He remembered the last flutter of the handker- 
 chief as she stood on the milk-stand watching the 
 buggy disappear from the sideroad on to the 
 "gravel." He had "taken care of himself," and 
 a mighty poor job he had made of it, and there 
 seemed little chance of any improvement. 
 
 While he was in the midst of such thoughts, 
 George Clarke entered. Bill was still holding 
 the photograph. With moistened eyes he looked 
 into the face of his hospitable friend. "George 
 Clarke," he commenced, "it takes a man a long 
 time to own up that he has made a botch of 
 things; it's too late now to make a fresh start, 
 but I've been looking at this picture, and God 
 knows I'd like to have as good a character as I 
 had when that was taken. That woman is as 
 good a mother as any boys ever had, and I 
 haven't shown her the gratitude of a dog." 
 
 To this day, George Clarke feels that he never 
 made a poorer attempt at trying to speak a help- 
 ful word to a discouraged man than on the morn- 
 
126 MASTERED MEN 
 
 ing when Bill Bird stood in his little parlour on 
 the old ranch. One result of the conversation, 
 however, was the decision on Bill's part to ac- 
 cept the invitation to remain at the Clarke ranch 
 for at least a few weeks, and during those weeks 
 he saw demonstrated the best type of Christian 
 living with which he had ever come in contact. 
 On several occasions he accompanied George to 
 the hall in which the special services were being 
 held. Rather to the surprise of the Clarkes, he 
 made no response to the appeals from the mis- 
 sioner, which seemed to them so powerful. One 
 Sabbath evening, however, as they sat around 
 the stove, Bill expressed himself in such a way 
 as to bring a thrill of joy to the hearts of those 
 who were greatly concerned in seeing him make 
 the "Choice of the Highest." 
 
 "George Clarke," said Bill, "I haven't taken 
 much stock in religion, but if there's a kind that 
 makes a man do what you and your missus did 
 for me when I wasn't fit company for a pig, I 
 guess I ought to go in for it." Then in a lower 
 and subdued tone he added, "For anybody to 
 take an interest in me is a stunner, the dirty 
 tough that I was." 
 
 It was Bill's own opinion that for him life in 
 the bush was no longer safe, and so, until his 
 future was fully decided, he agreed to assist the 
 Clarkes with the work on the ranch. When a 
 
THE SNAKE-ROOM 127 
 
 few months later, through the death of a brother 
 in the East, George Clarke decided to make his 
 home in Nova Scotia, Bill Bird said in effect, 
 "Where thou goest, I will go." 
 
 And it so happens that to-day, down by the 
 Eastern sea, the former lumber-jack is building a 
 home, a business and a character. He has not 
 again returned West, but he has often told inti- 
 mate friends that there is a rancher's small home 
 in the distant province which he never forgets; 
 and he thanks God for those who valued a dirty, 
 wrecked, but God-loved man more than furni- 
 ture and carpets, and whose hospitality and serv- 
 ice awakened desires that have transformed a 
 life. 
 
 But it was not to Bill Bird alone that an up- 
 lift came. Let George Clarke speak for himself. 
 His words were spoken as he renewed his ac- 
 quaintance with the missioner two years later. 
 The audience had dispersed, and George and the 
 speaker walked down the street of the little fish- 
 ing village. Bill Bird was the main subject of 
 their conversation. For a long time they stood 
 in the darkness as George narrated all that had 
 transpired after the missioner's departure from 
 the Western town. When his story was ended, 
 the missioner clasped his hand and said, "God 
 bless you, Clarke, for what you did in Bill's be- 
 
128 MASTERED MEN 
 
 half. If only we could multiply that kind of 
 effort we could redeem this dominion." 
 
 George clung to the extended hand as he said, 
 "You are very good, sir, to say that to me, but I 
 tell you honestly, when I tried to do that little 
 bit for Bill Bird, I did a deal more for George 
 Clarke. I have had my ups and downs as you 
 know. Since I've been in the East I've done 
 pretty well on the whole, but honestly, sir, the 
 palmiest days I've ever had, and the best re- 
 turns my bank-book ever showed, are as nothing 
 in value compared to the satisfaction that came 
 to me and my wife when we saw Bill Bird 
 solidly on his feet as a Christian man. If you're 
 going back by the Intercolonial, try to stop over 
 
 at C . Bill would be mighty glad to see 
 
 you, and you'll see what the Lord can do with a 
 man who has gone even as far as the "snake- 
 room." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE BUSH FIRE 
 
 "Bush fires are said to be raging throughout the 
 vicinity of Lundville." 
 
 This bulletin was one of several occupying the 
 boards in front of "The Journal" building in 
 Carlton Mines — a British Columbia mining 
 town. As Lundville was thirty miles south-west, 
 no unusual anxiety was felt by those who read 
 the brief announcement about noon-tide on an 
 August day. The atmosphere had been heavy 
 with smoke for the past forty-eight hours; but 
 that was not at all uncommon during that month. 
 
 By nightfall, however, the town was enveloped 
 in a dense cloud of smoke; and from the roofs 
 of high buildings on the outskirts the atmosphere 
 seemed to be penetrated by the lurid glow of the 
 raging fires which now extended for several 4 miles. 
 Telephone communication with Lundville had 
 been impossible since noon, and from Burnt 
 River, only fifteen miles away, the last message 
 received told of the whole 'population being en- 
 gaged in a desperate effort to effectively check 
 the fire which threatened to wipe out the village. 
 
 129 
 
130 MASTERED MEN 
 
 From Burnt River to Carlton Mines there were 
 unbroken timber lands, a fact which caused deep 
 anxiety to many of the inhabitants of the min- 
 ing town. Not a few retired that night with 
 forebodings that made anything but fitful and 
 troubled sleep impossible. Many were the fer- 
 vent hopes that ere morning the heavens might 
 open and send forth an abundance of rain upon 
 the sapless woods and withered grasses. Nothing 
 but a heavy downpour of several hours' duration 
 would penetrate the parched earth far enough to 
 quench the fire which was well into the root- 
 filled soil. 
 
 Fire rangers, assisted by many citizens, includ- 
 ing nearly a hundred miners, spent the night in 
 the woods at the edge of the town, cutting down 
 as much bush as was possible, and clearing it 
 away from such points as were considered dan- 
 gerous connecting links with Carlton Mines. By 
 dawn it was felt that the night's hard toil and 
 the precautions taken had left the town fairly 
 secure. 
 
 Shortly after daylight, however, the rough 
 trail into Carlton Mines was dotted for miles 
 with settlers hurrying distractedly, they scarcely 
 knew where, before the cruel flames that had 
 driven them from their homes, and that had by 
 this time destroyed those homes and many other 
 results of several years of hard labour. 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 131 
 
 All sorts of vehicles, from home-made toy- 
 wagons to dump-carts and ranch-wagons were 
 loaded with household effects, some of which had 
 to be left behind, when a few hours later, all that 
 most people could hope to save was life itself. 
 
 By six o'clock, fire, church, and schoolbells 
 clanged out their general alarm, calling every 
 available citizen to the fire-fighting, that per- 
 chance united effort might save the town. Al- 
 ready huge sparks were raining upon the south- 
 west section, but fortunately in that section the 
 shacks and buildings were few and far between. 
 Yet it was soon apparent that the fire-fighters 
 could not hold their position, even there, but 
 would have to take up a fresh stand nearer the 
 town's centre. Every household was on guard; 
 tubs, barrels, pails, milkcans and kitchen uten- 
 sils were filled with water, and for a time the 
 falling sparks were quenched almost as quickly 
 as they fell. Straddle-legged on the ridge of the 
 roofs in the fire zone, boys and men with damp- 
 ened clothes were kept busy extinguishing the 
 sparks that would so easily ignite shingles upon 
 which no rain had fallen for five weeks. 
 
 Throughout these long anxious hours, when 
 men were toiling side by side for the protection 
 of their town and their homes, no man had ac- 
 quitted himself more worthily than the stalwart 
 minister of St. Paul's Church. Until that night 
 
182 MASTERED MEN 
 
 no one knew how he could make the chips fly 
 from the tree trunk, and when the most needed 
 work was the turning over of sods to arrest the 
 fire running through the dry grass, no hands were 
 readier than those of the Reverend Walter Nich- 
 olson, and when his palms began to blister and to 
 peel, no one knew of it except himself. 
 
 When, after the general alarm, reinforcements 
 arrived, he felt he could no longer leave his loved 
 ones without some word of the probable and im- 
 mediate danger. Stopping at only one or two 
 homes on the way, he hastened to the manse. 
 Despite the seriousness of the situation, Mrs. 
 Nicholson could not restrain her laughter, as her 
 husband stood, coatless and vestless, at the door 
 of the dining-room. Pieces of coarse string had 
 been substituted for certain important buttons 
 which had been lost in his strenuous activity at 
 the fire-fighting. The all-night's toil in the dirt 
 and the smoke, amidst falling ashes, had trans- 
 formed the immaculately clean husband into a 
 dirt-begrimed labourer. 
 
 "It looks as if the town was doomed, Jess," 
 he commenced. "The brewery's gone (though 
 that's no particular loss), and a number of shacks 
 are already burnt down. I must get right back 
 with the men, but in the meantime you'd better 
 get what you value most into a couple of valises. 
 You'll need a few extra clothes for the young- 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 133 
 
 sters and yourself. Put my marginal bible and 
 my black suit in if you can. It's of no use try- 
 ing to take much, as we may have to foot it for 
 quite a distance. The 'Eastbound' hasn't come 
 in yet, and it's hard to get any information be- 
 cause the wires are down, but it looks as if some 
 of the bridges had been burned, so there isn't 
 much hope of getting out by rail. You can count 
 on me being back in about half an hour." 
 
 Mrs. Nicholson, as a bride, had brought to her 
 Western home the handiwork of three busy 
 years, and when the furnishing had been com- 
 pleted and her "extras" tastefully arranged, the 
 minister and his young wife had looked with 
 grateful pride upon the attractiveness of the 
 manse. During the ten subsequent years her en- 
 thusiasm in keeping that home orderly, clean and 
 cosy, had never failed. And now she had less 
 than half an hour in which to select what she 
 most desired from that home that had become 
 endeared by ten years of effort to keep it, as it 
 had been kept, a radiant centre of helpfulness 
 — and that selection from their entire earthly 
 possessions must fit the narrow compass of two 
 valises. 
 
 The reader who is able to imagine Mrs. Nich- 
 olson's feelings on that memorable nineteenth 
 day of August will readily believe that a few 
 minutes were lost in the feeling of helplessness 
 
134. MASTERED MEN 
 
 as to what was best to select. A glance through 
 the window at the smoke-filled street, and occa- 
 sional sparks, put an end to her hesitancy. What- 
 ever was to be done must be done quickly. Her 
 husband's request was first complied with, then 
 such clothing as she and the children might need 
 was included, and a small supply of food for im- 
 mediate needs. Within a few minutes she had 
 gathered together the few articles of jewellery 
 she possessed, a package of business papers, a 
 bit of silverware, one or two photographs, and 
 an "encyclopaedic" scrapbook which contained, 
 among many other interesting items, several 
 newspaper clippings of the work and doings of 
 the Rev. W. Nicholson. From her much-prized 
 secretary, a Christmas gift from the children in 
 her Sunday School class, she took a locket in 
 which was a small curl of hair — her mother's 
 hair. 
 
 In her hurried packing she had not forgotten 
 that at least two things must be included from 
 her box of relics and sentimental treasures in the 
 attic. The first pair of baby shoes ever worn 
 in the manse were among Mrs. Nicholson's most 
 valued reminders of the happy days spent in car- 
 ing for Baby Dorothy — now a bright girl of 
 eight years. Whenever a visit had been made to 
 the box in the attic, the little shoes were always 
 taken out and looked upon with a loving smile. 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 135 
 
 There were many other articles of much greater 
 value than what was Mrs. Nicholson's final se- 
 lection, but she could not leave "dear little 
 Hugh's favourite toy." How he had loved that 
 little horse! Even after the terrible accident 
 that had left the "gee gee" noseless, nothing 
 could ever displace it in his affections. For at 
 least a year it had shared his bed without one 
 night's exception, and though it was usually 
 taken from his arms after the little lad had fallen 
 asleep, it was always placed on the chair at the 
 bed-side, so that on awakening he might immedi- 
 ately find his valued wooden friend. And when, 
 during his long and fatal illness, he was unable 
 to take an interest in any other toys, the wasted 
 hand would rest for hours across the back of the 
 broken toy horse. And so the noseless little ani- 
 mal, with its stand minus two wheels, found a 
 place among the most valued things that were 
 chosen from the well-furnished manse when but 
 a brief half -hour was given in which to make a 
 final choice. 
 
 The thirty minutes had not fully elapsed 
 when Mr. Nicholson came rushing in to say 
 there was not a moment to lose. The wind by 
 this time had increased well-nigh to a hurricane, 
 and no force of men could have protected the 
 buildings from the fiery embers that were being 
 hurled in large quantities in all directions. 
 
136 MASTERED MEN 
 
 Walter Nicholson went forth with the two 
 valises strapped over his shoulders, while on his 
 left arm he carried his eighteen months' old baby- 
 boy. Close behind him came his wife with a few 
 extra wraps thrown over one arm, and her free 
 hand clasping that of the trembling little 
 Dorothy. Thus the Nicholson family departed 
 from the manse, that twelve hours later was 
 nothing but a heap of smouldering ashes. 
 
 The streets were filled with terror-stricken 
 people laden with such of their worldly posses- 
 sions as their strength would allow. The fierce 
 wind hastened them on in their frenzied race for 
 life. Shouts, shrieks, agonized cries and prayers 
 greeted the ears of the minister and his wife as 
 they joined the homeless throng on the streets 
 of Carlton Mines. "Every house in Freeman's 
 Terrace is burning." "The Methodist Church 
 is ablaze." "The Opera House was on fire when 
 we came by." "Oh, my God! what'll we all 
 do?" "There won't be a house left in town." 
 "God have mercy on us!" Such were the cries 
 from scores of voices in the terrified crowd. 
 
 Here and there aged and sick folk were being 
 borne in the arms of loved ones or neighbours, 
 although each one rendering such willing service 
 knew that the delay involved was imperilling his 
 own life. Perhaps the saddest sight in the whole 
 sad procession was that of a poor Italian woman, 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 137 
 
 whose little girl had died the previous morning. 
 The father was working in a construction gang 
 several miles away, and the word of the child's 
 death had not yet reached him. When the fire 
 had spread to the humble dwelling, the distracted 
 and sorrow-stricken mother could not endure the 
 thought of leaving her darling to the devouring 
 flames. Tenderly lifting the little one from the 
 casket, she wrapped a shawl around the lifeless 
 form and struggled with her burden alongside of 
 some who knew not what she carried. Cries and 
 prayers in her native tongue were intermingled 
 with her broken English. 
 
 Walter Nicholson had forgotten for the mo- 
 ment that the previous afternoon he had heard 
 of the poor woman's sorrow and had fully in- 
 tended to at least call and offer such sympathy 
 and help as was possible. But the call to the 
 fire-fighting had caused everything else to be put 
 aside. When, however, he heard the pathetic 
 wail, "Oh, ma Annetta, ma leetle Annetta," and 
 glanced at the strange-looking bundle the Italian 
 woman was carrying, he at once surmised the 
 meaning of it all. 
 
 Burdened and anxious though he was, he 
 walked alongside of the lonely mother that he 
 might share her burden also. The sad-eyed wo- 
 man looked into his face, and in an appealing 
 tone said, "Please not mak' her go from me — 
 
138 MASTERED MEN 
 
 ma dear leetle Annetta. Da father, he no come 
 yet. Oh! he must come first!" Walter Nichol- 
 son hurriedly readjusted his baggage and then 
 held his baby boy so as to leave his right arm 
 free to give the poor Italian woman such sup- 
 port as was possible. The assistance given was 
 only slight, but his sympathetic words and the 
 touch of his hand soothed a little the aching heart 
 of one who felt that day the loneliness of a be- 
 reaved stranger in a strange land. 
 
 Information was passed through the fleeing 
 crowd that the work-train was taking the people 
 out of danger as rapidly as possible, and that the 
 best course to pursue was to make for the rail- 
 way station. In any case, the railway track east- 
 ward would be the safest highway down the 
 Pass, as the mountain stream two miles away 
 might be reached on foot if necessary. A place 
 of at least temporary protection would be found 
 there. 
 
 Before the station-house was reached, another 
 member was added to the Nicholson party. A 
 lad of not more than five years had either wan- 
 dered away from his home before his friends had 
 felt the necessity to leave, or had become sepa- 
 rated from them on the way. At any rate, he 
 was doing his very best to make everybody ac- 
 quainted with the fact that he was lost. To at- 
 tempt to locate his friends was out of the ques- 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 139 
 
 tion. Mrs. Nicholson bent over him for a mo- 
 ment, and her words and looks produced a quiet- 
 ing effect on the little lad, who at once did as he 
 was bidden, and clung to one of the wraps on 
 the arm of his newly-found guardian. 
 
 By the time the railway station was reached 
 the fire had made such headway that it would 
 have been impossible to make a safe return as 
 far as the manse, which had been left less than 
 fifteen minutes before. The frame buildings of 
 which most of the town was composed made the 
 onrush of the flames the more rapid. 
 
 The station platform was packed with an im- 
 patient crowd awaiting the return of the work- 
 train which had already made two trips as far 
 as the coke-ovens at Twyford. The line was 
 single track, and the only rolling-stock available 
 consisted of an antiquated engine and two dingy 
 passenger cars with rough board seats length- 
 wise beneath the windows. The morning of the 
 fire there had been added to these cars a few 
 open coal trucks. The old engine could not make 
 the grades with anything but a light train, so 
 that it was seen by many how improbable it was 
 that all those then waiting could find transpor- 
 tation before the buildings around them would be 
 licked up by the approaching fire. Surrounding 
 roofs had been saturated by the station fire-hose, 
 but the gauge-ball on the water-tank was rapidly 
 
140 MASTERED MEN 
 
 lowering, and the engineer at the pump-house 
 had been compelled to leave his post half an 
 hour before, so that at best their protection by 
 water was a matter of only an hour or so. 
 
 Yet it needed no small amount of courage to 
 isolate oneself from the throng and to pass out 
 of sight in that heavy cloud of smoke which pre- 
 vented one seeing more than a short distance 
 ahead. The fire now seemed to have gained 
 headway in other directions, so that even if they 
 went forth they might soon find themselves in a 
 position where advance and retreat were alike 
 impossible. Frequent explosions and loudly 
 crackling timbers added to the anxiety of those 
 who awaited the return of the work-train. 
 
 The Rev. Walter Nicholson was soon sur- 
 rounded by a group of those anxious to hear any 
 suggestion he had to make. The Station Agent 
 assured him that even if the track remained clear, 
 at least two additional trips would need to be 
 made before all on the platform could be re- 
 moved to a place of safety. "Then the wires 
 are dead, Mr. Nicholson, and we've no news of 
 any other train being on the way, so there isn't 
 a minute to spare." He explained that the sta- 
 tion-yard might be a comparatively safe place 
 for a while, yet, in view of the extent of the fire, 
 those remaining might find themselves hemmed 
 in and have difficulty in getting over the burned 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 141 
 
 and burning earth for many hours. Several 
 buildings west of the station had already col- 
 lapsed, blocking certain portions of the road-bed. 
 
 A number decided to follow the minister's 
 lead and start on the journey along the eastward 
 track. Mrs. Nicholson refused to remain for the 
 train, preferring to share the fortunes or misfor- 
 tunes of her husband, while the poor Italian 
 woman, still clinging to her precious burden, 
 followed every move her sympathizer made. 
 Would she not wait and try to get on the train? 
 
 "Oh, no, please me walk wid you. I will be 
 so strong!" Even the little lad refused to be 
 transferred to the care of others, and as none 
 were particularly anxious to add to their respon- 
 sibilities, there was nothing for it but to take 
 him along. It was no easy task that the Nichol- 
 sons had undertaken. The usual heat of mid- 
 August was intensified by many miles of burn- 
 ing bush, while the smoke added greatly to the 
 discomfort. Then the poorly ballasted track 
 made walking exceedingly tiresome. Yet no 
 complaints were uttered: even the children re- 
 alized that every effort must be made to reach 
 the stream before the resistless enemy overtook 
 them. Little more than half a mile had been 
 covered when the whistle and rumble of the 
 work-train announced that it was returning for 
 its third load of passengers. A glance at the cars 
 
142 MASTERED MEN 
 
 as the train passed was sufficient to show that fire 
 had broken out further east, at some point be- 
 tween the pedestrians and Twyford. The old 
 paint was covered with blisters, and many of the 
 windows were badly cracked through intense 
 heat. A few minutes later the train returned 
 with every foot of space occupied, even to the 
 steps of cars and engine. A number of pas- 
 sengers tried to let their slower fellow-travellers 
 know that the station-house was in flames, but 
 the noise from the train drowned most of their 
 words. 
 
 The inhabitants of Carlton Mines who had not 
 driven or walked out earlier in the day or been 
 conveyed on the railway were now hastening to 
 the limit of their powers in the direction of Twy- 
 ford. Fortunately for the almost exhausted pas- 
 tor, the last half-mile of his journey was made a 
 trifle easier by the voluntary assistance of a 
 rugged Galician girl who had been well known 
 at the manse. One small coarse bag contained 
 her few belongings, and accustomed as she had 
 been to long walks and heavy loads when she 
 had lived on the Saskatchewan prairie, the car- 
 rying of the baby boy would make small differ- 
 ence to her. 
 
 And so at last the mountain stream was 
 reached, and after crossing the bridge the wearied 
 refugees laid down their burdens on the pebbly 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 143 
 
 bed at the water's edge. At that point the width 
 of the open space between the stream-divided 
 bush was only about a hundred feet, so that in 
 case the fire continued its course the danger would 
 still be very great. Already they had seen 
 showers of sparks carried much farther than the 
 short distance that separated the banks between 
 which they stood, and there was every proba- 
 bility that the timber on each side of the stream 
 would be ablaze simultaneously. 
 
 But to continue their flight through the thick 
 bush that lined both sides of the track for miles 
 might be to place themselves in a much worse 
 plight. Where they now stood was an abun- 
 dance of water, and fortunately it was shallow 
 enough to make it safe for all to stand in the 
 centre when that time became necessary. It 
 would then be a matter of endurance against the 
 stifling heat. 
 
 Within five minutes the number of those seek- 
 ing refuge at the stream side was considerably 
 over a hundred. The Station Agent was the last 
 one to arrive, and reported that when the third 
 train-load was leaving the railway yards, and 
 the station-house was seen to be on fire, every- 
 one had immediately set out on foot. He had 
 kept in the rear to be sure that no one was 
 missing. 
 
 Except for an attempt on the part of some to 
 
144 MASTERED MEN 
 
 safeguard certain belongings by burying them in 
 the gravel, there was nothing to do but wait — 
 and to many the moments seemed as hours. It 
 was a race between old Dave Minehan, the driver 
 on the antiquated engine from the East, and the 
 devouring elements from the southwest. Which 
 would reach them first? A few men acted as 
 sentinels, and paced the track to discover the 
 progress of the fire. The wind had dropped a 
 little, but the flames were still making rapid 
 headway, and very soon no report was needed 
 from the outposts — the fire's own voice could be 
 heard only too plainly. The agent figured out 
 that the work-train had been due over ten 
 minutes — something must have happened! 
 Surely the train-crew realized the need of the 
 courageous ones who had voluntarily walked, 
 and of the others for whom no accommodation 
 was possible. 
 
 Flames were now visible to all who were close 
 to the bridge, and the scorching heat, the stifling 
 smoke, and the ash-laden wind combined to make 
 waiting almost unendurable. Brows of fainting 
 ones were being bathed in the merciful stream, 
 and the strongest were becoming fearful. 
 
 "Thank God, she's coming!" The shout was 
 from the throat of the Station Agent who had 
 been down the track listening for the return of 
 the work-train. The words had scarcely ended 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 145 
 
 when the shrill whistle from the little engine 
 confirmed the statement. 
 
 When a few days later a number of men were 
 discussing the disaster, one of them spoke for 
 each individual at the stream when he said, 
 "Say! I used to hate that blooming raspy 
 whistle, but that day it was the finest bit of mu- 
 sic I ever heard." 
 
 Dave Minehan siowed up as he neared the 
 bridge, and the Agent signalled him to stop, and 
 at once scrambled aboard to let him know that 
 everybody had reached the bridge and that there 
 was no need to try to go farther. Old Dave was 
 trembling with excitement and irritation, but 
 just then he had no time to tell of the fretful 
 delay over a hot box, and all the trouble en- 
 tailed in putting in a new "brass" at Twyford 
 — and neither then nor later did he tell of the 
 terrible strain that he had endured in taking his 
 train through a piece of blazing bush three miles 
 down. 
 
 The eager, frightened people were rushing up 
 the banks, but Dave kept his train moving until 
 it was about midway on the bridge. From the 
 cab he shouted to them to "keep off." The mo- 
 ment he brought his train to a standstill he 
 leaped from his engine and again thundered the 
 same prohibition. Sharply he yelled to the men 
 to line up and form a bucket-brigade. The fire- 
 
146 MASTERED MEN 
 
 man passed a dozen buckets from the tender, and 
 Dave, with harsh and hasty commands, got the 
 men on their job. For about five minutes, with 
 a rapidity that would have done credit to a 
 trained brigade, the double line passed the 
 buckets and old Dave dashed the water over 
 such portions of the cars as in his judgment 
 needed the protection. In the meantime he had 
 ordered the rest of the men to soak a few camp 
 blankets that he had taken the precaution to 
 bring along. "There's one bad spot where you'll 
 maybe need to cover yourselves a bit: it'll be 
 raining fire by when we get back — better give 
 your coats and hats a dip too, boys ! Get a move 
 on!" 
 
 It was no longer possible to remain on the 
 bridge. The old engineer shouted "All aboard," 
 and hurried back to his engine. The women and 
 children were rushed into the passenger car. At 
 one end stood the Nicholsons, while in the corner 
 the bereaved Italian mother sat with her lifeless 
 child. More than once had the minister felt 
 that he must insist on her leaving her burden be- 
 hind, but each time that he glanced at the sad 
 face and saw the passionate pleading of her eyes, 
 and observed the tender clasp of the mother 
 arms, his courage deserted him. 
 
 The last foot was scarcely off the ground when 
 old Dave reversed the lever and opened the 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 147 
 
 throttle, and with a jerk the train started once 
 more. 
 
 Let the brakeman tell the story of the return 
 trip, as we heard it from his lips months after in 
 one of the temporary buildings that had arisen 
 among the ashheaps of Carlton Mines. 
 
 "Yes, siree, you just bet it kept me firing that 
 morning. The west-bound express was away 
 late, or it could have got the whole crowd out in 
 two trips. I never thought "Old 98" would 
 stand the gait she did that day. On that last 
 trip we hit a clip both ways that would make 
 your hair stand. Davie was bound to get them 
 people to Twyford. We got a scorching on the 
 up-trip let me tell you. Gosh ! it seemed like we 
 was running through Nebuchadnezzar's furnace. 
 I wondered if Davie would face the return trip, 
 'cause the blaze was getting worse every minute. 
 I moved over to him and asked him if he was 
 going to try it. Whew ! I wish you could have 
 seen him! He hadn't cooled off from the mad 
 he had on at Twyford. We had to put a 'brass' 
 on the front car, and when the boys down there 
 couldn't find their jackscrews, Davie got rip- 
 tearing mad, 'cause he knew what the rest of the 
 crowd at Carlton was up against, and he was 
 scared he might be too late. Well, sir, he dumped 
 all the bad language what was in his system on 
 me. It was the kind you don't put in mother's 
 
148 MASTERED MEN 
 
 letter. He finished up with the sickliest kind of 
 
 smile I ever set eyes on, and yelled, 'You 
 
 fool: do you think I'm up here on a Sunday 
 School picnic 1 ? But Davie knew what was what 
 when we reached the bridge. He lined up the 
 bosses and parsons and the rest of that crowd 
 like he was a British General. And he got his 
 orders obeyed in double-quick time too. 
 
 "But it was that last down-trip that this child 
 won't need a diary to remember by! Gee! you 
 know that curve about a mile and a half below 
 the bridge*? Well, we'd got most all the head 
 on we could carry, and I was feeling about as 
 safe as if I was having a smoke on a can of dyna- 
 mite. I was watching for Dave to slow up for 
 the curve, but blame me if he didn't open the 
 throttle another notch. 
 
 "As Billy S would say, 'Religion isn't my 
 
 long suit,' but I got ready to say my prayers; I 
 backed up a bit into the coal-bunker, and gripped 
 the side of the tender, and I told the Almighty 
 I hadn't bothered Him much for a long time, but 
 that if He'd keep the cars on the track around 
 the curve I'd be much obliged. Seemed to me 
 like some of them cars jumped clean off the rails, 
 and I thought we were on the home stretch to 
 Kingdomcome, but Davie brought us through 
 O.K. Did we pass through much fire? Well, I 
 should say! There wasn't a rail or post for half 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 149 
 
 a mile that wasn't burning. If it hadn't been 
 for the way Davie soused them cars, and got the 
 fellows to fix their coats and the blankets, we'd 
 never have made it. 
 
 "Did you see the watch they gave Davie? 
 Get him to show it to you ! It's a dandy — solid 
 gold — got a whole lot of writing on the back — 
 something about 'a tribute to Mr. Dave Mine- 
 han's courage and skill in the face of grave dan- 
 ger and difficulty.' He don't say much, but he's 
 as tickled about it as the fellow what got a 
 Christmas-box of sealskin underclothes. Davie's 
 all right, you bet. I'd rather lire for him on 'Old 
 98' than for any guy I know on a big Mogul. 
 He's a bit rough-like sometimes, but if he can 
 help anybody he's on the job; he'd break his neck 
 to do somebody a good turn." 
 
 Such was the brakeman's narration of Dave 
 Minehan's final race on "Old 98," on the day 
 that Carlton Mines was levelled by the bush fire. 
 
 The shadows of evening had fallen over Twy- 
 ford on what is still regarded in Carlton Mines 
 as "disaster day." The afternoon had been a 
 busy one for the inhabitants of the almost ver- 
 dureless village that is known chiefly for its long 
 lines of coke-ovens. Generous hearts had made 
 shacks and homes have an expansive hospitality 
 that would have seemed incredible before the 
 
150 MASTERED MEN 
 
 homeless throng arrived. But after every avail- 
 able lodging device had been resorted to there 
 were many people unprovided for. And so the 
 coke-ovens were the best accommodation that 
 could be offered those still unhoused. 
 
 In one of these unusual lodging-houses a candle 
 cast its dim light over the figures of two men and 
 a woman who were kneeling in the attitude of 
 prayer. In one corner a black box rested on two 
 backless chairs. It had been made an hour or 
 two before by the local carpenter, and covered 
 with black cloth by the kindly hands of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Nicholson. Little Annette was to be laid 
 away in the early morning, and this was the best 
 that loving hearts could devise in that place and 
 under those circumstances. The manse valises 
 had made their contribution to the final robing 
 of little Annette, and the weeping mother, look- 
 ing upon what Christ-like friends had done, 
 clasped and kissed the hands that had dealt so 
 kindly with her and her "leetle Annetta." For 
 nearly eight hours the father had walked seeking 
 his wife, and now they were kneeling together in 
 the presence of their dead child. 
 
 Walter Nicholson's voice was tremulous with 
 sympathy as he commended the sorrow-stricken 
 strangers to the all-pitying Father. The 
 mourners did not understand all that was ut- 
 tered, but they understood the spirit that was 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 151 
 
 manifested and were deeply grateful. A few 
 words of comfort were spoken, and the minister 
 passed out into the darkness to another oven in 
 which his own loved ones were awaiting his re- 
 turn. Mrs. Nicholson was sitting on a box with 
 Dorothy on her knee. Angus and the five-year- 
 old stranger had fallen asleep on the ashy floor. 
 No trace had been discovered of the lad's friends. 
 He could give little information beyond the fact 
 that his name was Hans Kuyper, and that he 
 was "losted." Mrs. Nicholson had quieted the 
 wee chap's fears, by assuring him that his mother 
 would come soon, and though, with darkness at 
 hand and no sign of mother, a few tears had been 
 shed, it was not long before the wearied and worn 
 child was asleep. 
 
 The husband and father sat alongside of his 
 loved ones in sympathetic silence for a few 
 minutes. The all-night's toil, the hours of so- 
 licitude for others, the heat of the day, the bur- 
 dens carried, the sympathy extended and the dis- 
 comforts endured, had combined to produce a 
 feeling of depression. "We have lost everything, 
 Jess: maybe I'll feel better by morning, but to- 
 night I've lost my courage as well as everything 
 else, and I can scarcely bear to think of the 
 future." 
 
 Little Dorothy placed herself between her 
 father's knees, and looking lovingly into eyes 
 
152 MASTERED MEN 
 
 where the unbidden tears had forced themselves, 
 said quietly, "Isn't it a good thing, daddy, that 
 you haven't lost mamma and Angus and me?" 
 
 Walter Nicholson enfolded the child in his 
 big arms and kissed the curl-encircled face. 
 "Yes! God bless you, little sunbeam, that is a 
 good thing, and maybe daddy was forgetting. 
 Now let us say the twenty-third Psalm and have 
 our good-night prayer." 
 
 With sometimes unsteady voices the three re- 
 peated the Psalm they had so often joined in at 
 home under such different circumstances. Then 
 father, mother and child knelt beside the box, 
 and a prayer of thanksgiving and a cry for 
 strength came from a thankful but needy heart. 
 Walter Nicholson's arm rested on Dorothy's 
 shoulder, and his voice quivered again as he 
 thought of the little black box in the near-by 
 oven, and prayed for those to whom the past 
 hours had brought a double sorrow that had left 
 them homeless and childless. 
 
 As was her custom, Dorothy offered up her 
 own prayer at her mother's knee. A sweet con- 
 fidence in religious matters had always existed 
 between child and mother, and there was never 
 any restraint in the expression of the little one's 
 thought toward God. Tired though she was, 
 her "poetry prayers," as she called them, were 
 said in full, and then her own additions followed. 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 153 
 
 "Thank you for taking care of us all, and we are 
 glad that papa and mamma and Angus and 
 Dorothy are all here. Help the little boy's 
 mamma to find him, and please to take care of 
 the poor Italian woman now that her little girl 
 is gone to heaven. Bless papa and mamma and 
 Angus, and make me a good girl, and please help 
 us to get another home soon, for Jesus' sake. 
 Amen." 
 
 The fire had almost spent itself by nightfall, 
 and with the dawn the long-wished-for rain be- 
 gan to fall. By the middle of the forenoon the 
 danger of any further outbreak was past. The 
 construction gang from the East, and a number 
 of section men from the West, were immediately 
 put to work at clearing the track and repairing 
 culverts and bridges. 
 
 By the middle of the afternoon a number of 
 men who had fled from the burning town were 
 able to make the return trip. For four or five 
 miles the outlook from the car-windows was a 
 very dreary one. The underbrush had been en- 
 tirely burned up, and of the standing timber little 
 but charred, jagged remnants of tree-trunks re- 
 mained. Only here and there had a telegraph 
 pole escaped, and even the protruding ends of 
 many of the railway ties had smouldered to the 
 ballast. 
 
 The entire business section of Carlton Mines 
 
154* MASTERED MEN 
 
 was destroyed. A few isolated buildings in the 
 residential portion northwest, and a few in the 
 northeast had escaped, but all the rest had been 
 reduced to ashes. What could be done under 
 such circumstances'? Who would have the cour- 
 age to attempt a fresh start and face all the dif- 
 ficulties arising out of such a disaster? Who? 
 Every man who that afternoon stood gazing at 
 those ash-heaps. With that inextinguishable op- 
 timism that has its headquarters in Western 
 Canada, they began then and there to formulate 
 their plans. Several contracts for rebuilding were 
 signed before night, and ere the ashes were cold, 
 men started to rear a new and better town. 
 
 The preacher, with the rest of the impover- 
 ished ones, went back to his job. Not only did 
 he assist in clearing away the debris, in prepara- 
 tion for a new church and manse, but many a lift 
 did he give to others who were busily engaged in 
 getting a roof over their heads. 
 
 During the months of rebuilding he preached 
 successively in the open-air, in shack-restaurant, 
 sawmill, hotel, opera-house, and finally, after 
 many disappointments and discouragements, in 
 the new church. 
 
 Among the interesting contributions received 
 by Mr. Nicholson for the Building Fund, was 
 one from the mother of the boy who was "losted." 
 When on the morning of the fire she was com- 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 155 
 
 pelled to hastily leave her dwelling, she felt quite 
 sure her little lad was with some of his playmates 
 in a neighbour's home. On the way she dis- 
 covered that her friends had already departed, 
 but she was still hopeful that her boy was in their 
 care. And so she had very gladly accepted a ride 
 in one of the last vehicles leaving the town, and, 
 after a rough and rapid drive, had reached a min- 
 ing camp a mile or two south of Twyford. Her 
 friends had gone in a different direction, and it 
 was over twenty-four hours before she found 
 them. 
 
 They could give her no news of her lost boy, 
 and she began to fear that he had never left the 
 town. Two days later, without having received 
 any word of his whereabouts, she suddenly saw 
 him, riding "pickaback" with arms twined around 
 the neck of the Rev. Walter Nicholson. 
 
 Mr. Nicholson still delights to tell how the 
 mother and child were unexpectedly brought face 
 to face as he was turning the corner of a build- 
 ing. He professes to have confused memories 
 of certain details, but states that before he had 
 a chance to get the lad from his shoulders or 
 extricate himself, he was the centre of the most 
 vigorous hugging and kissing imaginable. When 
 the overjoyed mother learned all that had taken 
 place, her gratitude to those who had befriended 
 her boy was simply unbounded. For some 
 
156 MASTERED MEN 
 
 months after the fire she struggled along in a 
 small shack several miles away from Carlton 
 Mines. The following letter from her to Mr. 
 Nicholson is reproduced exactly as written, ex- 
 cept for corrections in spelling: 
 
 "Dear Sir, — I shall thank you very much for 
 what you have done to me. Never will I not 
 forget it. It is sorry for me that I not can write 
 much English. Dear Sir, I am well here, but the 
 work is very still and so we not can get money. 
 I went to the church on all the Sunday. I am 
 glad to be a better woman. I wish you my bless- 
 ing and Hans do it too. After 25th I will send 
 you $1.00 for your another church. — G. Kuy- 
 per." 
 
 The one dollar arrived in due time, and know- 
 ing the sacrifice it involved, it was valued out of 
 all proportion to the amount. 
 
 Walter Nicholson's courage in facing the fu- 
 ture did not fail. He stayed at his post until 
 his work was completed. To "preach to a pro- 
 cession," as the work in some districts has fre- 
 quently been described, to face an appalling in- 
 difference on the part of some, and a cynical an- 
 tagonism on the part of others, and to struggle 
 along with an inadequate income, constitutes a 
 task that only the bravest can face year after 
 year, yet in the face of all this he said cheer- 
 
THE BUSH FIRE 157 
 
 fully, "I've seen a lot of preachers come and go, 
 but I think God wants me here, and the need is 
 call enough for any man, so here I stay as long 
 as He wills. I've had many rewards, and I thank 
 God I've had the chance to do my bit in this 
 great Westland." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 
 
 "Isn't he awful looking, Mother 4 ? Why does 
 daddy let him come in so much? I don't like the 
 way the study smells after he's been in." 
 
 Little Ruth, of a village manse, made many 
 other observations, and asked many other ques- 
 tions as a poor, wretched-looking man shuffled 
 across the lawn in the early evening of an autumn 
 day. 
 
 The mother's smile changed quickly to a look 
 of sadness, and giving the wee girl a kiss, she 
 said, "Mother will tell Ruthie all about it at 
 story-time to-night." 
 
 From the Children's Bible Story Book that 
 night the mother read of the Prodigal Son. There 
 were a number of interruptions from the occu- 
 pant of the little bed: "Why didn't he go home 
 before he got so dreadful hungry, Mother*?" 
 "Where was his mother?" "Why did his father 
 run so far?" 
 
 After answering many questions the mother 
 
 continued: "There are lots and lots of prodigal 
 
 sons still living; men who have been bad, and 
 
 15S 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 159 
 
 who then, like some little children who have 
 been naughty, run away from those who love 
 them best. And all the time those who love them 
 are wishing so much that they would come back, 
 and say they are sorry and that they will try to 
 be better. God is our Father, and He loves every- 
 body; you know what we often say when daddy 
 has prayers: 'For God so loved the world that 
 He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever 
 believeth on Him should not perish, but have 
 everlasting life.' Well, darling, you wanted to 
 know why daddy let poor Mr. Gage come in so 
 often*? He lets him come because God would 
 let him come. The poor man thinks that God 
 doesn't want him because he's been so bad, and 
 because he's gone, oh ! so far away, and daddy is 
 trying to tell him that God does want him, and 
 that God will take care of him if he will only 
 love Him and trust Him, like you trust daddy 
 and mother to take care of you. Mr. Gage is 
 awful looking because sin is awful, and he has 
 let sin be his master instead of God. But 
 mother's darling will be nice and kind to him, 
 because God loves him, and we must love those 
 whom God loves. Perhaps some day you will 
 see him look as much different as the Prodigal 
 Son looked after he came back home." 
 
 Ruth did not altogether forget her mother's 
 words, and when the half-drunken man was 
 
160 MASTERED MEN 
 
 brought to the Manse for a meal a little later on 
 in the week, she somewhat timorously handed 
 him two or three asters that she had picked from 
 the garden. John Gage looked a little embar- 
 rassed, and at first seemed inclined to leave them 
 in Ruth's possession, but the little hand remained 
 outstretched, and with sweet winsomeness the 
 child told him she had picked them for him. 
 
 "Picked them for me! Well, well! then I 
 guess I'll take them. Thank you." 
 
 On several occasions, as he sauntered around 
 the village, his attention was arrested by a child- 
 ish voice calling him by name, so that he came 
 to feel he had a friend in the minister's little 
 girl. 
 
 There were many head-shakings among the 
 village wiseacres regarding the minister's interest 
 in John Gage. It was generally agreed that 
 while the preacher was well-meaning enough, his 
 knowledge of human nature was not very keen. 
 The village constable knew John so well that he 
 felt able to speak authoritatively on the matter. 
 " 'Tain't no use, young man," he said to the 
 preacher. "We wus talking about him the other 
 day in Cyrus Haag's blacksmith shop, and every 
 man says the same as I do. He's just a-bleeding 
 you, that's all. Five years' hard labour is what 
 he needs; s'long as you'll take care of him when 
 he's drunk, and feed him when he's broke, he'll 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 161 
 
 [just bum around. Don't I know the whole 
 bunch? Didn't me and the county constable ar- 
 rest his father when he pretty nigh murdered 
 Sam Collins'? Ain't his brother in Kingston 
 Penitentiary this very minute? The only way 
 to improve them fellers is to hang 'em." 
 
 The authoritative information having been 
 given the preacher, there was no further need of 
 sympathy for him if he wilfully rejected the 
 constable's gratuitous, labour-and-money-saving 
 counsel. 
 
 And the passing of the weeks seemed to con- 
 firm the " 'tain't-no-use" judgment. People liv- 
 ing near the Manse reported everything that hap- 
 pened, and a good deal that did not happen, in 
 connection with the visits of John Gage and 
 others of his type, for it was generally known 
 that the preacher was "easy." But the preacher 
 went on with his work, and whatever the results 
 of his efforts might be, nobody ever doubted his 
 belief in the Gospel he preached. 
 
 Every Sabbath evening, in some form or other, 
 he dealt with the Fact of Sin and its Soul- 
 destroying power. He knew that "sin and pun- 
 ishment go through the world with their heads 
 tied together," but he knew also, and he preached 
 it as a fact that for him was beyond all con- 
 troversy, that by immediate act of God salvation 
 might come, and had come, delivering the life 
 
162 MASTERED MEN 
 
 from the gripping, enslaving, murderous power 
 of sin. 
 
 ^ jf: * * * 
 
 The year was drawing to its close. The little 
 village had its share of Christmas festivities, and 
 family reunions were taking place. There were 
 men from the East, and men from the West, back 
 in the old haunts for the holiday season. Won- 
 derful stories of material success were told as 
 "the boys" from the West expounded the oppor- 
 tunities of the prairie provinces. As is too often 
 the case, the bar-room was the main social centre 
 of week-day life in the village, and John Gage 
 was always ready to fall into line when the pros- 
 perous ones gave the all-inclusive invitation, 
 "Come on, boys." And so long as John helped 
 to swell the receipts, his drunken presence was 
 tolerated around the bar. Scores of times did he 
 join in the greeting "A Merry Christmas," and 
 the merrier it seemed to be to the frequenters of 
 the Derby House bar, the sadder it really was to 
 the homes from which they came. 
 
 Weeks of drinking, followed by the revelry of 
 Christmas, brought John to such a condition that 
 when the bar-room closed on Saturday night he 
 was turned out of the house, and a little later 
 dragged out of a corner of the drive-shed, and 
 told to "get clean away" from the premises. 
 
 There was a strange look about the man on this 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 163 
 
 particular Saturday night — a wild, almost savage 
 appearance. He stood a moment on the side- 
 walk as if uncertain of his whereabouts, and then 
 turned and walked in the direction of the Manse. 
 
 The minister answered the door-bell, and with- 
 out a word John walked right in and through the 
 hall to the study. At last he spoke. "You — 
 told — me — to — come — any — time. I — want — 
 to — stay — here — to-night." Then, with body 
 bent, and as if in pain, with arms crossed, he 
 rocked himself to and fro. "Oh, God! but I'm 
 sick; three days nothing but whiskey: I've got it 
 to-night for sure." 
 
 After much persuading the minister had the 
 man in bed. The mistress of the Manse had 
 prepared strong coffee as fast as her trembling 
 body would let her. Once before she had passed 
 through a night such as she feared this would be, 
 and the prospect might well make her timorous. 
 But the Manse and its furniture had three years 
 ago been pledged to His service, and she mur- 
 mured not. 
 
 The doctor had been sent for, but he was on 
 a country call, and was not expected back until 
 eleven. 
 
 At one end of the bedroom the minister sat 
 watching John Gage. In some way the drink- 
 inflamed man had placed under his pillow an 
 old revolver and a short stiletto. After a time 
 
164* MASTERED MEN 
 
 the hands clasped these with a vice-like grip. 
 Suddenly standing out on the carpet he looked 
 at the preacher, and said, "Why in the devil 
 don't you go home? D'you want a fight? Say! 
 I could rip you so's they'd have to pick you up 
 in baskets." 
 
 A little later he imagined he was once more 
 on the South African battle-field. With a sick- 
 ening shudder he pointed to where his deluded 
 eyes saw again the wounded and bleeding. "My 
 God ! see that poor devil with his leg nearly off ! 
 Look! ain't that awful. See that one squirming! 
 — him yonder with his head half open!" Then 
 straightening himself, he said, as if addressing 
 some audience, "Friends, I say, and I know, war 
 is hell!" 
 
 From time to time, under persuasion, he would 
 return to his bed. Once he imagined he was driv- 
 ing down the old concession road near his grand- 
 father's farm as in boyhood days. The sheets 
 were jerked and handled as if reins. "Well, now, 
 this is a slow horse. It will, ladies and gentle- 
 men, be quite appropriate to sing 'we won't get 
 home till morning.' I tell you what I'll do — I'll 
 put the horse in the rig, and I'll get in the shafts, 
 and then there'll be a horse in the buggy and an 
 ass in the shafts, but we'll make better time." 
 Then followed a weird burst of laughter. 
 
 The doctor arrived about midnight. For a 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 165 
 
 couple of hours he watched the effect of his treat- 
 ment, but rest would not come to the occupant of 
 the guest-room. The eyes would appear to be 
 closing in sleep, and then would suddenly open 
 wide as if their owner were in terror of some 
 impending disaster. Then the danger spot 
 seemed to have been located, and with a series 
 of jerks the head was raised higher and higher 
 until John was sitting up in bed. Never once 
 did the gaze leave the corner of the room. With 
 the utmost stealth, first one foot and then the 
 other was pushed from under the bedclothes to 
 the floor. Very slowly and noiselessly, with knife 
 still gripped, the demon-possessed man glided 
 toward the corner. With great caution, as if 
 measuring the distance, he bent the left knee, and 
 at the same time lifted the right hand ready to 
 strike. Then with blasphemous exclamations he 
 stabbed the imaginary monstrosities. Again and 
 again he seemed hurled back as by some real 
 enemy in the fight. At last the knife went deep 
 into the floor, and he seemed to have conquered. 
 Never once taking his gaze from where the knife 
 stood he backed slowly toward the bed. "Ah ! I 
 got him that time! See him! see him!" Then 
 followed a blood-chilling burst of profanity at 
 the wriggling object of his delirium. "But he 
 can't get up! No! no! no! it's through (his 
 neck." 
 
1 66 MASTERED MEN 
 
 And so the long night wore on, and the wearied 
 preacher, looking upon what drink could do with 
 "God's Masterpiece," vowed anew to fight the 
 cursed traffic in intoxicants as long as life lasted, 
 and never knowingly to have his home denied by 
 such a life-blasting beverage. 
 
 It was nearly seven o'clock on Sabbath morn- 
 ing when John Gage fell asleep. At ten o'clock 
 the bell of the adjoining church awakened him. 
 The minister had anticipated the awakening, and 
 was at the bedside. John seemed dazed for a 
 time, but in a little while conversed with the 
 one who had befriended him. He was urged to 
 remain quietly in bed, and after a few words the 
 minister clasped the hand of the outcast man, 
 and kneeling at the bedside, laid the burden of 
 his heart upon the One who is mighty to save. 
 As the Amen was uttered Ruth approached the 
 door. "All right, little one, come and see your 
 friend John," were her father's words. Ruth 
 was ready for church, and with garments and face 
 alike attractive, laid her little hand in the big 
 hand of the sin-wrecked man. Who can under- 
 stand the power of the touch of a child's 
 hand? Closing his fingers over the dainty, wee 
 hand, John Gage turned his face to the wall and 
 sobbed aloud. Little Ruth hardly knew what to 
 do. Gently she placed the other hand on the 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 167 
 
 dirty, unshaven cheek, and merely said sympa- 
 thetically, "Don't cry." 
 
 John turned his head back again long enough 
 to say brokenly, "God bless you, little gal." 
 
 Leading Ruth out of the room, the minister 
 gathered up his books and went to the morning 
 service. When he returned John Gage had de- 
 parted. • Early Monday morning Allan Short, a 
 near-by farmer, called to tell him that John was 
 out at his place cutting away at the winter's 
 wood-pile. Allan promised to do what he could 
 for John, but incidentally remarked that he did 
 not see why a man couldn't "take a glass of beer 
 without making a fool of himself." 
 
 A day or two later the minister drove by the 
 Short homestead, presumably to make a call at 
 the Meen's farm, where he had several faithful 
 church-goers. As he passed, he recognized John 
 at the saw-horse, and waved a greeting as to a 
 friend. 
 
 On his return he drove up the road to the 
 Short Farm, and John at once came forward, 
 with the customary Canadian courtesy, to tie up 
 or unhitch the horse, according to the visitor's 
 wish. After a few pleasantries the minister went 
 to the house and made a call on such members of 
 the Short family as were home, and then returned 
 to where his horse was tied. Hesitating a mo- 
 ment, he turned and walked to the wood-pile, 
 
168 MASTERED MEN 
 
 and after complimenting John on his ability to 
 swing the axe, spoke a few encouraging words. 
 For a moment the hand rested on John's shoulder 
 as he said, "You will be one of God's good men 
 yet, John. I know it's a terrible fight, but God 
 knows all about it, and with Him you can con- 
 quer. Come and see us any time you are in, but 
 for the life of you don't loiter around the village, 
 and do keep clear of the men who would be 
 likely to make it easy for you to get what you 
 know is ruinous to you. And don't forget we 
 are your friends always, always." 
 
 As he turned the corner of the side road, he 
 met Allan Short returning from a trip to the 
 village. Referring to John Gage the farmer said, 
 "He's been as straight as a British Columbia pine 
 since he came out; but, say! it's kind o' pitiful, 
 after all, the way he craves for whiskey. Me 
 and the Missus watched him yesterday. She's 
 been keeping her eyes open. Well, John was 
 taking a breathing spell, after he had done a fine 
 lot of splitting (and he's no greenhorn with the 
 axe, let me tell you!), when all of a sudden he 
 went to the fence-post where his coat was hang- 
 ing, and putting it on as he walked, he made 
 down the road. He got about ten rod and then 
 stopped like as if he'd forgotten something, and 
 then he started back, took off his coat, and pitched 
 into that wood-pile as if it was sure death if he 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 169 
 
 didn't get it finished by night. The missus says 
 he's done the same thing three times to her knowl- 
 edge, and once he went so far she was sure he was 
 gone for good. But she says he sure did lam- 
 baste' them blocks when he got back." 
 
 The following Sunday morning little Ruth 
 was missing from the Manse pew, and her absence 
 from that service was so unusual as to cause many 
 inquiries. 
 
 "Nothing serious," said the mother. "Just a 
 little throat trouble, and as she seemed somewhat 
 feverish we thought we had better leave her at 
 home. Lizzie is taking care of her." 
 
 But on Monday morning the doctor looked 
 very anxious after an examination of Ruth's 
 throat, and in departing advised the minister to 
 keep out of the child's room until an examination 
 a few hours later. 
 
 On Tuesday morning it was a bit of village 
 news that was passed from mouth to mouth, that 
 the minister's little girl had diphtheria, and that 
 the house was placarded. The occupants of the 
 Manse were deeply touched during the following 
 days by that spontaneous expression of practical 
 sympathy that is characteristic of village life. 
 But perhaps no one stirred the deepest emotions 
 as did John Gage. Darkness had fallen over the 
 village on Tuesday before he had heard of Ruth's 
 sickness. There was some look of solicitation 
 
170 MASTERED MEN 
 
 on Mrs. Short's face when John "guessed" he 
 would stroll to the village. 
 
 He answered the look by saying almost curtly, 
 "I'm going to the Manse." 
 
 The little patient's symptoms showed severe 
 infection, and a second doctor was in consultation 
 when the minister heard a very gentle rap on the 
 door. 
 
 "Sorry I can't ask you in, John," he said, as 
 he saw John standing on the verandah. 
 
 "How is she*?" asked the caller, in a tone that 
 revealed a great concern. 
 
 "She is a very sick little girl, John. Dr. Dodd 
 is with Dr. Burnett just now. We can only give 
 her the best care possible, and hope and pray. 
 It is good of you to call, and when the wee girl 
 is better she will be pleased to know you came. 
 The poor little soul has been restless and feverish 
 all the afternoon." 
 
 "Poor little gal! Tell her John hopes she'll 
 soon be all right. I ain't much of a friend, God 
 knows, but all the same I've been that lonesome 
 like, since I heard she was sick, I don't feel as if 
 I want to do anything, but just wait around. If 
 there's any job I can do to help, I give you my 
 word I'll be in trim to do it as long as the little 
 gal needs me." 
 
 For two weeks John's "little gal" caused anx- 
 ious days and nights — some of them days and 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 171 
 
 nights when tearful prayers were sobbed out in 
 the solitariness of study or bedroom — times when 
 the physicians found no hopeful signs, and the 
 little life seemed to be passing beyond human 
 reach. It was on one such night that John 
 brought a few delicacies from the farm for the 
 minister's household, and waited for the report 
 from the sick-room. 
 
 "The doctor has been with her an hour, John, 
 and the wee girl is alive, and that's all we can 
 say." The voice broke into a sob as the last 
 words were spoken. 
 
 The two men stood in silent sympathy for a 
 few minutes, and then John broke the silence. 
 "She was friendly to me, sir, and I'll never forget 
 it. Lots of folks what thinks they're big toads 
 in the puddle treats me as if I was dirt, but the 
 little gal is the biggest Christian of the lot, and 
 she's done me more good than the whole gang 
 of 'em. Say! the way she put her little hand 
 on my face that Sunday morning was better'n 
 any sermon I ever heard. Queer, ain't it, but it 
 broke me all up." Then in response to a request 
 from the minister John continued, "I'm afeared 
 it wouldn't count much if I tried to pray, sir; 
 but there ain't anything I wouldn't try my hand 
 at for her." 
 
 The following day there was better news, and 
 two days later the little sufferer was able to smile 
 
172 MASTERED MEN 
 
 in response to the tokens of love that were show- 
 ered upon her. 
 
 The physicians' faces relaxed, and they were 
 delighted that professionally they were winning 
 the battle, and the big-hearted senior physician 
 rejoiced for other reasons. "By the way," he 
 said that night in the Manse study, "I have met 
 that fellow John Gage several times lately, and 
 his interest in Ruthie is really remarkable. I 
 didn't think it was in the man to care for any- 
 body. And stranger still, he was sober each time. 
 The little girl may yet be the salvation of the 
 poor chap, and do what no one else has been able 
 to do." 
 
 Shortly before St. Valentine's Day the Manse 
 was thoroughly fumigated, and the placard re- 
 moved. Ruth was amusing herself cutting out 
 the kindergarten suggestions for Valentines, and 
 sending them to selected friends. On a crudely 
 shaped heart in poorly fashioned letters that she 
 had learned to print, were the words, "Ruth loves 
 John." On February the 14th, John Gage received 
 the tiny envelope containing his Valentine. 
 Nothing he had received in years pleased him 
 quite so much. 
 
 "Now, ain't that great," he confided to Mrs. 
 Short, " 'taint worth a cent, I suppose, but just 
 this very minute they're ain't enough money in 
 the whole village to buy it." 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 173 
 
 The quarterly communion service was about 
 to be conducted in St. Andrew's Church. The 
 usual invitations had been given from the pulpit, 
 and a few had called at the Manse to discuss the 
 question of membership. It was always a time 
 of prayerful concern on the part of the minister 
 lest any should take the step without realizing 
 its obligations and privileges. At the minister's 
 invitation, John Gage had spent over an hour in 
 the study. 
 
 "Nothing less than an out and out surrender 
 will do, John. You have had your way, and the 
 devil has had his way, now you must be willing 
 to let God have full control. There must be an 
 entire breaking away from past associations, and 
 you must take the step that can never mean re- 
 treat. Unless you do that the path back to the 
 old ways will be too attractive, and too easy." 
 
 Once again the two men read passages from 
 well-thumbed pages in the study Bible, and again 
 the shepherd of souls called on the One Who is 
 Mighty to Save, and then John prayed, and as 
 the long silence was broken and a wanderer in a 
 far country turned his face to his Father and 
 uttered penitent words, the minister's tears of 
 joy could no longer be restrained. As they rose 
 from their knees, hands were clasped, and those 
 feelings, too deep for words, found expression 
 in the pressure of a protecting and trusting hand. 
 
174 MASTERED MEN 
 
 In the eyes of the majority of the Kirk Session, 
 there was little risk in receiving into membership 
 the well-to-do respectable sinner, but when the 
 minister narrated the conversations he had had 
 with John Gage, and suggested his name as a 
 candidate for membership, eyebrows were raised 
 and heads shook ominously. 
 
 "Wad it no' be better to put him off for a few 
 months to see whether he could stan' alone first 1 ?" 
 was the question of John McNair, the senior 
 elder. 
 
 Colonel Monteith, who was greatly burdened 
 with the responsibility for maintaining the 
 dignity of the Presbyterian Church, wondered 
 whether "this rather disreputable man Gage 
 would not find more congenial associates down in 
 the Free Methodist Hall." Tom Rollins didn't 
 know "how the p'eople would take it." 
 
 Murray Meiklejohn, characterized by his reti- 
 cence and good common sense, moved that "John 
 Gage be received," and stammeringly added that 
 so far as leaving John to stand alone was con- 
 cerned, he "guessed" they had been doing that 
 ever since he came to town, ten years ago. 
 
 And so with some misgivings, and with some 
 wounded pride, the Session included John Gage 
 in its reception list. 
 
 On Friday night, an hour before the time for 
 preparatory service, John called at the Manse. 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 175 
 
 "I'm a-trembling all through," he said to the 
 minister, "and I was half-minded not to come. 
 If it hadn't been for what you said about the 
 hospital being a place for sick folks, I wouldn't 
 had the courage to face it." 
 
 The preparatory service of that night is still 
 spoken of in the quiet village. Perhaps the at- 
 mosphere was created by one who had prayed 
 much that day that the congregation might re- 
 ceive a new vision of the Redeemer, through the 
 words of one for whom not an individual in the 
 entire congregation had any hope six weeks be- 
 fore. 
 
 The sermon over, the minister and elders ex- 
 tended the right hand of fellowship to the little 
 company occupying the front seats. "To-night," 
 said the minister, as he returned to the platform, 
 "I have asked my friend Mr. John Gage to say 
 a few words." The lecture-hall had probably 
 never known stiller moments than those imme- 
 diately following the announcement. 
 
 John Gage, pale and trembling, not daring to 
 look at his audience, stood facing the platform. 
 In a low voice he said, "Well, friends, I have 
 been a bad man — that's no news to anybody, but 
 God helping me I'm going to be better. Seems 
 like a miracle, don't it, that John Gage has been 
 sober for five weeks?" 
 
 As he sat down, the "Let us pray" of the min- 
 
176 MASTERED MEN 
 
 ister preceded a petition for "our brother," that 
 made most hearts tender and prayerful. 
 
 "It's a new day for St. Andrew's," said Murray 
 Meiklejohn, as he shook the hand of the minister 
 after the benediction. "Nothing like to-night's 
 meeting in my memory. Looks as if we were 
 going to stop singing 'Rescue the Perishing' and 
 get on the job." 
 
 It is no easy task for the average Presbyterian 
 elder to utter a fervent "God bless you," but that 
 night hearts were stirred and tongues were loos- 
 ened, and John Gage felt that after all the world 
 was not so unfriendly as he had imagined. Hand 
 after hand was extended in genuine welcome. 
 But the finest thing of all, as the minister said 
 a little later, was the way the Colonel warmed 
 up to John. He had never been seen to manifest 
 the same cordiality in the Church before. "A 
 manly step to take, sir — a manly step — needs 
 courage to fight that kind of a battle. Personally 
 I am glad to welcome you to St. Andrew's." 
 
 When story-time came at the Manse on the 
 following evening, Ruth was all attention as her 
 mother told of the home-coming of another prodi- 
 gal, and of all it might mean. 
 
 Ruth's prayer had two additional words that 
 night. The closing part was uttered more de- 
 liberately than usual, as if in anticipation of the 
 seriousness of the added petition. "Bless daddy 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 177 
 
 and mamma, and — all — the — friends — I — love 
 — and Jokn, for Jesus' sake. Amen." 
 
 John Gage secured temporary work in the 
 village delivering freight for a local carter. 
 Whenever opportunity afforded, the habitues of 
 the bar-rooms did not spare him their sneers and 
 jeers. "Folks say you're a hell of a good preacher, 
 John." "When are you going to wear the 
 starched dog-collar, John?" Calling him to a 
 little group on the sidewalk, one of his former 
 chums said, with mock solemnity, "Let us pray." 
 A roar of laughter followed, as John, crimson- 
 faced, walked away. 
 
 There were days when the sting in some of the 
 taunts was hard to bear — days when only One 
 knows the conflict in that will that had become 
 enfeebled by sin. But John Gage was steadily 
 gaining the victory, and the visits to the Manse 
 and the new friends around the church were dis- 
 placing the former associations. 
 
 Signs of a material prosperity that John had 
 never before known were gradually appearing. 
 The village tailor took particular pride one morn- 
 ing in showing the minister a piece of blue serge, 
 "as fine a bit of goods as is imported. I'm cutting 
 a suit out of it for John Gage, and it will be as 
 good as I can make it. Did you ever think how 
 much the tailor can co-operate with God in fixing 
 a man up?" 
 
178 MASTERED MEN 
 
 But not all the villagers were desirous of co- 
 operating with God in the reformation of John 
 Gage. A little crowd had gathered one night in 
 McKee's barber shop, and the minister of St. 
 Andrew's was being harshly criticized for his 
 frequent attacks on the liquor traffic. The pro- 
 prietor of the poolroom, who attended St. An- 
 drew's at the time of the Lodge annual parade, 
 announced his intention of absenting himself 
 unless the minister "minded his own business." 
 Others made similar threats, which in the aggre- 
 gate might bring the minister to the proper frame 
 of mind which became one who "received his 
 bread and butter from some of the very people 
 he had been abusing." 
 
 Then the case of John Gage was discussed, 
 and uncomplimentary terms were freely applied. 
 
 McKee thought "it would be a d d good joke 
 
 on the Presbyterian preacher if John could be 
 made as full as a goat, and then sent to the 
 Manse." To the lasting disgrace of the barber, 
 he attempted to perpetrate the "joke." 
 
 Bud Jenks was a willing tool of anybody who 
 would reward him with a whiskey, and when 
 McKee offered him all he could take at one 
 standing if he got Gage to take a drink, he was 
 ready at least to make the attempt. And so on 
 a day when John had shovelled coal from car 
 to waggon and waggon to cellar for eight hours, 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 179 
 
 and was warm, tired and thirsty, Bud appeared 
 with a little pail, as if coming from the town 
 pump. John was at the grating tramping the 
 coal further into the cellar, and his head was 
 about on a level with the sidewalk. "Good-day, 
 Bud," he called up as Bud stood for a moment. 
 
 "Good-day, John; warm job, eh < ?" 
 
 "You bet it's warm," was the reply, as the 
 coal-begrimed brow was wiped. 
 
 "Take a drink o' water*?" asked Bud. 
 
 "Sure I will, and thank you," answered the 
 thirsty toiler with hand extended to the pail, 
 which was placed on the sidewalk. Quickly Bud 
 removed the lid, and gave the pail a tilt as the 
 rim came near John's face. Just a touch of froth 
 from the lager beer was carried to John's lips, but 
 instantly he pushed back the pail with an ex- 
 clamation almost of pain. At the same moment 
 he slid further into the cellar, and kneeling on 
 the coal, with hands clasped against the wall, 
 cried out again and again, "Oh, my God, help 
 me, help me, help me!" 
 
 Bud peered into the darkness and called sev- 
 eral times to John. At last John approached the 
 grating again. "Bud," he said quietly, "for 
 God's sake go away and leave me alone; I'd 
 rather drop dead than put another drop of that 
 to my lips." 
 
 Bud did not immediately depart, despite the 
 
180 MASTERED MEN 
 
 pleading of the man in the cellar, and not until 
 a passer-by had entered into conversation with 
 him, and the two had moved off together, did 
 John pull himself to the sidewalk and drive 
 away. "Oh, the smell of it near drove me mad 
 for a few minutes," he said, as he confided the 
 occurrence to his friends at the Manse. "If it 
 wasn't for the little gal, and coming up here, I'd 
 get far enough away from this place, so's I 
 wouldn't have the same temptations." 
 
 "Temptation is not a matter of locality, John, 
 and you would not escape it by crossing a con- 
 tinent, and besides, we need you right here. If 
 you win out and give God the glory, you will 
 do more to prove His power than a year of ser- 
 mons could." 
 
 "Bully for Colonel Monteith! He's a brick, 
 by jinks he is!" The words were uttered in an 
 excited voice by the young minister on his return 
 from one of his daily trips to the Post Office. 
 
 "Why, daddy," exclaimed the wife, "I'll re- 
 port you to the Session for using bad language. 
 But what has happened anyway?" 
 
 It was several minutes before the cause of the 
 "bad language" could be satisfactorily narrated. 
 The conversation in McKee's barber shop was 
 related, and the indignation of the mistress of 
 the Manse was all that could be desired. 
 
 "Well," continued the minister, "somebody 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 181 
 
 who heard it happened casually to tell Colonel 
 Monteith. Within half an hour, the Colonel 
 was in the shop. McKee was lathering Lawyer 
 Taskey, but that didn't seem an important matter 
 to the Colonel, for without waiting until he was 
 through he at once faced him with what he had 
 heard, and asked if it was true. At first McKee 
 tried to evade the question, but the Colonel 
 pressed for an answer. 'Well, suppose I did. Is 
 
 it any of your business?' replied McKee. 
 
 Then with a sneer he added, 'And anyhow, I 
 didn't know that you and Mister John Gage were 
 such bosom friends.' 'Look here, McKee,' and 
 the voice of the Colonel trembled with emotion, 
 T hold no brief for this man Gage any more than 
 I do for any other man in the village, but when 
 a fellow puts up a fight like he has for the last 
 two months — a fellow, as you know very well, 
 with veins full of bad blood — it is in the highest 
 degree reprehensible for any man to be even a 
 party to such a devilish scheme as you tried to 
 work out by making a poor sot like Bud Jenks 
 your catspaw. And nobody, sir — I say, sir, 
 nobody but a contemptible cur would attempt 
 such a dastardly act.' And then the barber got 
 impudent and told the dignified elder to go on a 
 long trip. Moving nearer to him the Colonel 
 said, 'Before I go there, McKee, there's a place 
 I wish to accompany you,' and quick as a flash 
 
182 MASTERED MEN 
 
 he grabbed McKee and tried to drag him to the 
 back of the shop. McKee didn't know what was 
 going to happen, and naturally objected some, 
 but Jim Morton, who saw it, says the Colonel 
 was 'mad from the toes up,' and after laming a 
 few chairs, and damaging a mirror in the scuffle, 
 he got the rear door open and pulled McKee after 
 him down the bank to the creek. The barber 
 likely surmised what was the next item on the 
 programme, and not caring for cold baths in 
 March, he did some furious scuffling, but though 
 the Colonel's hat and a few buttons had disap- 
 peared, he was able to report progress. Jim says 
 the language of McKee as he got near the water 
 has never been surpassed in Elmsdale. Lawyer 
 Taskey felt like going to McKee' s rescue, as he 
 doubtless earnestly desired to have his shave fin- 
 ished, but when he got his hat on and started 
 down the bank the Colonel thundered something 
 at him that caused him to decide it would be 
 pleasanter to remain in the shop. 
 
 "Unfortunately the Colonel could not part 
 company with McKee at the critical moment, and 
 the two of them fell into the water together. 
 The Colonel stood the shock well enough to have 
 sufficient presence of mind to immediately grab 
 the barber and duck him thoroughly, and then 
 the two of them scrambled out, and the air is still 
 blue around McKee's place; but taking a con- 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 183 
 
 junct view of the entire affair, the Colonel ap- 
 peared satisfied. 
 
 "Jim says that the Colonel's language was not 
 what would be expected from an elder, and that 
 when there was the final scuffle at the edge of the 
 creek, he heard him call McKee c a blawsted 
 skunk.' I suppose that's terrible in a member of 
 St. Andrew's Session, but I'm sinner enough to 
 be glad that McKee got a small percentage of 
 his desserts, and my backbone feels stiffer and I 
 shall carry my head a little higher because 
 Colonel Monteith's on my Session." 
 
 The minister jumped to his feet, and swinging 
 his arm in a circle above his head shouted, "Bully 
 for Colonel Monteith, the man who turned Mc- 
 Kee's 'joke' into a boomerang." 
 
 The eyes of the minister's wife had sparkled 
 with interest as she listened to what had hap- 
 pened to McKee, and the minister was satisfied 
 when at the conclusion of the incident she said 
 quietly, "I am so sorry Colonel Monteith fell in 
 the creek. Ask him up for dinner to-morrow, or 
 some day soon. I'll do my very best to show my 
 appreciation of his well-meaning defence of our 
 John." 
 
 Some weeks later John procured a position in 
 a distant city. Ruth and her father went to the 
 station to bid him farewell, the latter assuring 
 him of the unfailing interest of his friends at the 
 
184 MASTERED MEN 
 
 Manse, and uttering a few words of counsel, now 
 that distance would prevent the frequent visits 
 of the past. 
 
 For a while all went well, and encouraging 
 reports reached the village Manse. Sometimes 
 the letter was addressed to the Minister, but 
 oftener to Ruth, and all of them revealed the 
 strong hold the little one had upon the reforming 
 man. 
 
 Then came word of dull times and scarcity of 
 work and loneliness. It was after a letter that 
 revealed unusual despondency, that an urgent in- 
 vitation was sent for John to return to the village 
 and spend a few weeks at the Manse until labour 
 conditions improved. 
 
 No answer came to this invitation, but two 
 weeks later a letter came from John's boarding- 
 house, which read as follows: — 
 
 "Dear Sir: — I take the liberty of writing you, 
 because there is a Mr. Gage boarding at my place, 
 and he is real sick and don't seem to have no 
 friends near here, and I can't take care of him no 
 longer. He says you are his best friend, and so I 
 thought you would tell me what to do, as he hasn't 
 got no money, and I am a hard-working woman 
 and can't afford to do without it. He ought to go 
 to the Hospital, I guess, but he don't take to the 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 185 
 
 notion. Please do something right away. — Mrs. 
 John McCaul, 14, St. Lawrence Lane." 
 
 The following morning the minister started 
 for the city, and late that afternoon stood at the 
 door of No. 14, St. Lawrence Lane. The lane 
 consisted of a long, monotonous row of dingy 
 little houses on the one side, and a miscellaneous 
 group of stables and sheds on the other. Factory 
 buildings, with their "insolent towers that sprawl 
 to the sky," overtowered the whole, shutting out 
 much light, and pouring forth from their im- 
 mense chimneys the smoke that usually hung like 
 a pall over the narrow lane. 
 
 Mrs. McCaul was greatly relieved by the pres- 
 ence of the minister, and as they sat in the 
 ventilation-proof parlour she told him of John's 
 hard luck, interspersing most of her family his- 
 tory into the narration. "He's terrible discour- 
 aged," she added, "and the doctor says he'd 
 oughter be in some more cheerfuller place, al- 
 though I'm doing the best I can." 
 
 It was a poorly furnished dark bedroom into 
 which the minister was ushered, and the sur- 
 roundings of the whole place reminded him of 
 a popular description of certain American city 
 boarding-houses, which are said to "furnish all the 
 facilities for dying." 
 
 John clasped the extended hand with grati- 
 
186 MASTERED MEN 
 
 tude, and the visitor's presence did much that 
 medicine had failed to do. As he stood talking 
 to the sick man, his eyes rested a moment on a 
 little red Valentine that had been inserted be- 
 tween the glass and the frame of the tinselled 
 mirror. 
 
 "I see you're looking at me Valentine," said 
 John. 
 
 "Yes! I did notice it." 
 "Well, sir, many a day the last few weeks I've 
 wondered whether I could hold out. When a 
 fellow ain't got a job, and money and friends 
 is scarce, it seems like it's easier for the devil to 
 get th' inside track. There was some days when 
 it seemed as if all the devils in hell was after me 
 a-trying to get me back to the old life, and I used 
 to come up here and look at me Valentine. I've 
 stood before that there glass a good many times 
 lately, and looked at the red heart what Ruthie 
 cut out, and said, 'God help me to be faithful 
 to the little gal.' " 
 
 After a good deal of persuasion John consented 
 to go to the hospital, so that he might receive 
 proper care. 
 
 For seven weeks the disease, which was a part 
 of "the wages of sin," held sway. Once John 
 thought the end was near, and that probably, ere 
 many days, he must pass away. He expressed 
 his fears in a broken voice to the nurse, and then 
 
RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL 187! 
 
 asked for the Valentine. Tears filled his eyes as 
 he gazed at the trifling token of a child's love. 
 With an effort he controlled his voice and said 
 huskily: "If anything happens, nurse, I want 
 to have that Valentine with me. You know 
 what I mean, don't you*?" 
 
 The nurse nodded her head. 
 
 "You see, nurse, it was sent me by a little 
 gal — the minister's little gal. I was pretty far 
 gone a year ago, and if ever God sent an angel 
 into this world to help lift up a poor wretch of a 
 man, it was when that little gal started to be my 
 friend. And when them little hands cut out the 
 heart for my Valentine and sent it to me, and I 
 read 'Ruth loves John,' I felt as good as if I'd 
 been sent a fortune." 
 
 The news of John's sickness had its effect on 
 Ruth's nightly prayer : "Please, God, make John 
 better, because he's very sick. For Jesus' sake. 
 Amen." 
 
 John's sickness was not unto death. Slowly 
 he regained health and courage, and as soon as 
 he was able to work he secured a position in a city 
 factory. Much of his leisure is being given to 
 City Mission Work. 
 
 He has often been seen on a street corner join- 
 ing in an open-air service. Not long ago he was 
 telling a crowd of men what the Gospel had done 
 for him. "Say, fellows, when I think of it — 
 
188 MASTERED MEN 
 
 think of what I was — I just know He's able for 
 anything. I'm ashamed of myself, but I'm proud 
 of Him." 
 
 As he finished his testimony a workman in the 
 same factory, who was standing at the rear of 
 the crowd, called out, "Yes, and John's the de- 
 centest feller in the factory, so he is." 
 
 The red heart has faded almost to a brown. 
 It no longer occupies its place on the mirror. A 
 stranger picking up John Gage's Bible might 
 wonder why a soiled and worn bit of paper in 
 the shape of a heart should be pasted on the front 
 inside page; but often a tired workman, reading 
 his "verses" for the night, turns first of all to 
 the front inside page, and reads three words that 
 light and time and dirt have almost effaced — 
 "Ruth loves John." 
 
 Sometimes the gaze is long, and sometimes the 
 fading words are still further dimmed by tears, 
 but the faded Valentine is fragrant with precious 
 memories of a child's love that resulted in the 
 home-coming of the prodigal. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE CORD OF X.OVE 
 
 A transcontinental express was speeding 
 across the prairies to its Pacific Coast terminus. 
 Two hours before it shrieked its approach to a 
 foothill city, the local police received a message 
 which, being interpreted, read: "Detain Lavina 
 Berson, travelling on No. 96; age about fifteen, 
 black hair, very attractive. Travelling in com- 
 pany of two men when train left B ." 
 
 When No. 96 pulled into the depot, two plain- 
 clothes officers boarded the train and soon located 
 the girl wanted. At first the flashing black eyes 
 looked defiantly into the face of Staff-Inspector 
 Kenney as he requested her to accompany him. 
 But the law must be obeyed, and on being shown 
 a detective's badge the little runaway passed with 
 her escort comparatively unnoticed into the city 
 street. 
 
 At the police-station she sat in the anteroom 
 with the matron, while the inspector, the staff- 
 inspector and the plain-clothes detective discussed 
 the case. The girl's youthfulness and attractive- 
 ness appealed to their sympathies. 
 
 189 
 
190 MASTERED MEN 
 
 "It's too blamed bad to send a pretty youngster 
 like that to the cells," said one. 
 
 "Why not send her to that new Rescue Home 
 till we get more particulars? They'll take care 
 of her. There's a woman there that knows her 
 job all right." 
 
 And so to the Redemptive Home Lavina was 
 sent, the authorities giving the usual instructions 
 governing such a case. For a few hours the new- 
 comer was silent, but few girls could long be 
 silent in the presence of the big-hearted, winsome 
 Superintendent of that Home. It was a new 
 experience for Lavina; the only kindness she had 
 known was the traitorous type, and it was hard 
 for her to believe that there was such a thing as 
 unselfish love. Forty-eight hours from the time 
 she crossed the threshold of the Home, the hand 
 that was almost ready to strike any one who 
 seemed to have co-operated in checking her reck- 
 less career was slipped along the forearm of the 
 Superintendent. 
 
 "Everybody thinks I'm bad, and I guess I am, 
 but I believe if I had lived with you I might have 
 wanted to be good." 
 
 The words did not come easily, but when the 
 Superintendent stroked the black hair and put 
 an arm around the wanderer, drawing the head 
 to her shoulder, she realized that love had won 
 its first battle in that misguided life. 
 
THE CORD OF LOVE 191 
 
 The following morning a young man rang the 
 door-bell of the Home in an impatient manner. 
 When the Superintendent appeared he said, "Is 
 this where Lavina Berson is?" 
 
 "Yes," was the reply. 
 
 "Well, I want her, and I want her d d 
 
 quick. She's a d d nuisance. She's never 
 
 been any good. Nobody can do anything with 
 her." Then, drawing a rope from his pocket, he 
 said, "I'll bind the little devil with this, and if 
 that won't do I've something else in here (putting 
 his hand over his hip-pocket) that will settle her." 
 His face was red with passion, and his eyes 
 flashed with anger. "Oh! you needn't tell me," 
 he continued. "I know all about her; I'm her 
 brother. I'm sick of getting her out of difficulties. 
 
 I say she's a d d nuisance, and I ain't going 
 
 to let her forget this trip I've had to take, not 
 on your bottom dollar I ain't. I've got something 
 else to do than to be chasing over the country 
 after her." 
 
 "You cannot get possession of your sister to- 
 day," answered the Superintendent. "Even if 
 I were not under obligation to the authorities to 
 detain her, pending their instructions, I could not 
 let her go with you just now. She is a friend of 
 mine, and I love her. She has told me her story; 
 she is only just sixteen. Ropes and pistols and 
 policemen are not the remedy, sir; she needs a 
 
192 MASTERED MEN 
 
 brother — a real brother. If you call in the morn- 
 ing I shall be glad to have a quiet talk with you." 
 
 Ten days later, in her own town, the court- 
 room was crowded when the case of Lavina 
 Berson was called. The trial resulted in a mass 
 of evidence to show that she was bad. There 
 seemed no other course open to the Judge but to 
 send her to a reformatory. She had associated 
 with the fastest boys and girls, and with the most 
 lawless men and women her town had known. 
 The policeman, giving evidence, made it clear 
 that the town would be well rid of her. Not one 
 witness, even to the girl's mother, had any hopeful 
 word to speak. 
 
 In the face of such evidence there seemed only 
 one course open. When the word "reformatory" 
 reached the girl's ear she broke into a passion of 
 weeping, so that the Judge hesitated a moment. 
 Then there was some movement and whispering 
 near the witness-box. The Superintendent men- 
 tioned had journeyed Eastward to be present at 
 the trial, and she was now conferring with the 
 Morality Inspector. 
 
 The weeping girl looked appealingly through 
 her tears at the one who had befriended her. 
 "Oh, please," she whispered, in a voice broken 
 with sobs, "don't let them send me to that awful 
 place. It'll only make me worse; take me with 
 
THE CORD OF LOVE 193 
 
 you. I'll do anything you tell me; please, oh! 
 please, Miss Moffatt." 
 
 Turning to the Judge the Superintendent said, 
 "Your Honour, I am a stranger to you, but as 
 a representative of the Women's council of the 
 
 ■ Church in Canada may I say a few words?" 
 
 The Judge nodded assent, and with a heart full 
 of love for the wayward, Miss Moffatt made one 
 of the most impassioned appeals conceivable. In 
 closing, she said, "I ask your Honour to give this 
 girl into my charge for one year. In view of the 
 evidence given, may I be allowed to say that she 
 has been brutally sinned against. No man who 
 has spoken has referred to her partners in sin, nor 
 has any man suggested that the stronger sex has 
 any responsibility to be a brother and protector 
 of girls. The evidence reveals the fact that 
 plenty of men co-operated in her downfall; ap- 
 parently not one made any effort to uplift. Some 
 of her betrayers are still counted as respectable 
 men, while she receives all the blame and the 
 shame. One remedy does not seem to have been 
 tried, and in the name of the One who long ago 
 said, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin 
 no more,' I ask you to be gracious enough to allow 
 me to try a corrective which I believe will be 
 more effective than what has been suggested." 
 
 The Judge caught the light in those eyes, and 
 with manifest emotion addressed the accused: 
 
194 MASTERED MEN 
 
 "Lavina, you have found a friend; so long as 
 you are true to her you will not again be called 
 to appear before this Court. May Heaven's 
 blessing rest upon such women as the one who 
 has spoken in your behalf! The case is dis- 
 missed." 
 
 Once again Lavina journeyed Westward. 
 Once again she was on No. 96, but no longer with 
 betrayers. By her side was the Superintendent 
 with her sweet, sheltering influence. 
 
 And so life began again for Lavina in the 
 Redemptive Home. In view of her past life, it 
 was worth crossing a continent to see the gladness 
 in her eyes when one day Miss Moffatt put her 
 hand upon her shoulder and said playfully, 
 "Lavina is my right-hand girl; I think she'll soon 
 be Assistant Superintendent." 
 
 As one of the workers was passing along the 
 hallway upstairs some months later she was ar- 
 rested by the sound of a pleading voice — some 
 one was offering a prayer. Noiselessly she drew 
 near the room from which the voice came. The 
 last petition was being uttered, "O God, please 
 help the other girls to be good like You helped 
 me, for Jesus' sake. Amen." The little dark- 
 eyed girl was kneeling by the bedside with her 
 arm around the shoulder of a young Hungarian 
 maiden who had been rescued from a life of 
 shame. It developed later that these two rescued 
 
THE CORD OF LOVE 195 
 
 ones were daily praying for others who were being 
 sheltered in the Home. 
 
 How it all reminds one of that far-away scene ! 
 "No man could bind him; no, not with chains; 
 because that he had been often bound with fetters 
 and chains, and the chains had been plucked 
 asunder by him, and the fetters broken in pieces : 
 neither could any man tame him. . . . Jesus 
 said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean 
 spirit." And the modern evil spirit and its re- 
 buke is like unto that. "Nobody can do anything 
 with her; I've got this rope to bind the little devil 
 with." And then this : "O God, please help the 
 other girls to be good like You helped me, for 
 Jesus' sake. Amen." On the heels of the failure 
 of all others Jesus comes and reveals Himself 
 to-day as of old, as the master of demons. 
 
 What the future days hold for Lavina Berson 
 we know not, but the height of her ambition to- 
 day is that she be accepted for training, so that 
 some day she may work among those of the class 
 to which she once belonged. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 nell's home-going 
 
 St. Andrew's Church was losing its respect- 
 ability. It was one of the oldest in the Province, 
 and the town in which it was situated had for some 
 years prided itself in being a "Society" town. 
 The select few who had for so long been undis- 
 turbed by the "common" people were having to 
 endure the presence, in near-by pews, of some 
 who had no entrance into the best social circles — 
 and the shocking part of it was that the new 
 minister, who was reported to have come from 
 one of the best families in Montreal, rather 
 gloried in this condition of affairs. 
 
 Two families had already withdrawn from 
 the membership of St. Andrews — two of the 
 wealthiest and gayest — and that within six 
 months of the minister's induction. The with- 
 drawal of the Farsees and Shunums happened in 
 this wise. A few Sabbath evenings previous to 
 the "interview" that Mrs. Farsee had had with 
 the minister, a young woman of unsavory reputa- 
 tion had dared to enter St. Andrew's. Perhaps 
 the minister was not aware of what he did, but 
 
 196 
 
NELL'S HOME-GOING 197 
 
 there was no denying the fact that he shook hands 
 with the said young woman, and hoped she would 
 "always feel welcome at St. Andrew's." After 
 seeing, with her own eyes, a second and a third 
 visit, and a second and a third welcome, Mrs. 
 Farsee, with the moral backing of Mrs. Shunum, 
 had her now much-talked-of interview with the 
 Rev. Thomas Fearnon. 
 
 "Mr. Fearnon," she commenced in an agitated 
 tone, "there is a matter that so greatly affects our 
 church, that although it is rather a delicate sub- 
 ject, I felt I must be frank enough to speak with 
 you about it. Do you know — but of course you 
 don't know — the character of the young woman 
 who has been sitting in Mrs. Greatheart's seat 
 for the past three Sunday evenings, and to whom 
 you have given three distinct welcomes to St. 
 Andrew's?" 
 
 "Yes," was the reply, "I think I know some- 
 thing of her character and past, and it is very 
 sad." 
 
 "But, Mr. Fearnon," exclaimed Mrs. Farsee, 
 "you surely cannot sanction her attendance at 
 our church! What will people say 1 ?" 
 
 "Mrs. Farsee," was the quiet rejoinder, "I 
 wonder what my Master would say if I did not 
 sanction the presence of any for whom He died. 
 For whom are our services, if not for the sinful*?" 
 
 "Yes, but, Mr. Fearnon, that kind of person 
 
198 MASTERED MEN 
 
 should go to some other place — for instance, 
 there's the Salvation Army." 
 
 'Thank God there is the Salvation Army, but 
 so long as Thomas Fearnon is pastor of this 
 church, yonder doors shall never be too narrow 
 to admit the sin-burdened." Thomas Fearnon's 
 voice thrilled with emotion as he uttered these 
 words. 
 
 "Well, I suppose it's no use saying anything 
 more," said Mrs. Farsee with an injured air, "but 
 it's hard to hear people sneer at one's church, and 
 twice lately I've heard people — and prominent 
 society people too — say that our church was get- 
 ting to be a 'House of Refuge,' and I tell you 
 that kind of thing goes hard with people who 
 have taken the pride we have in St. Andrew's 
 Church." 
 
 "To me," said Mr. Fearnon, "that report is 
 encouraging, and I covet that intended sneer as 
 a permanent tribute to any church of which I 
 may be pastor — a House of Refuge is what I 
 want St. Andrew's to be. Surely the young 
 woman you have named needs a place of refuge*?" 
 
 "Then I understand you will still allow her to 
 attend our church, despite the wishes of two of 
 the most loyal and best-giving families you have, 
 Mr. Fearnon?" Mrs. Farsee placed an unmis- 
 takable emphasis on "best giving." 
 
 "Your understanding is quite correct, Mrs. 
 
NELL'S HOME-GOING 199 
 
 Farsee, and if ever St. Andrew's Church closes its 
 doors on any man or woman, in like circumstances 
 to the one you refer to, I care not how sinworn 
 and wretched, it closes them at the same time on 
 Thomas Fearnon — we go out together." 
 
 "If that is your decision," replied Mrs. Farsee 
 haughtily, "please remove the names of Mr. and 
 Mrs. M. T. Farsee and Miss Lucy Farsee from 
 the membership roll, and I am also authorized 
 by Mrs. Shunum to tell you that all the Shunums 
 withdraw from the church for the same reason." 
 
 Thomas Fearnon retired that night sad at 
 heart — not that the loss of these two families 
 from the membership roll gave him much con- 
 cern, for to tell the truth he was more concerned 
 to know how they ever came to be put on the roll, 
 but he was concerned to find that kind of spirit 
 among the membership of the congregation to 
 which he had come with such high hopes, fresh 
 from college. So far as losing members was con- 
 cerned, he reminded himself that, in God's arith- 
 metic, subtraction often produced an increase. 
 Perhaps of his congregation the words of Scrip- 
 ture were true, "The people are yet too many." 
 Nevertheless, the offended families needed His 
 Saviour and the ministry of the church as much 
 as, perhaps more than, the poor creature whose 
 very presence they thought denied their heretofore 
 select congregation. 
 
200 MASTERED MEN 
 
 The following Sabbath morning the text was 
 Luke xix: 10, "For the Son of Man is come to 
 seek and to save that which was lost." Those 
 who had attended Mrs. Farsee's "afternoon 
 bridge" on the preceding Thursday knew that 
 the sermon was the outgrowth of the "interview." 
 None of them used their favourite adjective 
 "lovely" of Thomas Fearnon's sermon that morn- 
 ing; the mission of the Master and the consequent 
 mission of His church was presented with a 
 clearness and an earnestness that made not a few 
 decidedly uncomfortable." 
 
 "I charge }^ou, my fellow workers," he pleaded, 
 "never to degenerate into dilettante church par- 
 lour triflers, but strike out for God in hard work 
 to recover the lost. There are those whose life's 
 roses are turned to ashes, those who have almost 
 forgotten how to smile, those from whose hearts 
 all music has fled. What an incomparable joy 
 to tell them of, and seek to lead them to, the One 
 who with divine delicacy said, 'Neither do I con- 
 demn thee; go and sin no more.' That welcom- 
 ing Saviour would speak through us to those 
 whom too often we, professedly His followers, 
 would cast out. If every individual in this world 
 treated the fallen as you do, my friend, would 
 it be easy or hard for that one to get into the 
 Kingdom of God? Where shall the wanderers 
 be welcome if not in the Father's House? Where 
 
NELL'S HOME-GOING 201 
 
 shall those whom He created and for whom He 
 died find friendship and help, if not in that com- 
 pany of worshippers who cry 'Our Father' ?" 
 
 To not a few the message of that morning 
 seemed intensely personal. In that inner judg- 
 ment hall, where the prisoner and the judge are 
 one, some verdicts were arrived at, and the ver- 
 dicts were "guilty." 
 
 "If every individual in this world treated the 
 fallen as you do, would it be easy or hard for 
 that one to get into the Kingdom of God w ?" 
 
 Thomas Fearnon had asked that question with 
 an intensity of feeling that revealed itself in the 
 whispered words, and that produced a profound 
 silence throughout the sanctuary. And it was 
 not in vain that he had put his best into prayer 
 and preparation for that morning's message. At 
 least one in the congregation asked to be forgiven 
 for passing by, like priest and Levite, needy ones 
 to whom there should and could have been a 
 ministry of mercy. 
 
 Jessie Buchanan saw the "vision splendid" 
 that morning, and no longer could she be satis- 
 fied with her life of elegant ease. From that 
 very hour her life and all the trappings of life 
 were promised fully to her rightful Lord — no 
 longer would she hope to have Him as Saviour 
 but reject Him as Lord. 
 
202 MASTERED MEN 
 
 A peaceful Sabbath day's services had closed, 
 and in the quiet of her beautiful and cosy little 
 "den" Jessie Buchanan sat talking to a friend 
 before the flickering embers in the fireplace. 
 Three months had passed away since Thomas 
 Fearnon's sermon on Luke xix:io, three months 
 of sometimes perplexing but always joyous ser- 
 vice to Jessie Buchanan. Already several lives 
 had been gladdened and helped by the radiating 
 influence of her consecrated life. 
 
 The Buchanan home on the hillcrest had 
 gladly opened its doors during these three months 
 to some who had never expected to cross its 
 threshold. And so to-night, for the third time, 
 the young woman who had unknowingly caused 
 the departure of two families from St. Andrew's 
 Church, sat in the fire-light with her new-found 
 friend. 
 
 Wisely and unostentatiously Jessie Buchanan 
 had made her acquaintance, and their meetings 
 had been invariably away from the public eye. 
 But into the broken life was coming the conquer- 
 ing power of an unselfish love. To-night, as the 
 flames diminished, the young woman unfolded a 
 little of her life. 
 
 "Please don't hate me for it — I had to tell 
 some one. Oh! if only some one like you had 
 helped me when I first went to the city; but it 
 was my own fault. Still, if you do wrong there 
 
NELL'S HOME-GOING 203 
 
 seems so many more to help you to keep on in the 
 same way than there are to help you back." 
 
 For some minutes she talked on, and then 
 Jessie Buchanan moved her chair a little closer 
 and laid a hand sympathetically upon the girl's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "You think my name is Flossie, don't you, 
 Miss Buchanan?" the girl asked slowly. "Well, 
 it isn't. Nobody here knows either of my right 
 names, but I'm going to tell you : my right name 
 is Nellie Gillard; and Miss Buchanan, I want 
 to be good again, and maybe get back home 
 soon — only, I'm afraid, for I haven't even writ- 
 ten for nearly a year." Tears were wiped away 
 as the memory of the old home was revived in the 
 light of new desires. 
 
 ***** 
 Another week was nearing its close, and Jessie 
 Buchanan was as usual making her plans for a 
 hospitable Sunday. Glancing down the drive- 
 way, she was surprised to see Nellie Gillard ap- 
 proaching the house. This was the first daylight 
 visit Nellie had made, and Saturday morning was 
 so unusual a time that Jessie Buchanan was at 
 the door before the bell-handle could be pulled. 
 A cordial greeting and Nellie was accompanied 
 to the now familiar den. As the door closed the 
 visitor at once made known the purpose of her 
 
204 MASTERED MEN 
 
 visit. "Miss Buchanan, I'd like to go home, but 
 I cannot — I dare not go alone." 
 
 "Oh! I'm so glad you have decided. How 
 soon do you wish to go, dear 1 ?" Jessie Buchan- 
 an's voice and face revealed her joy and thank- 
 fulness. 
 
 "I'd like to go right away," was the reply. 
 
 Within a few hours Nellie and her new-found 
 friend were on their way to the railway station. 
 
 The "local" was nearly three hours late when 
 almost at midnight it pulled into a little flag sta- 
 tion in North- Western Ontario. It was over two 
 miles to the Gillards' home, and Jessie Buchanan 
 suggested the desirability of getting the station 
 agent to assist them in procuring a vehicle and 
 driver. 
 
 The night was clear and bright, and Nellie 
 urged that if it was not too tiring for her com- 
 panion she would much rather walk. "I know 
 every step of the way, and — and — well you are 
 the only one I want with me just now." 
 
 In the moonlight of that early October night 
 two young women might have been seen walking 
 along the fifth concession. 
 
 At a turn of the road Nellie pointed to a little 
 building: "There is the schoolhouse I attended." 
 When a church spire stood out clear against the 
 sky, there was a sob in the voice, "I used to teach 
 in that Sunday School and sing in the choir." 
 
NELL'S HOME-GOING 205 
 
 The gate of the old homestead was reached at 
 last. The wanderer's hand clung for a moment 
 to the top rail and the head rested on her forearm. 
 
 "I wonder — I wonder if Father will let me in; 
 I don't deserve it, but I believe he will." And 
 she was not mistaken. 
 
 At the side of the old roughcast dwelling, two 
 bedroom windows had been raised a few inches. 
 Beneath these the only daughter of the home 
 called out in a trembling voice, "Father." There 
 was no response. Could anything have hap- 
 pened? A second time on the silent night the 
 voice anxiously uttered the same word. Imme- 
 diately thereafter they heard a movement and 
 a man's head appeared at the window. "Father ! 
 it's Nell: I want to be your Nell again. Will 
 you let me come home?" 
 
 "Let you come home? You bet I will, Nell — 
 you bet I will." The last words were re-uttered 
 after the head had disappeared. 
 
 The only other words they heard were, "Ma! 
 Ma!" uttered in a voice trembling with joy. 
 
 No pen can adequately describe that home- 
 coming. Jessie Buchanan was forgotten for the 
 moment, but as she saw the daughter's head rest- 
 ing first on father's and then on mother's shoul- 
 der, and heard the old man say again and again, 
 "My Nell ! oh ! my Nell," her cup of joy was full. 
 
 It was not what one could call a praying home, 
 
206 MASTERED MEN 
 
 but on that early Sabbath morning four people 
 knelt in the little sitting-room, and Jessie Bu- 
 chanan's first audible prayer was offered in 
 thanksgiving for the home-coming of the wan- 
 derer. And to-day, in the little church in the 
 grove, one of the regular worshippers is Nellie 
 Gillard. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE HEEMIT 
 
 The missionary had received instructions from 
 the Superintendent to go into a remote and 
 sparsely populated District in the Green River 
 Country. 
 
 The settlement to which he was to minister lay 
 forty miles from the railway station. "You will 
 just have to make the best arrangements you can 
 for getting from the station to your field," was 
 all the direction he received as to how to cover 
 the last forty of the almost two thousand miles 
 of his journey. 
 
 At the general store and postoffice — a short 
 distance from Heathcote flag-station, he made in- 
 quiries about getting out to Cameron's Plain. 
 The information from the store-keeper was not 
 encouraging. "Ain't been nobody from that way 
 for quite a spell, stranger. Roads is somethin' 
 fierce, and the river is on the rampage just now, 
 and it takes a mighty good hoss to make it." 
 
 "How's chances for getting to the Plain, 
 Dan"?" he called to a man sitting on a nail keg. 
 Dan disposed of a mouthful of tobacco juice, and 
 
 207 
 
208 MASTERED MEN 
 
 wiped his lips with the back of his hand. " 'Taint 
 likely too bad as far as the Split Rock, but by 
 gosh! ye'd have some picnic to make the Cross- 
 ing." 
 
 The missionary was anxious to get to his new 
 charge as soon as possible, and when he discov- 
 ered that Dan had been frequently over the road, 
 he turned to him for advice as to the best way 
 of making the trip. Dan thought the Crossing 
 might be made on horseback, although the water 
 would be "darned cold" and a man might have 
 to do some swimming himself before he'd make 
 the other side. 
 
 "I've never ridden horseback," said the mis- 
 sionary hesitatingly, "and I have a good deal of 
 baggage that I shall need right away, for I am 
 going to 'bach.' " 
 
 Dan's curiosity was aroused — for visitors were 
 few and far between at Heathcote, and still 
 fewer at Cameron's Plain. While matters were 
 being more fully explained he eyed the stranger 
 critically, and kept his jaws steadily working on 
 his chewing tobacco. "O-o-o-oh!" he drawled, 
 "So you're the guy that's going to spout in the 
 Plain every Sunday ! I mind Billy Merrill sayin' 
 they was going to have a parson in the Spring. 
 Can't you stay here a spell 'till the roads dry 
 up a bit? If you'd ever seen the place you're 
 a-goin' to, you wouldn't be in such a gol-darn 
 
THE HERMIT 209 
 
 hurry to get there. 'Taint no place for a Chris- 
 tian to live in. Still if you're set on making the 
 trip, and willin' to risk your neck and can put 
 up the dough, I guess Jimmie Stevenson' 11 haul 
 you thar. He's got a pair of bronchos that'll pull 
 his old buckboard through fire and brimstone." 
 
 Jimmie was located at the blacksmith shop, 
 and was willing to make the trip for fifteen dol- 
 lars "seein' as how it was for the sky pilot." 
 "You can stay at our place to-night, and we'll 
 get an early start in the mornin'." Jimmie's 
 abode consisted of two rooms and the missionary 
 had the edge of a home-made bed which also 
 accommodated Jimmie and three children. 
 
 In the morning the household was astir early. 
 The visitor glanced around in search of a wash- 
 dish. One of his young bedfellows answered his 
 inquiries by conducting him to a hollowed log at 
 the rear of the house. The water in it looked 
 as though it had done service for many days. 
 After the wooden plug was drawn out however 
 and the primitive receptacle cleansed as far as 
 possible, the missionary refilled it and had his 
 morning wash. The boy watched the process 
 with a curiously interested gaze. The use of a 
 pocket-comb and mirror was to him a source of 
 surprise and amusement. When the missionary's 
 clean-up had ended the lad gave expression to his 
 pent-up feelings by a series of questions. 
 
210 MASTERED MEN 
 
 "Say, mister, how often do you wash like 
 that?" 
 
 "Every morning," was the amused reply. 
 
 "Every morning — like that; every morning?" 
 The affirmative answer only increased the lad's 
 wonder. After a moment's silence he continued, 
 "Say, mister, do you use soap every morning*?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, say, mister, how often do you pull that 
 thing all' over your hair?" 
 
 "I comb my hair three or four times each day, 
 I guess," was the reply. 
 
 This seemed almost incredible to the lad. 
 
 "You wash like that every, every morning? 
 An' you comb your hair four times every day?" 
 
 There was a long pause, and then the boy 
 added in a sympathetic tone: 
 
 "Say, mister, yous must be a pile of trouble to 
 yerself." 
 
 An hour later, the roping of the trunk to the 
 buckboard was completed, and with his wiry 
 little team of bronchos, Jimmie and the preacher 
 started on their long drive. 
 
 It did not take the preacher long to appreciate 
 the store-keeper's words that the roads were 
 "fierce." Never in his life had he been so jarred 
 and jerked and tumbled. He tried to keep 
 steady by clutching the back and front of the 
 seat, but again and again he was pitched well 
 
THE HERMIT 211 
 
 on to Jimmie's knee and then back with a painful 
 bump against the low iron rail. Several times 
 he came dangerously near to landing head-first 
 between the bronchos. The whole outfit, includ- 
 ing men and trunk, was a mass of mud. That 
 which had not been plastered by what the wheels 
 threw up was splashed by the plunging bronchos. 
 Both men were constantly wiping away the mud 
 from their faces. Here and there where wayward 
 streams from melting snows had made deep 
 ditches in the road, branches or logs had been 
 drawn in as a makeshift bridge, otherwise such 
 washouts would have been impassable. 
 
 About noon refreshment for men and beasts 
 was procured at a wayside shack. The occupant 
 was asked as to the condition of the road up to the 
 Crossing. He gave the disquieting information 
 that for the next five miles there was "no bot- 
 tom to it." For most of the way the best Jimmie 
 could do with Magpie and Buster was to keep 
 them at a walk. Gladly would he have given 
 them an occasional rest but he knew they must 
 be kept going, for to stop would mean a settling 
 into mud from which they would be unable to 
 extricate themselves. At last they neared the 
 Crossing. At most seasons of the year it was 
 the place at which the Green River could be 
 crossed without difficulty and in the Summer 
 
212 MASTERED MEN 
 
 with the aid of a few stepping-stones one could 
 easily make it on foot. 
 
 The road led straight to the bank of the river 
 at a point where there was a sharp curve directly 
 to the East for the gradual descent to the river- 
 bed. As soon as Jimmie was near enough to see 
 the height of the water he shook his head dubi- 
 ously and merely said: "By gum, I don't know.'* 
 
 Standing up he drove very carefully as he 
 neared the bank into which the current made in- 
 roads each spring. The bronchos appeared to 
 share Jimmie's anxiety for they picked their way 
 with unusual caution. 
 
 Jimmie had just decided to investigate on foot 
 before driving any further when one of his horses 
 stumbled and dropped. Instantly he knew there 
 had happened what he had feared — the rushing 
 river had again undermined the roadway at this 
 particular bend. A few seconds later the ground 
 gave way all around them and the team, buck- 
 board and men dropped three or four feet with 
 mud and soil dripping and falling on all sides. 
 Neither man was able to retain his seat and when 
 they struggled to their feet they would have been 
 unrecognizable by their best friends. 
 
 The bronchos plunged desperately and as they 
 crowded each other the tongue of the buckboard 
 got across the back of one of them and broke off 
 near the doubletree. For a moment or two the 
 
THE HERMIT 213 
 
 mud-covered men could do little more than cling 
 to the buckboard which was fast settling deeper 
 into the mire. 
 
 Jimmie knew that things would become still 
 more serious unless something was quickly done. 
 With much effort the traces were unfastened and 
 the neck-yoke released. In vigorous language he 
 yelled at his half buried team. As they tried to 
 respond he pulled sharply on the lines in an 
 endeavour to turn them in the direction from 
 which they had come, for to have gone ahead 
 would have taken them into the river at a point 
 where the water was too deep for safety. 
 
 It was difficult and dangerous work, and for 
 a time it looked as if both men and horses would 
 never get out of the little lake of mud into which 
 they seemed to be sinking deeper every minute. 
 
 " 'Taint no use you staying in this darned hole, 
 stranger, if you can plough your way out," was 
 Jimmie's word to the shivering, anxious preacher. 
 "The buckboard's likely here for the night and 
 maybe longer; but I've got to get the team out 
 soon or I'll lose 'em. If you can get out o' this, 
 make your way back to the first trail running 
 West. About forty rod along you'll come to Bill 
 Howe's place. Get him to bring his team and a 
 good rope. Tell him to hustle." 
 
 After much plunging and stumbling the 
 preacher managed to gain the level of the road- 
 
214 MASTERED MEN 
 
 way and with clothing heavy with water and 
 mud, dragged his way to the Howe ranch. 
 
 The bronchos, exhausted with their day's hard 
 drive, seemed unable to make the effort necessary 
 to get to higher ground. They were embedded 
 in mud to the haunches. Jimmie worked away 
 at the harness and unfastened or cut all off but 
 the bridles. He sought in vain to make more 
 solid footing for his team, but with the aid of a 
 piece of charred tree trunk he made a little better 
 slope to the side of the cave-in up which he was 
 endeavouring to get them. He was especially 
 concerned about his favorite driver "Magpie," 
 and by combined shouting and beating he eventu- 
 ally got her to the side of the road and tied her 
 to a poplar while he prepared to do what he 
 could for "Buster." 
 
 A few minutes later he heard the rattle of a 
 wagon and Bill Howe and his hired man ap- 
 peared. With the aid of a rope around his neck 
 and assistance from one of Bill's horses, Buster 
 was at last alongside of Magpie. The two ani- 
 mals gave a peculiar little whinny of pleasure at 
 the reunion. 
 
 An examination showed that Buster had corked 
 himself badly in his struggles and the wound 
 would need careful cleansing and bandaging. 
 
 Jimmie waded through the mud once more 
 and fastened the rope to the back of the buck- 
 
THE HERMIT 215 
 
 board and it was slowly hauled to higher ground 
 and the trunk transferred to the Howe waggon. 
 
 The following day, Jimmie and the mission- 
 ary, having made arrangements to use Bill Howe's 
 team, continued their journey. Buster's injured 
 fetlock needed rest and care. Bill's horses had 
 frequently made the Crossing and left to them- 
 selves would usually pick the best way. The 
 heavier waggon was deemed a safer conveyance 
 than the damaged buckboard. 
 
 A detour had to be made to avoid the danger- 
 ous bit of roadway and there were many rough 
 and difficult places to get over, but at last they 
 reached the river-bed. 
 
 Very slowly and cautiously the horses splashed 
 their way through the deepening water and in 
 several places it seemed as if the men were taking 
 foolish risks in attempting such a trip. 
 
 There were anxious moments when the waggon- 
 box touched the water and for a while the men's 
 feet had to be raised to the top of the dashboard. 
 The trunk had to be upended on a couple of 
 blocks and even then became submerged to the 
 extent of two or three inches. The missionary's 
 belongings had been banged and jarred in an ap- 
 parently most disastrous fashion and now a par- 
 tial soaking was being added to the probable 
 damage. 
 
 He regretted having been persuaded to bring 
 
216 MASTERED MEN 
 
 along certain breakables, and especially a jar of 
 black currant jam that his maiden Aunt had felt 
 to be very desirable "for Joey's throat." Hot 
 water added to black currant jam was her favor- 
 ite remedy for throat trouble. 
 
 Every stone they had struck since he left 
 Heathcote suggested the probable wanderings of 
 that jam, and with the addition of a little water 
 it would be likely to travel faster and farther. 
 But the trunk troubles were not yet ended. There 
 had been no thought of tying it to the heavy 
 waggon-box, for it could not move very far in any 
 event, and after it had been upended one of the 
 men had kept a hand on it. Suddenly however a 
 front wheel struck the base of a sloping rock and 
 made the ascent, and in a second or two the men 
 were clinging to the high side of the waggon seat 
 to keep themselves from being pitched into the 
 water. The trunk slid quickly and heavily 
 against the low side and somehow went over- 
 board. The men were too busy trying to save 
 themselves to know just how it happened but 
 they got part of the benefit of the splash and the 
 trunk was gone. The horses responded to Jim- 
 mie's yell as the waggon wheel, with a brutal 
 bump, dropped them from the top of the rock to 
 the level again. 
 
 The men looked helplessly in the direction of 
 the trunk. "My things will be ruined: I've 
 
THE HERMIT 217 
 
 books and pictures and papers that will be com- 
 pletely spoiled. How can we get it out quickly, 
 Mr. Stevenson^" Jimmie, removing his coat and 
 baring his arm, went to the end of the waggon 
 box. His efforts to move the trunk were unsuc- 
 cessful. He could just touch it but that was all. 
 He tried to back the horses but they objected to 
 going that way and besides the rock would have 
 prevented. "There aint no way of getting it 
 'cept to strip off and get in, but a man 'ud pretty 
 nigh freeze if he was in fer long," said Jimmie. 
 It was evident he himself had no particular de- 
 sire for a bath just then. 
 
 The missionary put his coat over the seat, and 
 removed most of his clothing. Never had water 
 looked more uninviting than that rushing muddy 
 stream, but — it was now or never if his "traps" 
 were to be of any use. Jimmie made a few sym- 
 pathetic remarks as his scantily-clad companion 
 moved nearer to where the trunk lay. One foot 
 was put over the edge of the waggon and into the 
 water, but the temperature caused a quick with- 
 drawal. Two or three other attempts were made 
 and then a foot got as far as the hub of the near 
 wheel. At last with a gasp that could not be 
 suppressed the missionary was standing in the 
 water. But it is one thing to stand in cold water 
 and altogether another thing to stoop low enough 
 to lift an object from the river bottom. It needed 
 
218 MASTERED MEN 
 
 several attempts to accomplish it and the mis- 
 sionary's teeth were chattering as Jimmie said 
 afterwards "like one of them there typewriters." 
 
 When the trunk was upended near to the wheel 
 Jimmie managed to get hold of the handle and 
 it soon rested in the waggon again. As he fol- 
 lowed his damaged belongings the shivering mis- 
 sionary said, "T-h-hat m-man D-d-an at Heath- 
 cote t-told me th-the wa-water would be d-darned 
 c-cold and he sp-poke the absolute truth." Jim- 
 mie smiled, and knew that for many a day he 
 would be able to entertain all and sundry persons 
 with the story of the preacher's trunk. 
 
 When the other side was reached the mission- 
 ary decided to walk for a while. He rarely used 
 slang but it seemed to relieve his feelings a little 
 as he looked up at Jim on the waggon-box and 
 said: "Sam Hill! this is some trip, believe me." 
 
 For nearly two miles he kept ahead of the 
 team, and travelling over rough roads soon 
 brought warmth to the body. The remaining two 
 miles he rode and walked by turns. 
 
 At last Jimmie Stevenson pointed ahead to a 
 little curl of smoke that was seen above a small 
 clump of scrubby trees. "Yon's Ronald Cam- 
 eron's place." 
 
 As they turned toward the clearance a boy ran 
 out to let down the poles for the team to enter, 
 
THE HERMIT 219 
 
 and Jimmie drove up to the low unpainted 
 weather-browned house of the Camerons. 
 
 It was a humble dwelling with only three 
 small windows. The doorway was so low that a 
 person of average height had to stoop to gain 
 entrance. 
 
 The arrival of the new minister caused a good 
 deal of confusion and embarrassment for a few 
 minutes, but Joseph Woods received a genuine 
 welcome to his new field of labour and Mrs. 
 Cameron's kind and motherly manner lightened 
 a good deal of the burden of the day. 
 
 The good-natured soul lifted her hands and 
 exhibited the palms in sympathetic astonishment 
 as she heard a part of the story of the new preach- 
 er's experience in getting to the Plain. 
 
 She bustled around and prepared Aleck's bed- 
 room for the missionary to get on some dry 
 clothes, and with profuse apologies for not hav- 
 ing had time to mend some of the articles placed 
 at his disposal she left him to make a change. 
 When he was clothed in Aleck's dry garments he 
 wondered if he looked as uncomfortable as he 
 felt. He explained to a friend sometime after 
 that he was "tickled to death" with Aleck's coarse 
 undergarments. 
 
 While Mrs. Cameron prepared the meal, the 
 missionary inspected the contents of his trunk. 
 
 When a man is undertaking such a work as 
 
220 MASTERED MEN 
 
 that to which Joseph Woods had gone, nothing 
 helps more than to get his room fixed up with 
 the things from home. But the condition of the 
 missionary's belongings was enough to make a 
 man weep. The sealer containing the black cur- 
 rant jam had not been able to stand the mishaps 
 of these eventful days, and with the exception 
 of two compartments in the trunk tray the jam 
 had visited in every direction. Mrs. Cameron 
 shook her head in sympathy but said hopefully: 
 "You just sit in and take a bite such as it is, and 
 I'll do what I can at your things and maybe they 
 won't be so awful bad after all. Get the wash 
 tub, Aleck, and put a few more sticks in the stove, 
 so we'll get a good drying fire." 
 
 During the evening the missionary talked 
 over the situation and got all the information 
 possible from the Camerons. 
 
 Yes he would have to "bach," for accommoda- 
 tion was the problem they had been unable to 
 solve. No one in the district had a spare room 
 and it had been understood that the preacher 
 would look after himself. Even for "baching" no 
 arrangements had as yet been made and no fur- 
 nishings were in sight. They informed him that 
 there was a one-roomed shack he could get and 
 that Aleck would drive him to take a look at it 
 after the chores were done the next morning. 
 A drive of nearly two miles shortly after break- 
 
THE HERMIT 221 
 
 fast the following day brought the missionary 
 to the only building in the whole district that was 
 available for his occupancy. It had once been 
 used as a granary, and was constructed entirely 
 of scantling and light clapboards. There was 
 no glass in the only window, and no fastening to 
 the crudely-made door. One end of the place 
 had no flooring, and at least a dozen gopher holes 
 were in sight. The little grey burrowers peeped 
 out now and again, and having had undisputed 
 possession for so long, uttered their protesting 
 squeak at the presence of the intruders. The 
 place was so dirty and so poorly constructed that 
 it seemed impossible as a place of human abode. 
 
 Yet, this was the only shelter provided for one 
 who was engaged in as big and noble a task as 
 the world offers. As he gazed upon the cheerless 
 shack, the young missionary had mingled feelings 
 of anger and disappointment. Was this the best 
 the Church and community could do for one who 
 was giving the choicest years of his life to the 
 service of God and man? Should he put up with 
 it? Was he justified in living half a mile from 
 his nearest neighbours in a building far inferior 
 to many a cattleshed or chicken coop? Surely it 
 was bad enough to be deprived of companionship, 
 or libraries, and of all the social advantages he 
 had formerly had, without putting up with a 
 shack in which a man could scarcely retain his 
 
222 MASTERED MEN 
 
 self-respect. This was the twentieth century and 
 it was neither necessary nor desirable that a 
 preacher should so live. 
 
 Perhaps Aleck surmised the missionary's 
 thoughts — "It ain't much of a place, but I guess 
 we could help you fix it up a bit. It wouldn't 
 be so awful bad if it was floored all over and got 
 some glass in the window. Guess we could have 
 a 'bee' and clean it up, and stop the roof from 
 leaking. I mind that end was leaking like a 
 sieve one day when I stood inside out of a storm. 
 Maybe we can get some glass that will keep the 
 wind out 'til we can drive to town and get regu- 
 lar panes." 
 
 The missionary tried to smile appreciatively, 
 but it was difficult. Aleck noticed it and con- 
 tinued — "The women- folks have been counting 
 on having a preacher for this long time, and 
 they'd be awful sore if you couldn't stay. They're 
 kind o' set on the thing. Kind o' anxious about 
 the kids, I guess. Don't seem right to them for 
 kids to grow up without a church." 
 
 At the moment the words had little effect upon 
 the missionary — the difficulties and privations 
 loomed large. 
 
 Few people can realize the loneliness, discour- 
 agement and discomfort of certain pioneer 
 mission-fields, to the city-bred man who for the 
 first time takes up such work, and it may as well 
 
THE HERMIT 22S 
 
 be said here that few people realize the joy that 
 comes to the missionary who has faced it all 
 uncomplainingly, and has entered into the life of 
 the people, and given them unstintingly of his 
 best. Between him and them there exists a sin- 
 gular and blessed attachment, and his visits to 
 some of the scattered settlers are the brightest 
 days of all the year. Many a benediction is pro- 
 nounced upon the man who listens and counsels, 
 and by Bible message and prayer seeks to bring 
 sustenance to some whose lives are burdened or 
 lonely almost beyond endurance. 
 
 After a few minutes silence the missionary 
 replied: "Well, I'm here, and if it's as hard to 
 get out as it was to get in, I shall have to stay 
 for a while anyway, and I'm much obliged for 
 your willingness to help, Aleck. If you think 
 you can get a few of the neighbours to give a 
 hand, why the sooner we get on the job the bet- 
 ter." 
 
 That night he thought it all over when the 
 household was asleep. For a while he almost 
 convinced himself that life was too short and 
 too precious to be wasted in such a dreary spot, 
 and on so few people. Then, to live so far away 
 from neighbours — could he, and should he en- 
 dure it*? And what a hole to be in in the case 
 of sickness! The nearest doctor forty miles 
 away! Even the thought of the night in such 
 
224 MASTERED MEN 
 
 a shell as the one they were planning he should 
 occupy gave him nervous chills. He had never 
 yet slept alone in any house — and to be half a 
 mile from another soul ! And then to cook, eat, 
 sleep and study in a place 10x14 — for that 
 was the measurement Aleck had taken for the 
 flooring. How could he stand it 4 ? Then the 
 long and lonely walks and drives, and at the end 
 of the day, — a shack such as that, with the added 
 burden of preparing his own meals when he came 
 home completely "tuckered out." 
 
 Then he seemed to see Aleck standing in the 
 doorway of the shack with his head turned from 
 him and saying in a half-apologetic tone, 
 as though the women were the only ones con- 
 cerned: "They're kind o' anxious about the kids, 
 I guess." 
 
 Yes, there were the boys and girls! Growing 
 up in a community without a church — but there 
 were only thirteen, all told! Thirteen boys and 
 girls! What could be done with thirteen? 
 
 Many other questions did Joseph Woods ask 
 himself through those night hours, as he lay on 
 a very uncomfortable improvised bed. 
 
 Then there came to him a passage that one of 
 the Church's evangelists had given him some 
 years before. He had been troubled about the 
 future, and Proverbs iii : 6 had given him confi- 
 dence: "In all thy ways acknowledge Him and 
 
THE HERMIT 225 
 
 He shall direct thy paths." Had the Divine 
 Hand led him here? He felt that he could say 
 "Yes" to that question. Was it just for a trip 
 to the West God had led him hither? Because 
 difficulties and discomforts had arisen did that 
 prove that he was in the wrong place? Had not 
 the one he called "Master" tried to make clear 
 to his followers that the path would be beset 
 with the very things of which he was complain- 
 ing? Had not God said "Forward" to His peo- 
 ple when obstacles seemed to make any progress 
 impossible? Was he complaining at the small- 
 ness of his opportunity? Were thirteen Sunday- 
 school scholars too few for one of his attain- 
 ments? How many had his Master in His train- 
 ing class by Galilee? 
 
 Before day dawned Joseph Woods knew that 
 He who had led him to Cameron's Plain would 
 sustain him there, and he could face the future 
 with courage. Yes, with God's help he would 
 stay. The old Superintendent should have no 
 regrets for sending him into hitherto unoccupied 
 territory. 
 
 The day-school scholars carried home the word 
 of the preacher's arrival, and that the first serv- 
 ice would be held in the schoolhouse on Sunday 
 at three o'clock. 
 
 It was a great Sabbath for the faithful few 
 who had appealed for a missionary. Many a 
 
226 MASTERED MEN 
 
 sacred memory was revived as psalm and hymn 
 and prayer and sermon formed part of the wor- 
 ship. The singing was poor from the musical 
 standpoint and to the children there was a 
 strangeness about this their first service that pre- 
 vented them from taking any part, but the older 
 folk found their voices in "Unto the hills" for 
 "Sandon" was familiar to them all. Little was 
 said, but at the close of worship several went 
 away with thankful and happier hearts. 
 
 Joseph Woods kept his promise to his Master 
 and faithfully toiled through the weeks and 
 months although his work was beset with diffi- 
 culties in many directions. Day by day he came 
 into contact with the scattered settlers and many 
 a soul was the better for the sympathy and help 
 he was able to give. 
 
 "Ever been to see the Hermit'?" asked Ronald 
 Cameron one day as he met the missionary trudg- 
 ing along the road. "The Hermit? Who's he?" 
 
 "Well, he's a queer sort of chap that lives a 
 mile or so back of Dan Taylor's place. Nobody 
 knows anything about him. He sort of dropped 
 in here two or three years ago and don't seem 
 to want anybody to go near him, but maybe you 
 could get him out of his shell a bit if you took 
 him the right way. The only place he goes is to 
 the store at the Corners and he most generally 
 goes there when nobody else is around. Jack 
 
THE HERMIT 227 
 
 Graham says he wouldn't want a decenter fellow 
 to deal with." 
 
 A few days later the missionary located the 
 rarely travelled road leading to the Hermit's 
 abode — a low, log building, almost hidden by 
 weeds and brush. A few articles of clothing were 
 napping on a line near the back door, and the 
 Hermit, quite unaware of the approach of the 
 visitor, was engaged in the skinning of a rabbit 
 — a job to which he was evidently not accus- 
 tomed. 
 
 A cheery "Good afternoon" from Mr. Woods 
 caused him to look up and a shadow of displeas- 
 ure crossed his face as he responded with little 
 more than a growl. "It's many a day since I've 
 seen a rabbit skinned," began Mr. Woods, quite 
 ignoring the Hermit's lack of cordiality. "I've 
 chipped the skin off many a one in the Old Coun- 
 try. We counted rabbits quite a delicacy when 
 I was a boy." 
 
 "Blamed miserable job," said the Hermit in a 
 surly voice. 
 
 "I see you've got two of them. Would you 
 mind if I did the other one?' While asking the 
 question he took his knife from his pocket and 
 picked up the second rabbit. Tying the two hind 
 feet together he hung it on a nail at the side of 
 the building. Quickly he slit the skin on the 
 under side and disposed of everything but the 
 
228 MASTERED MEN 
 
 heart. A few other cuts around the feet and he 
 was pulling off the skin almost as easily as one 
 might peel a banana. A cut or two at the head 
 and the skin was in one piece and the job done. 
 The Hermit without a thank you or a smile 
 merely muttered, "I've been at this other bloom- 
 ing thing over an hour." There was a moment's 
 silence and then the missionary said: "My name is 
 Woods; I'm holding services at Cameron's Plain 
 and Shell Creek every Sunday and doing what I 
 can to give a hand through the week. Might I 
 ask your name?' 
 
 "A man's name doesn't matter," replied the 
 Hermit surlily. 
 
 "Not a particle," said the missionary. "I 
 thought as I was passing I'd just call for a bit 
 of a chat. I like to get acquainted as far as I 
 can. I'd got to get somewhere for a bite of 
 supper and I wondered if I could have it here." 
 
 The Hermit for the first time looked squarely 
 into the missionary's face and Joseph Woods 
 burst into a little laugh and said, "Perhaps you 
 admire my cheek, but I'd like to help you cook 
 and eat one of those rabbits. I keep 'bach' my- 
 self." 
 
 The Hermit with a trifle less churlishness than 
 he had previously manifested, muttered "Come 
 in." 
 
 Joseph Woods felt at once that he was in the 
 
THE HERMIT 229 
 
 presence of a man who had formerly lived under 
 very different circumstances and who had for 
 some reason or other deliberately withdrawn him- 
 self from his accustomed sphere of life. 
 
 The Hermit appeared to be about forty years 
 old. A mass of hair crowned a well-shaped head, 
 and the face, despite its severity, was markedly 
 intelligent. 
 
 For the next hour the time dragged heavily. 
 The missionary's questions and remarks were re- 
 plied to brusquely and briefly. At last everything 
 was ready and the two men sat down to the 
 evening meal. 
 
 Although feeling some slight embarrassment 
 at remaining, Joseph Woods felt constrained to 
 try to get a little nearer to this silent man's life. 
 
 A picture or two on the wall, a solid leather 
 portmanteau in a corner, a small row of books 
 quite unusual in such a district; what appeared 
 to be a portable organ, a stack of sheet music on 
 a shelf — these things in such a place told Joseph 
 Woods that the Hermit had a "past." 
 
 "Is that an organ*?" he asked at length. 
 
 "Yes," was the reply. 
 
 "Well! well! I haven't seen one since I left 
 the East. They tell me there isn't a piano or 
 organ in this whole district. The children 
 around here have never seen one." 
 
 In a strangely different voice to his former 
 
230 MASTERED MEN 
 
 tone, the Hermit asked slowly and with a slight 
 quiver, "Did you ever hear one played?" 
 
 Joseph Woods responded quickly. "Many a 
 time! and I've tried my hand at it occasionally. 
 I like an organ for sacred music rather than a 
 piano. To my mind it expresses the soul better." 
 
 "Expresses the soul better; expresses the soul 
 better." The Hermit moved over to the little 
 organ as he repeated the words. "You said you'd 
 heard one played. I wonder if you ever did?" 
 It seemed a peculiar remark at the moment for 
 the tone in which the words were uttered clearly 
 implied that the Hermit had his doubts. As he 
 asked the question he lifted the cover of the in- 
 strument and began to play. 
 
 Perhaps the surroundings had something to do 
 with it, perhaps the shadows of the evening 
 added their charm, but for almost an hour the 
 missionary listened to music such as he believed 
 he had never before heard. The Hermit seemed 
 to forget the presence of his visitor and Joseph 
 Woods had no intention of disturbing this 
 strangely secretive man as he "expressed his 
 soul." It hardly seemed possible that within so 
 small a compass as a tiny reed organ such ex- 
 pressive and soul-moving harmonies could be 
 brought forth. And as he listened on while twi- 
 light deepened into darkness he knew there were 
 
THE HERMIT 231 
 
 great possibilities in the life of this lonely man. 
 He recalled the lines of a great poet : 
 
 "Understand Sonora Hinda that the tunes are in me, 
 They are not in the lute till I put them there." 
 
 Through those plaintive chords the Hermit had 
 suggested much that would never have come from 
 his lips. 
 
 At length he ceased. Turning round to the 
 missionary he said in a calm, quiet voice, "Music 
 is the medicine of the breaking heart." 
 
 When Mr. Woods left the shack the hermit 
 held out his hand. "Drop around again if you 
 care to, but don't bring anybody along, and no 
 need to say anything of what has gone on here 
 to-night." 
 
 Ten days later the missionary made his way 
 back to the Hermit's dwelling. The reception, if 
 not cordial, was at least civil, and the Hermit 
 later on invited him to stay the night. 
 
 As the night fell Mr. Woods suggested the use 
 of the organ. "Do you sing?" "Sing? Sing?" 
 The words were repeated with the first approach 
 to a laugh — a hard sort of laugh — that the Her- 
 mit had given. "Yes, Yes! I did sing once; 
 Drury Lane, Haymarket, Alhambra, Exeter 
 Hall, Royal Albert Hall, Metropolitan, Grand." 
 He added the names of these famous theatres and 
 
232 MASTERED MEN 
 
 concert halls with no other comment or explan- 
 ation. 
 
 As long as he lived Joseph Woods never for- 
 got that night of song. It was an experience 
 that more than compensated him for all the pri- 
 vations of those nine months in Cameron's Plain. 
 The best selections from oratorios and operas as 
 well as simpler songs were given with a finish, 
 and skill and power that kept the missionary 
 spellbound. When the singer finished, Joseph 
 Woods put his hand on the Hermit's shoulder and 
 said, "I want you to sing that last song in the 
 schoolhouse next Sunday: it's a sin, a downright 
 sin for you to keep quiet. Give us a lift. I'll 
 call for you and we'll take the organ along." 
 
 Donald Cameron could scarcely believe it 
 when the missionary told him the Hermit was go- 
 ing to sing in church service the next Sunday 
 afternoon. "You don't say! You don't say!" 
 he repeated again and again. 
 
 And the Hermit kept his word. He was ready 
 for the service when Joseph Woods called. His 
 clothing that Sunday was not the clothing of the 
 backwoods, and his whole bearing was that of 
 a gentleman. 
 
 The little schoolhouse was crowded, and the 
 portable organ was almost as much an object of 
 interest and conversation as the Hermit himself. 
 Twice the singer "lifted," as Mr. Woods ex- 
 
THE HERMIT 233 
 
 pressed it, the audience out of themselves "into 
 gladder and holier realms." 
 
 For several weeks the Hermit placed his won- 
 derful musical gifts at the disposal of the com- 
 munity and the missionary grew more and more 
 attached to the "queer sort of chap" Donald 
 Cameron had led him to discover. 
 
 One cold night as he sat with the Hermit, with 
 only the little light from the front damper of 
 the wood stove reflected upon their faces the 
 lonely man told his story. 
 
 He had risen from his seat and felt for a 
 volume on his bookshelf. From below the front 
 cover he took out a photograph and held it to 
 the light at the base of the stove. 
 
 "That's the picture of the girl for whom I 
 sang and lived — and have suffered," he added 
 slowly and sadly. The first time I saw her was 
 when we were playing "Tannhauser" in a city 
 in the Midland counties. She had been brought 
 from London to fill the place of one of the lead- 
 ing ladies who had been taken down with pneu- 
 monia. She was a favorite understudy of the 
 manager's and she did the part well. She was 
 a bright little creature with one of the merriest 
 laughs you ever heard. She was always ele- 
 gantly dressed and was one of those girls who 
 knew exactly what to wear and just how to put 
 it on. Most of the men were quick to pay her 
 
234 MASTERED MEN 
 
 attention and she was pampered and flattered 
 and entertained by them all. 
 
 "To cut the story short I won out, and in less 
 than three months we were married in a Ken- 
 sington Church. I fixed up a pretty fine apart- 
 ment in the Bayswater district, as I didn't want 
 her to be on the road unless for some special per- 
 formance. The theatrical business is a hard life 
 for a young girl, and I wasn't anxious to have 
 her placed in the compromising positions that 
 it's not easy to avoid, especially as there was no 
 place for her in my own company just then. 
 
 "But she wanted to keep in touch with the 
 profession, and was keen on getting on to the 
 stage as often as she could. I agreed to her 
 keeping up a couple of parts and to her singing 
 occasionally. Of course I had to be away from 
 home most of the time but I planned dates so 
 as to visit her as often as I could and two or 
 three all-week stands I had her come along. She 
 kept at me to let her go into the business and 
 she had prepared a pretty good "turn" for a good 
 class of vaudeville, but I tried all I could to keep 
 her from it for I didn't want her in it again. 
 
 "During the first six months of our married 
 life if I wrote that I'd arrive at Paddington she 
 alwajrs met me there, or if I came to one of the 
 more central stations, I'd take the underground 
 to Praed St., which was near the apartments, and 
 
THE HERMIT 235 
 
 she'd have everything fixed up and be right on 
 hand to welcome me. 
 
 "Then for a while she wasn't able to meet me, 
 but I went home all the oftener and did what I 
 could to add to her comfort. Over a year went 
 by and each time I returned she seemed to be less 
 glad to see me. I never 'fell' to the things that 
 have ruined hundreds of men in the profession 
 and I was saving all I could, hoping to make her 
 comfortable in a suburban home after a few 
 years. I loved kids and was glad when we had a 
 baby girl, but it seemed to worry her quite a bit, 
 and I felt badly when she told me that she wished 
 the baby hadn't been born as it would interfere 
 too much with her liberty. 
 
 "Things dragged on for a year or so and I sup- 
 pose neither of us had much pleasure in our home 
 life. Perhaps I was to blame — maybe I left her 
 alone too much, but at any rate we seemed to 
 get farther apart and there wasn't the confidence 
 in one another that there should have been. I 
 felt it and yet I could not bring myself to talk 
 it over with her. 
 
 "I loved her through it all, but she made so 
 little response to any attentions I paid her that 
 perhaps without intending it I may have grown 
 less considerate than I should have been. Yet 
 I was all the time hoping things would come out 
 right and after life on the road for fifteen years 
 
236 MASTERED MEN 
 
 I looked forward to settling down in a home of 
 our own. 
 
 "One day in the early summer I returned at 
 the week-end, having planned a bit of a holiday 
 up in the Windermere district. I thought it 
 would do her and the baby good to take a couple 
 of weeks at one of the lakeside hotels. I had 
 made up my mind to try to get any misunder- 
 standings cleared up and to tell her that after 
 the next season's contract I would take no more 
 engagements that would keep me away from 
 home. 
 
 "When I reached the apartment, she was out, 
 but she had left a letter on my desk." 
 
 The Hermit was silent for a moment and the 
 missionary glancing up saw painful memories re- 
 flected upon his face. In a voice that revealed 
 more emotion than he had yet shown, he con- 
 tinued, "She was gone! — told me married life 
 in an apartment was too tame. Said I had bet- 
 ter not try to find her as it would not help 
 matters. I tell you it was staggering news and 
 I could scarcely believe my eyes, when I read 
 that she had left our baby girl in a children's 
 home. She asked me to make what arrangements 
 I wished for the future and reminded me that 
 she never wanted the child and could not be 
 bothered caring for her. 
 
 "The next two days were hell for me, and I 
 
THE HERMIT 237 
 
 went around half dazed, scarcely knowing what 
 to do. I had my faults, but God knows I did 
 not deserve that kind of treatment. I was hu- 
 miliated and angry and decided that I would 
 have to pull out of the old city and get away 
 from everybody. I made arrangements for the 
 proper care of the baby and then booked an ocean 
 passage and from that day for many a month I 
 spoke to no one unless it was an absolute neces- 
 sity. My heart was hard and hot against every- 
 body. I felt I had been brutally deceived and 
 that I would trust nobody again. It doesn't 
 matter how I got here, but here I am, and the 
 world to me has seemed about as cheerful a place 
 as a hugh graveyard. God only knows what the 
 end of it will be." 
 
 With a sigh of despair, the heartsick man 
 pushed his chair over to the table, and resting his 
 head on his forearms, said, bitterly, "Oh, my 
 God, but I am sick of it all !" 
 
 Far into the night the two men talked, ex- 
 changing such confidences as men only do in 
 hours of darkness. 
 
 Joseph Woods said comparatively little, but 
 let the disappointed and forsaken man fully un- 
 burden his heavy heart. At times the Hermit's 
 language was bitter and hopeless. "Life," he 
 said, "was nothing but deception and torture 
 and heartbreak." 
 
238 MASTERED MEN 
 
 It was early morning before he suggested re- 
 tiring. When he did so, Joseph Woods said 
 quietly, "I haven't bothered you much with talk 
 about religion, but I'd like to close the night as 
 we always did at home — with reading and 
 prayer. I suppose you have no objection?" He 
 put his hand to his vest pocket and drew out his 
 testament. "My heart aches for you, and I wish 
 I could help you, but the burden is one you have 
 to carry pretty much alone. I do believe, how- 
 ever, that this little book holds the solution of 
 every man's problems." 
 
 The Hermit made no reply and Joseph Woods 
 read a few verses from several different books, 
 closing with the Master's invitation to those who 
 would find rest unto their souls. The brief 
 prayer that followed was tender, with the yearn- 
 ing of one who longed to see his troubled fellow 
 man cast all his care upon God. 
 
 As they rose to their feet the Hermit held out 
 his hand, and clasping that of the missionary 
 merely uttered a subdued "Good night." Only 
 two quietly spoken words and a handclasp, but 
 Joseph Woods knew that the Master's words and 
 a human petition had not been uttered in vain. 
 
 As he left the lonely dwelling on the follow- 
 ing morning, he reminded the Hermit that they 
 were looking forward to another solo on the com- 
 
THE HERMIT 239 
 
 ing Sunday. "I don't know — perhaps," was all 
 the reply he received. 
 
 The following Sabbath when he entered the 
 schoolhouse the Hermit was standing near the 
 door. "Yes, Til sing, just this once," he whis- 
 pered in response to the question as to a solo. 
 
 To this day the people of Cameron's Plain talk 
 of the Hermit's solo on that Sunday afternoon. 
 It was what some term "only a gospel hymn," 
 
 "I was a wandering sheep, 
 I did not love the fold." 
 
 but as the song continued the people seemed to 
 see the weary wanderings of a wayward soul, and 
 the Hermit's voice had in it a pathos if not a 
 penitence that caused Joseph Woods to wipe 
 away tear after tear. Never had he seen a con- 
 gregation so affected by any song, and ere it 
 closed he experienced that heaven-born thrill that 
 comes to a man when he feels a soul is being 
 re-born. The Hermit came to the last stanza 
 with a vocal triumph that was born of the faith 
 of a wanderer who had turned again home. 
 There was confidence and confession as the clos- 
 ing words rang out, 
 
 "But now I love the Shepards voice, 
 I love, I love the fold." 
 
 As Joseph Woods shook the hands of the de- 
 parting congregation, many a quiet word was 
 
240 MASTERED MEN 
 
 spoken to him that convinced him of the pcwer 
 of the song. When the Hermit passed out he 
 clasped his hand and in a low voice said fer- 
 vently, "God bless you. You preached a greater 
 sermon than I ever could." 
 
 Topics of conversation were not numerous in 
 Cameron's Plain, and all that week the Hermit's 
 song was spoken of throughout the entire dis- 
 trict. Those who were not present were con- 
 vinced something wonderful had taken place, and 
 in anticipation of a repetition the schoolhouse on 
 the next Sunday was packed as never before. 
 To the disappointment of all, the Hermit was 
 not present. 
 
 Joseph Woods planned to visit him ere many 
 days had passed, for he felt assured that the song 
 was the beginning of a new day for the heart- 
 sore occupant of the isolated shack„ 
 
 Calling at the postoffice for his weekly mail 
 on the following day, he received one letter in 
 unfamiliar handwriting. It was from a town 
 two hundred miles away. This is what he read: 
 
 "Dear Mr. Woods, by when you receive 
 this, I shall be several hundred miles away 
 and it is unlikely we shall ever meet again. 
 It is not easy for a man of my type to ac- 
 knowledge his folly, but you have helped me 
 to see life differently. Keep at your job. 
 
THE HERMIT 241 
 
 You are putting up a good game. I'd like 
 you to have the little organ. You may find 
 use for it in your meetings. I hated to leave 
 it behind, for it was my only friend through 
 many a lonely day. If there is anything 
 else in the shack that you can use, please 
 take it. I shall be glad to have you dispose 
 of the other things as you see best. As I 
 wanted to slip away quietly, I am giving you 
 this trouble. It was cowardly and cruel of 
 me to leave my baby girl, and I am going 
 back, God helping me, to do my duty as a 
 father — and who knows but Madge may yet 
 return and complete the home I am going to 
 make. You prayed for me one night, will 
 you keep it up? Please remember also 
 Madge and the little girl. 
 
 Yours gratefully, 
 
 H. J. S." 
 
 Joseph Woods drove to the Hermit's shack 
 early the following morning. Things were much 
 as on his former visits except that a heap of ashes 
 outside showed that books and papers had been 
 burned. He searched in vain for something that 
 would reveal the Hermit's identity. In the mid- 
 dle of the table on a slip of paper so placed as 
 to indicate that it was intended for his perusal 
 were these words : — 
 
24& MASTERED MEN 
 
 "Though I forget Him, and wander away, 
 Still He doth love me wherever I stray. 
 Back to his dear loving arms would I flee, 
 When I remember that Jesus loves me." 
 
 The stanza was part of a hymn used just pre- 
 ceding the Hermit's last solo in the schoolhouse. 
 It seemed probable that its appeal had reached 
 the Hermit's heart and that he had voiced his 
 response in the never-to-be-forgotten solo, and 
 subsequently had carried out his decision by re- 
 turning to seek those for whom he had "sung, 
 and lived, and suffered." 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE MAKING OF ROSS K. 
 
 The general Superintendent of Home Missions 
 had visited the college and had made one of his 
 heart-stirring appeals for winter supply in a par- 
 ticularly lonely and needy district. To lose a 
 term at College was farthest from Henry 
 Weaver's desire, but after the old Doctor's ap- 
 peal he had offered to do it, and now for three 
 days he had been travelling with intermingled 
 hope and fear to take up the work to which he 
 had been appointed. At midnight he was due to 
 arrive at a certain insignificant flag-station. 
 Shortly after twelve o'clock the brakeman came 
 through the car to tell him that in a few minutes 
 the train would be at Lorimo. "We may not 
 come to a dead stop, 'cause it's an up-grade, and 
 the engineer likes to keep going, but he'll slow 
 up enough for you to get off." 
 
 The two men stood on the platform as the 
 train drew near to a station that seemed little 
 larger than a piano-box. "This is Lorimo. 
 Can you make the jump? There's a bit of 
 platform right here — better get a move on and 
 
 243 
 
244 MASTERED MEN 
 
 you'll hit it." The student made the jump in 
 safety. The brakeman swung his lantern and the 
 engineer answered the signal. With the rear 
 lights of the train rapidly rushing away from 
 him, the missionary stood in the lonely, lifeless 
 clearance, never having felt more absolutely 
 alone. 
 
 A moment or two later he heard the jingle of 
 a bell and then a voice asking if he was the new 
 preacher. "I dasn't leave my hoss: guess you 
 can make for here all right." 
 
 After a cold five-mile drive he was shown his 
 sleeping quarters in a pioneer's shack. In the 
 morning he awakened from a deep sleep with 
 agitated feelings. He had a hazy sort of idea 
 that something fearful was taking place. There 
 were strange noises that might suggest anything 
 from a fire to a murder. Later on he discovered 
 it was the regular accompaniment to the waking 
 and arising of the ten children. His new board- 
 ing house presented a fine opportunity in which 
 to begin his home mission work. 
 
 The little folks enjoyed the novelty of having 
 a preacher board with them, and when his trunk 
 arrived the following day the unpacking was an 
 occasion of wonderful interest. During later 
 days there was much inspection of his posses- 
 sions, especially when he was absent on his visit- 
 ing tours. His room door had no such safeguard 
 
THE MAKING OF ROSS K. 245 
 
 as a lock, and one day in the absence of the father 
 and mother he returned to find the children 
 greatly enjoying a procession, each attired in one 
 or more of his garments. Many of his illustrated 
 books still contain pencilled additions by the lit- 
 tle artists of that home. 
 
 The missionary's territory was extensive and 
 involved long walks and drives. Although he 
 tramped continuously it was nearly three months 
 before he had visited all the settlers under his 
 pastoral care. 
 
 On one occasion, planning to visit a log school- 
 house where there was an attendance of ten or 
 twelve children he asked a lad in the home some 
 questions regarding the school. "Is your teacher 
 a lady or a gentleman?' "Tain't neither," was 
 the reply. "It's just Margaret Stewart." Mar- 
 garet happened to be the daughter of a well- 
 known settler and so could not qualify for any 
 such classification as the missionary's question 
 suggested. 
 
 It was in the school mentioned that a staunch 
 old Scotch preacher undertook some catechizing. 
 The missionary had not been "strong" on the 
 Shorter Catechism, and the old gentleman dis- 
 covered it when he questioned the boys and girls, 
 and thereafter administered kindly reproof. 
 When however he started in this particular school 
 things seemed more hopeful. "I wonder," he be- 
 
246 MASTERED MEN 
 
 gan, as He rubbed his hands together, "if any 
 little boy or girl knows the catechism*?" There 
 was no response, so he continued. "Well, per- 
 haps you can answer the first question: "What 
 is the chief end of man?" A dirty hand shot 
 up and waved for his attention. "Ah! here is 
 a little boy who knows: stand up my boy and 
 give the class the answer." With a clear-voiced 
 confidence the boy answered, "Please sir, it's the 
 head end." 
 
 No Sunday Schools had ever been held until 
 the missionary's coming, and the settlers being 
 few and far between it was not easy to get them 
 started. 
 
 It was late spring before the one was com- 
 menced to which Ross K. came. Ross and his 
 brother never missed a Sunday. They came from 
 a very poor and a very dirty home almost four 
 miles from the tiny building where the service 
 was held. The missionary became greatly in- 
 terested in these two attentive, obedient, respect- 
 ful boys, and pitied them because of their sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 About three months before he was to return 
 to College a lady living in an Eastern city wrote 
 asking if he knew of any poor parents who would 
 be willing to send their boy East for an educa- 
 tion. Having no children of their own she and 
 her husband would give such a boy a home and 
 
THE MAKING OF ROSS K. 24M 
 
 would meet all the financial requirements. At 
 once the missionary's thoughts were turned to 
 Ross and his brother, and he resolved to see the 
 parents and discuss with them the offer he had 
 received. Early the following morning he started 
 his journey. It was late in the afternoon before 
 he reached the wretched home. The father had 
 gone to the village and would not likely be back 
 until dark. 
 
 There were only a few places in the district 
 where the student felt it impossible to eat or 
 sleep and this was one of them. He therefore 
 decided that he could not wait for the father's 
 return, but must talk the matter over with the 
 mother. 
 
 There were seven children in the home — three 
 of them seemed almost babies, and the two oldest 
 were the boys who attended the Sunday School. 
 All the children were dirty and untidy and the 
 mother seemed to have lost heart and interest 
 and just dragged herself languidly along from 
 day to day. "You must excuse the place, sir," 
 she said, as she wearily kicked into a corner from 
 various parts of the floor, articles of clothing that 
 were little better than so many filthy rags. "I 
 can't keep up to the work any more. What with 
 the children, and the chores, and the cow, and me 
 sick most of the time, I am not equal to it." She 
 
248 MASTERED MEN 
 
 seated herself dejectedly on a rough bench and 
 rested her elbows on the table. 
 
 "If it wasn't for the children I'd be glad to die 
 right now. You think it is wrong of me to 
 say that do you"? God knows it's time I had a 
 rest somewhere: I'll never get it here! Ten 
 years! O God! the loneliness of most of them! 
 I married in the East," then in a low and bitter 
 voice she said, "I'm one of those who married in 
 haste, and Heaven knows I've repented for well 
 nigh ten years. I thought I was marrying a man 
 — I married a brute. Maybe you know his na- 
 tionality — anyhow it doesn't matter. It's many 
 a day since I've been able to laugh. Here I am 
 buried alive fifteen hundred miles from any rela- 
 tive. I just couldn't and I daren't have any of 
 my people come out here, and I have neither 
 money nor clothing to get East, and anyhow I 
 couldn't leave the children. I saw you looking 
 at my skirt when you came in. Never mind 
 apologizing about it. When I asked him to buy 
 
 me just one dress, he said — 'Go to , do you 
 
 think I'm made of money?' The only way I 
 could keep clothes was to cut up some flour sacks. 
 Nobody comes near me, and maybe they're not 
 to blame. But it's hard to bear all the same. 
 You see he's ugly to most everybody, and people 
 know I get all the more abuse if they come 
 around. I haven't seen even a neighbour since 
 
THE MAKING OF ROSS K. 249 
 
 the baby came two months ago. Mrs. Ramsey- 
 was here to help me for two days — that's all. 
 
 "Oh, I know I shouldn't be telling all this, but 
 I can't help it. Sometimes I feel as if I could 
 kill myself, and get it finished quickly instead of 
 this slow process. But then sometimes I try to 
 think that things will get better some day — 
 maybe when the children grow up — or maybe in 
 another world. If I thought this was all my life 
 was to be I think I should go mad. 
 
 "Maybe you wouldn't think it, but in Ontario 
 in my younger days I was active in home mission- 
 ary work. Many a box and bale I've helped pack 
 for the 'pioneer fields.' I never thought I'd be 
 among the 'needy pioneers.' The missionaries 
 we've had haven't come near us very much. 
 Maybe the neighbours warn them to stay away, 
 and I know it's hard to get here in the fall or 
 spring. You see this is a blind road, and no one 
 but him and the children uses it from Martin's 
 as far as here." 
 
 One of the children lying on the floor started 
 crying so loudly that further conversation was 
 impossible for a few minutes. When the mother 
 took the child in her arms the missionary saw 
 the cause of the outcry. The little one was re- 
 pulsively scrofulous and the face badly swollen 
 by abscesses. Evidently no special effort had 
 been made to bring relief. "Last night," said 
 
250 MASTERED MEN 
 
 the mother, "she cried something awful and she 
 must have had a lot of pain — it seems to come 
 on suddenly — a sort of throbbing, then sometimes 
 she shivers quite a bit." The missionary's heart 
 was touched at the sight of the poor little suf- 
 ferer. He promised to get some linseed-meal 
 from town and in the meantime the mother was 
 glad to follow his instructions in the use of bran 
 poultices. "The larger abscess seems to be near 
 pointing," said the missionary, "and needs to be 
 lanced. Could you not get her to the doctor?" 
 Tears filled the mother's eyes: "Oh, I'd hate to 
 have her poor little cheek cut; and then I'm not 
 fit to go anywhere, sir, and he" (meaning her 
 husband) "wouldn't take her." She pressed the 
 dirty suffering child nearer to her shoulder and 
 with mingled bitterness and tenderness said, "My 
 poor little Mary — she has had a hard time ever 
 since she came." 
 
 "But something must be done to relieve the 
 poor child," was the reply. "How far away is 
 the nearest doctor?" 
 
 "Seventeen miles, sir." 
 
 "I'll see him to-night or in the morning," said 
 the missionary. "Perhaps he has some calls in 
 this direction and could come soon." The 
 mother feared the husband's wrath if any ex- 
 pense were incurred, but the missionary whose 
 
THE MAKING OF ROSS K. 251 
 
 "heart was a good deal larger than his pocketbook 
 assured her that he would look after that. 
 
 Before leaving, he referred to the Eastern 
 friends who wanted the opportunity of educat- 
 ing a worthy boy from a district where educa- 
 tional advantages were few. He knew no boy 
 who was more deserving than Ross and his con- 
 duct and interest at the Sunday School had made 
 him feel there was a hopeful future for the lad 
 if only he could get a fair chance. Did she think 
 Ross would be willing to go, and would they be 
 willing to let him. 
 
 The very thought was at first impossible. 
 Burdened as she was and overburdened with chil- 
 dren as a stranger might think her to be the loss 
 of one could not be considered, and yet, as the 
 missionary talked she asked herself what chance 
 the boys had where they were. Even the pain 
 of the separation should and must be borne if it 
 would give Ross a fair chance. And surely, she 
 told herself, she could suffer still a little more if 
 only her boy could be given an opportunity to 
 be properly educated amid decent surroundings. 
 Perhaps an answer could be given to the mis- 
 sionary the next time he called. 
 
 The shadows of evening were falling when the 
 visitor left the shack, but he determined to get 
 as far on his way to the doctor's as possible. 
 Travelling however was necessarily slow, for 
 
252 MASTERED MEN 
 
 even at the best season the roads were rough. 
 The painworn face of the little child continued 
 to make its appeal as the darkness deepened and 
 he decided to make the whole journey and reach 
 the doctor that night. When he arrived the doc- 
 tor was out, but an hour later the much travelled 
 buggy drew up at the office door. Two or three 
 patients received attention first. Then the doc- 
 tor nodded to the missionary to enter the con- 
 sultation room. Although very weary he greeted 
 the missionary kindly and spoke appreciatively of 
 the mission work being done in the outlying dis- 
 tricts. Constant acquaintance with suffering had 
 not dulled his sympathy, and he listened pa- 
 tiently to the missionary's narrative, of the condi- 
 tion of the child in the wretched home seventeen 
 miles away. "Yes, certainly, I'll go, Mr. Weaver, 
 although I'm driven nearly to death. Still I'll 
 manage it somehow. There should be another 
 doctor in this district. I've tried to persuade 
 someone to come here, but it's too out-of-the-way 
 for most of the young fellows, and the drives 
 are too long for an older man. It seems a hard 
 thing to admit, but several people who died 
 around here this last year might be living yet if 
 they could have received proper medical atten- 
 tion. I simply couldn't get around to them all. 
 There was one week during the epidemic that I 
 scarcely closed an eye. I do my best, but we all 
 
THE MAKING OF ROSS K. 253 
 
 have our physical limitations. If I have another 
 fall and winter like the last I'll be beneath the 
 sod myself. 
 
 "How would you like to drive out with me 
 to-morrow? I've several calls to make, but we'll 
 take the team and we could probably get out to 
 see your youngster early in the afternoon and get 
 back here for supper. We'll be glad to have you 
 stay here to-night and we can get a fairly early 
 start in the morning." 
 
 About mid-afternoon on the following day 
 they reached the home of the Kazakoffs. The 
 father hearing of their coming had purposely left 
 the family alone. The sad-eyed mother could 
 not greet them gladly for she was timorous and 
 anxious about her little Mary. The doctor ex- 
 amined the shrinking child as the mother held 
 her on her knee. He stepped back to his case 
 and took out a lance. With a sigh he whispered 
 to the missionary "I still hate to cause a child 
 pain, but that's a terrible face, and it's the only 
 thing that will bring quick relief." He held the 
 child a moment on his knee. There was a pierc- 
 ing cry from the little one — a cry that brought 
 more tears to the mother's eyes — and the doctor 
 wiped off the lanced but relieved cheek, and with 
 a tenderness that was beautiful to the onlooking 
 missionary, he helped to make little Mary com- 
 fortable. With a doll that he brought from his 
 
254 MASTERED MEN 
 
 pocket and placed in her hand, the child for the 
 first time in many days fell into untroubled sleep. 
 After a few words of direction as to the care of 
 Mary and some kindly enquiries and suggestions 
 as to the mother's own health, the doctor pre- 
 pared to leave. The mother hesitatingly asked 
 the missionary about the bill. "That is settled, 
 Mrs. Kazakoff — there is no need to think of it 
 at all. What about Ross," he continued. "Did 
 you speak to his father?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I did, and I believe he'll let him 
 go" — then with something approaching a sob, 
 she added, "if only I can bring myself to spare 
 him." 
 
 Several visits were made to the poor and dirty 
 shack during the next six weeks, and at last it 
 was all arranged that little Ross should go East 
 with the missionary in September. 
 
 It was a most interesting experience for the 
 boy. He stood with the missionary at the flag 
 station, and the approaching train was the first 
 he had ever seen. He had no trunk to check, a 
 small newspaper parcel containing all he pos- 
 sessed, except the shabby suit he wore. The 
 journey brought increasing wonder to the little 
 traveller. He had never before seen village, town 
 or city; so that gas, electric lights and street cars 
 were alike new and wonderful. 
 
 At last they reached the Eastern city which 
 
THE MAKING OF ROSS K. 255 
 
 was to be his new home. His benefactor greeted 
 him with such a sunshiny welcome that the mis- 
 sionary felt he could safely leave his young fel- 
 low traveller in the care of this new-found friend. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Ten years passed by. The student missionary, 
 now an ordained minister, was preaching one 
 Sabbath in an Ontario town. At the close of the 
 morning service a young man came to the plat- 
 form and asked, "Do you remember me?" 
 
 "Your face is somewhat familiar," was the 
 reply, "but I imagine it is many years since I 
 saw you last." 
 
 "My name is Ross K ." The minister 
 
 could scarcely believe that the little palef aced lad 
 of the pioneer shack had developed into the at- 
 tractive young man who stood before him. 
 
 "So you know Ross do you?" asked an elder 
 who had overheard some of the conversation. 
 "Yes, I knew him many years ago." 
 
 "Well, sir," was the elder's reply, "we are all 
 proud of Ross. I wish we had many more like 
 him. He's the same clean, upright, manly fellow 
 in business and on the ballground as he is in the 
 church. He's as straight as a British Columbia 
 pine." 
 
 When the minister met Ross for a chat the 
 next day, they talked of the former days and of 
 the Sunday School in the old schoolhouse. 
 
256 MASTERED MEN 
 
 "What an influence a few words may be in a 
 boy's life, sir! I wonder if you remember the 
 verses we used to learn in the Sunday School 1 ? 
 One of them has stuck to me all through my life. 
 We used to say it almost every Sunday — In all 
 thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct 
 thy paths.' I have not always succeeded, but I 
 have tried in the main to follow that counsel, 
 and it has made me whatever of good I am. It 
 was a great thing you did for me when you found 
 me the friends who gave me an education, but 
 after all you did a greater thing when you taught 
 me the principles that have guided me in the 
 proper use of it." 
 
 The preacher to whom Ross spoke never sees 
 a mij-ionary envelope and never makes his own 
 contribution without feeling that such a gift may 
 be helping to give some boy like Ross his God- 
 intended chance. 
 
 THE END 
 
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