Fifty years ago Blackwater town was a sawmill village on the Blackwater River which furnished the power for the first little sawmill set up by Grant Maitland's father.
Down the river came the sawlogs in the early spring when the water was high, to be caught and held by a “boom” in a pond from which they were hauled up a tramway to the saw. A quarter of a mile up stream a mill race, tapping the river, led the water to an “overshot wheel” in the early days, later to a turbine, thus creating the power necessary to drive the mill machinery. When the saw was still the water overflowed the “stop-logs” by the “spillway” into the pond below.
But that mill race furnished more than power to the mill. It furnished besides much colourful romance to the life of the village youth of those early days. For down the mill race they ran their racing craft, jostling and screaming, urging with long poles their laggard flotillas to victory. The pond by the mill was to the boys “swimming hole” and fishing pool, where, during the long summer evenings and through the sunny summer days, they spent amphibious hours in high and serene content. But in springtime when the pond was black with floating logs it became the scene of thrilling deeds of daring. For thither came the lumber-jacks, fresh from “the shanties,” in their dashing, multi-colored garb, to “show off” before admiring friends and sweethearts their skill in “log-running” and “log-rolling” contests which as the spirit of venture grew would end like as not in the icy waters of the pond.
Here, too, on brilliant winter days the life of the village found its centre of vivid interest and activity. For then the pond would be a black and glittering surface whereon wheeled and curved the ringing, gleaming blades of “fancy” skaters or whereon in sterner hours opposing “shinny” teams sought glory in Homeric and often gory contest.
But those days and those scenes were now long since gone. The old mill stood a picturesque ruin, the water wheel had given place to the steam engine, the pond had shrunk to an insignificant pool where only pollywogs and minnows passed unadventurous lives, the mill race had dwindled to a trickling stream grown thick with watercress and yellow lilies, and what had once been the centre of vigorous and romantic life was now a back water eddy devoid alike of movement and of colour.
A single bit of life remained—the little log cottage, once the Manager's house a quarter of a century ago, still stood away up among the pines behind the old mill ruin and remote from the streets and homes of the present town. At the end of a little grassy lane it stood, solid and square, resisting with its well hewn pinelogs the gnawing tooth of time. Abandoned by the growing town, forgotten by the mill owner, it was re-discovered by Malcolm McNish, or rather by his keen eyed old mother on their arrival from the old land six months ago. For a song McNish bought the solid little cottage, he might have had it as a gift but that he would not, restored its roof, cleared out its stone chimney which, more than anything else, had caught the mother's eye, re-set the window panes, added a wee cunning porch, gave its facings a coat of paint, enclosed its bit of flower garden in front and its “kale yaird” in the rear with a rustic paling, and made it, when the Summer had done its work, a bonnie homelike spot which caught the eye and held the heart of the passer-by.
The interior more than fulfilled the promise of the exterior. The big living room with its great stone fireplace welcomed you on opening the porch door. From the living room on the right led two doors, each giving entrance to a tiny bedroom and flanking a larger room known as “the Room.”
Within the living room were gathered the household treasures, the Lares and Penates of the little stone rose-covered cottage “at hame awa' ayont the sea.” On the mantel a solid hewn log of oak, a miracle of broad-axe work, were “bits o' chiny” rarely valuable as antiques to the knowing connoisseur but beyond price to the old white-haired lady who daily dusted them with reverent care as having been borne by her mother from the Highland home in the far north country when as a bride she came by the “cadger's cairt” to her new home in the lonely city of Glasgow. Of that Glasgow home and of her own home later the walls of the log cottage were eloquent.
The character giving bit of furniture, however, in the living room was a book-case that stood in a corner. Its beautiful inlaid cabinet work would in itself have attracted attention, but not the case but the books were its distinction. The great English poets were represented there in serviceable bindings showing signs of use, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Browning, Keats, and with them in various editions, Burns. Beside the poets Robert Louis had a place, and Sir Walter, as well as Kipling and Meredith and other moderns. But on the shelf that showed most wear were to be found the standard works of economists of different schools from the great Adam Smith to Marx and the lot of his imitators and disciples. This was Malcolm's book-case. There was in another corner near the fire-place a little table and above it hung a couple of shelves for books of another sort, the Bible and The Westminster Confession, Bunyan and Baxter and Fox's Book of Martyrs, Rutherford and McCheyne and Law, The Ten Years' Conflict, Spurgeon's Sermons and Smith's Isaiah, and a well worn copy of the immortal Robbie. This was the mother's corner, a cosy spot where she nourished her soul by converse with the great masters of thought and of conscience.
In this “cosy wee hoosie” Malcolm McNish and his mother passed their quiet evenings, for the days were given to toil, in talk, not to say discussion of the problems, the rights and wrongs of the working man. They agreed in much; they differed, and strongly, in point of view. The mother was all for reform of wrongs with the existing economic system, reverencing the great Adam Smith. The son was for a new deal, a new system, the Socialistic, with modifications all his own. All, or almost all, that Malcolm had read the mother had read with the exception of Marx. She “cudna thole yon godless loon” or his theories or his works. Malcolm had grown somewhat sick of Marx since the war. Indeed, the war had seriously disturbed the foundations of Malcolm's economic faith, and he was seeking a readjustment of his opinion and convictions, which were rather at loose ends. In this state of mind he found little comfort from his shrewd old mother.
“Y'e have nae anchor, laddie, and ilka woof of air and ilka turn o' the tide and awa' ye go.”
As for her anchor, she made no bones of announcing that she had been brought up on the Shorter Catechism and the Confession and in consequence found a place for every theory of hers, Social and Economic as well as Ethical and Religious, within the four corners of the mighty fabric of the Calvinistic system of Philosophy and Faith.
One of the keen joys of her life since coming to the new country she found in her discussions with the Rev. Murdo Matheson, whom, after some considerable hesitation, she had finally chosen to “sit under.” The Rev. Murdo's theology was a little narrow for her. She had been trained in the schools of the Higher Critics of the Free Kirk leaders at home. She talked familiarly of George Adam Smith, whom she affectionately designated as “George Adam.” She would wax wrathful over the memory of the treatment meted out to Robertson Smith by a former generation of Free Kirk heresy hunters. Hence she regarded with pity the hesitation with which her Minister accepted some of the positions of the Higher Critics. Although it is to be confessed that the war had somewhat rudely shattered her devotion to German theology.
“What d'ye think o' yere friend Harnack the noo?” her son had jibed at her soon after the appearance of the great manifesto from the German professors.
“What do A think o' him?” she answered, sparring for time. “What do A think o' him?” Then, as her eye ran over her son's uniform, for he was on leave at the time, she blazed forth, “A'll tell ye what A think o' him. A think that Auld Hornie has his hook intil him and the hale kaboodle o' them. They hae forsaken God and made tae themselves ither gods and the Almichty hae gi'en them ower tae a reprobate mind.”
But her Canadian Minister's economic positions satisfied her. He had specialised in Social and Economic Science in his University Course and she considered him sound “in the main.”
She had little patience with half baked theorists and none at all with mere agitators. It was therefore with no small indignation that she saw on a Sunday morning Mr. Wigglesworth making his way up the lane toward her house door.
“The Lord be guid tae us!” she exclaimed. “What brings yon cratur here—and on a Sabbath mornin'? Mind you, Malcolm,” she continued in a voice of sharp decision, “A'll hae nane o' his 'rights o' British citizens' clack the morn.”
“Who is it, Mother?” enquired her son, coming from his room to look out through the window. “Oh, dinna fash ye're heid ower yon windbag,” he added, dropping into his broadest Doric and patting his mother on the shoulder.
“He disna fash me,” said his mother. “Nae fears. But A'll no pairmit him to brak the Sabbath in this hoose, A can tell ye.” None the less she opened the door to Mr. Wigglesworth with dignified courtesy.
“Guid mornin', Mr. Wigglesworth,” she said cordially. “Ye're airly on yere way tae the Kirk.”
“Yes—that is—yes,” replied Mr. Wigglesworth in some confusion, “I am a bit (h)early. Fact is, I was (h)anxious to catch Malcolm before 'e went aht. I 'ave a rather (h)important business on 'and with 'im, very (h)important business, I might say.”
“'Business,' did ye say, Mr. Wigglesworth?” Mrs. McNish stood facing him at the door. “Business! On the Lord's Day?”
Mr. Wigglesworth gaped at her, hat in hand.
“Well, Mrs. McNish, not (h)exactly business. That is,” he said with an apologetic smile, “(h)it depends, you see, just w'at yeh puts (h)into a word, Mrs. McNish.”
Mr. Wigglesworth's head went over to one side as if in contemplation of a new and striking idea.
“A pit nae meaning into a word that's no in it on its ain accoont,” she replied with uncompromising grimness. “Business is just business, an' my son diz nae business on the Lord's Day.”
There was no place for casuistry in the old Scotch lady's mind. A thing was or was not, and there was an end to that.
“Certainly, Mrs. McNish, certainly! And so sez I. But there might be a slight difference of (h)opinion between you and I, so to speak, as to just w'at may constitute 'business.' Now, for (h)instance—” Mr. Wigglesworth was warming to his subject, but the old lady standing on her doorstep fixed her keen blue eyes upon him and ruthlessly swept away all argumentation on the matter.
“If it is a matter consistent with the Lord's Day, come in; if not, stay oot.”
“Oh! Yes, thank you. By the way, is your son in, by (h)any chance? Per'raps 'e's shavin' 'isself, eh?” Mr. Wigglesworth indulged in a nervous giggle.
“Shavin' himsel!” exclaimed Mrs. McNish. “On the Sawbath! Man, d'ye think he's a heathen, then?” Mrs. McNish regarded the man before her with severity.
“An 'eathen? Not me! I should consider it an 'eathenish practice to go dirty of a Sunday,” said Mr. Wigglesworth triumphantly.
“Hoots, man, wha's talkin' about gaein' dirty? Can ye no mak due preparation on the Saturday? What is yere Saturday for?”
This was a new view to Mr. Wigglesworth and rather abashed him.
“What is it, Mother?” Malcolm's voice indicated a desire to appease the wrath that gleamed in his mother's eye. “Oh, it is Mr. Wigglesworth. Yes, yes! I want to see Mr. Wigglesworth. Will you come in, Mr. Wigglesworth?”
“Malcolm, A was jist tellin' Mr. Wigglesworth—”
“Yes, yes, I know, Mother, but I want—”
“Malcolm, ye ken what day it is. And A wull not—”
“Yes, Mother, A ken weel, but—”
“And ye ken ye'll be settin' oot for the Kirk in half an oor—”
“Half an hour, Mother? Why, it is only half past nine—”
“A ken weel what it is. But A dinna like tae be fashed and flustered in ma mind on ma way till the Hoose o' God.”
“I shall only require a very few moments, Madam,” said Mr. Wigglesworth. “The matter with w'ich I am (h)entrusted need not take more than a minute or two. In fact, I simply want to (h)announce a special, a very special meetin' of the Union this (h)afternoon.”
“A releegious meetin', Mr. Wigglesworth?” enquired Mrs. McNish.
“Well—not exactly—that is—I don't know but you might call it a religious meetin'. To my mind, Mrs. McNish, you know—”
But Mrs. McNish would have no sophistry.
“Mr. Wigglesworth,” she began sternly.
But Malcolm cut in.
“Now, Mother, I suppose it's a regular enough meeting. Just wait till I get my hat, Mr. Wigglesworth. I'll be with you.”
His mother followed him into the house, leaving Mr. Wigglesworth at the door.
“Malcolm,” she began with solemn emphasis.
“Now, now, Mother, surely you know me well enough by this time to trust my judgment in a matter of this kind,” said her son, hurriedly searching for his hat.
“Ay, but A'm no sae sure o' yon buddie—”
“Hoot, toot,” said her son, passing out. “A'll be back in abundant time for the Kirk, Mither. Never you fear.”
“Weel, weel, laddie, remember what day it is. Ye ken weel it's no day for warldly amusement.”
“Ay, Mither,” replied her son, smiling a little at the associating of Mr. Wigglesworth with amusement of any sort on any day.
In abundance of time Malcolm was ready to allow a quiet, unhurried walk with his mother which would bring them to the church a full quarter of an hour before the hour of service.
It happened that the Rev. Murdo was on a congenial theme and in specially good form that morning.
“How much better is a man than a sheep,” was his text, from which with great ingenuity and eloquence he proceeded to develop the theme of the supreme value of the human factor in modern life, social and industrial. With great cogency he pressed the argument against the inhuman and degrading view that would make man a mere factor in the complex problem of Industrial Finance, a mere inanimate cog in the Industrial Machine.
“What did you think of the sermon, Mother?” asked Malcolm as they entered the quiet lane leading home.
“No sae bad, laddie, no sae bad. Yon's an able laddie, especially on practical themes. Ay, it was no that bad,” replied his mother with cautious approval.
“What about his view of the Sabbath?”
“What about it? Wad ye no lift a sheep oot o' the muck on the Sawbath?”
“A would, of course,” replied Malcolm.
“Weel, what?”
“A was jist thinkin' o' Mr. Wigglesworth this morning.”
“Yon man!”
“You were rather hard on him this morning', eh, Mither?”
“Hard on him? He's no a sheep, nor in some ways as guid's a sheep, A grant ye that, but such as he is was it no ma duty to pull him oot o' the mire o' Sawbath desecration and general ungodliness?”
“Aw, Mither, Mither! Ye're incorrigible! Ye ought to come to the meeting this afternoon and give them all a lug out.”
“A wull that then,” said his mother heartily. “They need it, A doot.”
“Hoots! Nonsense, Mither!” said her son hastily, knowing well how thoroughly capable she was of not only going to a meeting of Union workers but also of speaking her mind if in her judgment they were guilty of transgressing the Sabbath law. “The meeting will be just as religious as Mr. Matheson's anyway.”
“A'm no sae sure,” said his mother grimly.
Whether religious in the sense understood by Mrs. McNish, the meeting was not wanting in ethical interest or human passion. It was a gathering of the workers in the various industries in the town, Trade Unionists most of them, but with a considerable number who had never owed allegiance to any Union and a number of disgruntled ex-Unionists. These latter were very vociferous and for the most part glib talkers, with passions that under the slightest pressure spurted foaming to the surface. Returned soldiers there were who had taken on their old jobs but who had not yet settled down into the colourless routine of mill and factory work under the discipline of those who often knew little of the essentials of discipline as these men knew them. A group of French-Canadian factory hands, taken on none too willingly in the stress of war work, constituted an element of friction, for the soldiers despised and hated them. With these there mingled new immigrants from the shipyards and factories of the Old Land, all members or ex-members of Trade Unions, Socialists in training and doctrine, familiar with the terminology and jargon of those Socialistic debating schools, the Local Unions of England and Scotland, alert, keen, ready of wit and ready of tongue, rejoicing in wordy, passionate debate, ready for anything, fearing nothing.
The occasion of the meeting was the presence of a great International Official of the American Federation of Labour, and its purpose to strengthen International Unionism against the undermining of guerilla bands of non-Unionists and very especially against the new organizations emanating from the far West, the One Big Union.
At the door of the hall stood Mr. Wigglesworth, important, fussy and unctuously impressive, welcoming, directing, introducing and, incidentally but quite ineffectively, seeking to inspire with respect for his august person a nondescript crowd of small boys vainly seeking entrance. With an effusiveness amounting to reverence he welcomed McNish and directed him in a mysterious whisper toward a seat on the platform, which, however, McNish declined, choosing a seat at the side about half way up the aisle.
A local Union official was addressing the meeting but saying nothing in particular, and simply filling in till the main speaker should arrive. McNish, quite uninterested in the platform, was quietly taking note of the audience, with many of whom he had made a slight acquaintance. As his eye travelled slowly from face to face it was suddenly arrested. There beside her father was Annette Perrotte, who greeted him with a bright nod and smile. They had long ago made up their tiff. Then McNish had another surprise. At the door of the hall appeared Captain Jack Maitland who, after coolly surveying the room, sauntered down the aisle and took a seat at his side. He nodded to McNish.
“Quite a crowd, McNish,” he said. “I hear the American Johnnie is quite a spouter so I came along to hear.”
McNish looked at him and silently nodded. He could not understand his presence at that kind of a meeting.
“You know I am a Union man now,” said Captain Jack, accurately reading his silence. “Joined a couple of months ago.”
But McNish kept his face gravely non-committal, wondering how it was that this important bit of news had not reached him. Then he remembered that he had not attended the last two monthly meetings of his Union, and also he knew that little gossip of the shops came his way. None the less, he was intensely interested in Maitland's appearance. He did Captain Jack the justice to acquit him of anything but the most honourable intentions, yet he could not make clear to his mind what end the son of his boss could serve by joining a Labour Union. He finally came to the conclusion that this was but another instance of an “Intellectual” studying the social and economic side of Industry from first-hand observation. It was a common enough thing in the Old Land. He was conscious of a little contempt for this dilettante sort of Labour Unionism, and he was further conscious of a feeling of impatience and embarrassment at Captain Jack's presence. He belonged to the enemy camp, and what right had he there? From looks cast in their direction it was plain that others were asking the same question. His thought received a sudden and unexpected exposition from the platform from no less a person than Mr. Wigglesworth himself to whom as one of the oldest officials in Unionised Labour in the town had been given the honour of introducing the distinguished visitor and delegate.
In flowing periods and with a reckless but wholly unauthorised employment of aspirates he “welcomed the (h)audience, (h)especially the ladies, and other citizens among 'oom 'e was delighted to (h)observe a representative of the (h)employing class 'oo was for the present 'e believed one of themselves.” To his annoyed embarrassment Captain Jack found himself the observed of many eyes, friendly and otherwise. “But 'e would assure Captain Maitland that although 'e might feel as if 'e 'ad no right to be 'ere—”
“'Ere! 'Ere!” came a piercing voice in unmistakable approval, galvanising the audience out of its apathy into instant emotional intensity.
“(H)I want most (h)emphatically to (h)assure Captain Maitland,” continued Mr. Wigglesworth, frowning heavily upon the interrupter, “that 'e is as welcome—”
“No! No!” cried the same Cockney voice, followed by a slight rumbling applause.
“I say 'e is,” shouted Mr. Wigglesworth, supported by hesitating applause.
“No! No! We don't want no toffs 'ere.” This was followed by more definite applause from the group immediately surrounding the speaker.
Mr. Wigglesworth was much affronted and proceeded to administer a rebuke to the interrupter.
“I (h)am surprised,” he began, with grieved and solemn emphasis.
“Mr. Chairman,” said the owner of the Cockney voice, rising to his feet and revealing himself a small man with large head and thin wizened features, “Mr. Chairman, I rise to protest right 'ere an' naow against the presence of (h)any representative of the (h)enemy class at—”
“Aw, shut up!” yelled a soldier, rising from his place. “Throw out the little rat!”
Immediately there was uproar. On every side returned soldiers, many of whom had been in Captain Jack's battalion, sprang up and began moving toward the little Cockney who, boldly standing his ground, was wildly appealing to the chair and was supported by the furious cheering of a group of his friends, Old Country men most of whom, as it turned out, were of the extreme Socialist type. By this time it had fully been borne in upon Captain Jack's mind, somewhat dazed by the unexpected attack, that he was the occasion of the uproar. Rising from his place he tried vainly to catch the Chairman's attention.
“Come up to the platform,” said a voice in his ear. He turned and saw McNish shouldering his way through the excited crowd toward the front. After a moment's hesitation he shrugged his shoulders and followed. The move caught the eye and apparently the approval of the audience, for it broke into cheers which gathered in volume till by the time that McNish and Captain Jack stood on the platform the great majority were wildly yelling their enthusiastic approval of their action. McNish stood with his hand raised for a hearing. Almost instantly there fell a silence intense and expectant. The Scotchman stood looking in the direction of the excited Cockney with cold steady eye.
“A'm for freedom! The right of public assembly! A'm feart o' nae enemy, not the deevil himself. This gentleman is a member of my Union and he stays r-r-right he-e-r-re.” With a rasping roll of his r's he seemed to be ripping the skin off the little Cockney's very flesh. The response was a yell of savage cheers which seemed to rock the building and which continued while Mr. Wigglesworth in overflowing effusiveness first shook Maitland's limp hand in a violent double-handed pump handle exercise and then proceeded to introduce him to the distinguished visitor, shouting his name in Maitland's ear, “Mr 'Oward (H)E. Bigelow,” adding with a sudden inspiration, “(H)Introduce 'im to the (h)audience. Yes! Yes! Most (h)assuredly,” and continued pushing both men toward the front of the platform, the demonstration increasing in violence.
“I say, old chap,” shouted Captain Jack in the stranger's ear, “I feel like a fool.”
“I feel like a dozen of 'em,” shouted Mr. Bigelow in return. “But,” he added with a slow wink, “this old fool is the daddy of 'em all. Go on, introduce me, or they'll bust something loose.”
Captain Jack took one step to the front of the platform and held up his hand. The cheering assumed an even greater violence, then ceased in sudden breathless silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a slightly bored voice, “this gentleman is Mr. Howard E. Bigelow, a representative of the American Federation of Labour, whom as a member of the Woodworkers' Union, Local 197, I am anxious to hear if you don't mind.”
He bowed to the visitor, bowed to the audience once more swaying under a tempest of cheers, and, followed by McNish, made his way to his seat.
From the first moment of his speech Mr. Howard E. Bigelow had to fight for a hearing. The little Cockney was the centre of a well-organised and thoroughly competent body of obstructers who by clever “heckling,” by points of order, by insistent questioning, by playing now upon the anti-American string, now upon the anti-Federation string, by ribald laughter, by cheering a happy criticism, completely checked every attempt of the speaker to take flight in his oratory. The International official was evidently an old hand in this sort of game, but in the hands of these past masters in the art of obstruction he met more than his match. Maitland was amazed at his patience, his self-control, his adroitness, but they were all in vain. At last he was forced to appeal to the Chairman for British fair play. But the Chairman was helplessly futile and his futility was only emphasised by Mr. Wigglesworth's attempts now at browbeating which were met with derision and again at entreaty which brought only demands for ruling on points of order, till the meeting was on the point of breaking up in confused disorder.
“McNish, I think I'll take a hand in this,” said Captain Jack in the Scotchman's ear. “Are you game?”
“Wait a wee,” said McNish, getting to his feet. Slowly he once more made his way to the platform. As the crowd caught on to his purpose they broke into cheering. When he reached the side of the speaker he spoke a word in his ear, then came to the front with his hand held up. There was instant quiet. He looked coolly over the excited, disintegrating audience for a moment or two.
“A belonged tae the Feefty-fir-rst Diveesion,” he said in his richest Doric. “We had a rare time wi' bullies over there. A'm for free speech! Noo, listen tae me, you Cockney wheedle doodle. Let another cheep out o' yere trap an' the Captain there will fling ye oot o' this room as we did the Kayser oot o' France.”
“You said it, McNish,” said Maitland, leaping to the aisle. With a roar a dozen returned men were on their feet.
“Steady, squad!” rang out Captain Jack's order. “Fall into this aisle! Shun!” As if on parade the soldiers fell into line behind their captain.
“Macnamara!” he said, pointing to a huge Irishman.
“Sir!” said Macnamara.
“You see that little rat-faced chap?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take your place beside him.”
With two steps Macnamara was beside his man.
“Mr. Chairman, I protest,” began the little Cockney fiercely.
“Pass him up,” said the Captain sharply.
With one single motion Macnamara's hand swept the little man out of his place into the aisle.
“Chuck him out!” said Captain Jack quietly.
From hand to hand, with never a pause, amid the jeers and laughter of the crowd the little man was passed along like a bundle of old rags till he disappeared through the open door.
“Who's next?” shouted Macnamara joyfully.
“As you were!” came the sharp command.
At once Macnamara stood at attention.
Captain Jack nodded to the platform.
“All right,” he said quietly.
Mr. Howard E. Bigelow finished his speech in peace. He made appeal for the closing up of the ranks of Labour in preparation for the big fight which was rapidly coming. They had just finished with Kaiserism in Europe but they were faced with only another form of the same spirit in their own land. They wanted no more fighting, God knew they had had enough of that, but there were some things dearer than peace, and Labour was resolved to get and to hold those things which they had fought for, “which you British and especially you Canadians shed so much blood to win. We are making no threats, but we are not going to stand for tyranny at the hands of any man or any class of men in this country. Only one thing will defeat us, not the traditional enemies of our class but disunion in our own ranks due to the fool tactics of a lot of disgruntled and discredited traitors like the man who has just been fired from this meeting.” He asked for a committee which would take the whole situation in hand. He closed with a promise that in any struggle which they undertook under the guidance of their International Officers the American Federation of Labour to their last dollar would be behind them.
Before the formal closing of the meeting Maitland slipped quietly out. As he reached the sidewalk a light hand touched his arm. Turning he saw at his elbow Annette, her face aglow and her black eyes ablaze with passionate admiration.
“Oh, Captain Jack,” she panted, her hands outstretched, “you were just wonderful! Splendid! Oh! I don't know what to say! I—” She paused in sudden confusion. A hot colour flamed in her face. Maitland took her hands in his.
“Hello, Annette! I saw you there. Why! What's up, little girl?”
A sudden rush of tears had filled her eyes.
“Oh, nothing. I am just excited, I guess. I don't know what—” She pulled her hands away. “But you were great!” She laughed shrilly.
“Oh, it was your friend McNish did the trick,” said Captain Jack. “Very neat bit of work that, eh? Very neat indeed. Awfully clever chap! Are you going home now?”
“No, I am waiting.” She paused shyly.
“Oh, I see!” said Captain Jack with a smile. “Lucky chap, by Jove!”
“I am waiting for my father,” said Annette, tossing her head.
“Oh, then, if that's all, come along with me. Your father knows his way about.” The girl paused a moment, hesitating. Then with a sudden resolve she cried gaily,
“Well, I will. I want to talk to you about it. Oh, I am so excited!” She danced along at his side in gay abandon. As they turned at the first corner Maitland glanced over his shoulder.
“Hello! Here's McNish,” he cried, turning about. “Shall we wait for him?”
“Oh, never mind Malcolm,” cried the girl excitedly, “come along. I don't want him just now. I want—” She checked herself abruptly. “I want to talk to you.”
“Oh, all right,” said Captain Jack. “He's gone back anyway. Come along Annette, old girl. I have been wanting to see you for a long time.”
“Well, you see me,” said the girl, laughing up into his eyes with a frank, warm admiration in hers that made Captain Jack's heart quicken a bit in its steady beat. He was a young man with a normal appreciation of his own worth. She, young, beautiful, unspoiled, in the innocence of her girlish heart was flinging at him the full tribute of a warm, generous admiration with every flash of her black eyes and every intonation of her voice. Small wonder if Captain Jack found her good to look at and to listen to. Often during the walk home he kept saying to himself, “Jove, that McNish chap is a lucky fellow!” But McNish, taking his lonely way home, was only conscious that the evening had grown chilly and grey.
Business was suspended for the day in Blackwater. That is, men went through their accustomed movements, but their thoughts were far apart from the matters that were supposed to occupy their minds during the working hours of the day. In the offices, in the stores, in the shops, on the streets, in the schools, in the homes the one, sole topic of conversation, the one mental obsession was The Great Game. Would the Maitland Mill Hockey Team pull it off? Blackwater was not a unit in desiring victory for the Maitland Mill team, for the reason that the team's present position of proud eminence in the hockey world of Eastern Ontario had been won by a series of smashing victories over local and neighbouring rival teams. They had first disposed of that snappy seven of lightning lightweights, the local High School team, the champions in their own League. They had smashed their way through the McGinnis Foundry Seven in three Homeric contests. This victory attracted the notice of the Blackwater Black Eagles, the gay and dashing representatives of Blackwater's most highly gilded stratum of society, a clever, hard-fighting, never-dying group of athletes who, summer and winter, kept themselves in perfect form, and who had moved rapidly out of obscurity into the dazzling spotlight of championship over their district. For the sake of the practice in it and in preparation for their games in the Eastern Ontario Hockey League, they took on the Maitland Mill team.
It took the Black Eagles a full week to recover sufficient control to be able to speak intelligibly as to the “how” and “why” of that match. For the Mill team with apparent ease passed in thirteen goals under and over and behind and beside the big broad goal stick of Bell Blackwood, the goal wonder of the League; and the single register for the Eagles had been netted by Fatty Findlay's own stick in a moment of aberration. During the week following the Black Eagle debacle the various Bank managers, Law Office managers and other financial magnates of the town were lenient with their clerks. Social functions were abandoned. The young gentlemen had one continuous permanent and unbreakable engagement at the rink or in preparation for it. But all was in vain. The result of the second encounter was defeat for the Eagles, defeat utter, unmistakable and inexplicable except on the theory that they had met a superior team. Throughout the hockey season the Maitland Mill maintained an unbroken record of victory till their fame flew far; and at the close of the season enthusiasts of the game had arranged a match between the winners of the Eastern Ontario Hockey League, the renowned Cornwall team and the Maitland Mill boys. To-day the Cornwalls were in town, and the town in consequence was quite unfit for the ordinary duties of life. The Eagles almost to a man were for the local team; for they were sports true to type. Not so however their friends and following, who resented defeat of their men at the hands of a working class team.
Of course it was Jack Maitland who was responsible for their humiliation. It was he who had organised his fellow workmen, put them through a blood and iron discipline, filled them with his own spirit of irresistible furious abandon in attack which carried them to victory.
It was an old game with Jack Maitland. When a High School boy he had developed that spirit of dominating and indomitable leadership that had made his team the glory of the town. Later by sound and steady grinding at the game he had developed a style and plan of team play which had produced a town team in the winter immediately preceding the war that had won championship honors. Now with his Mill team he was simply repeating his former achievements.
It had astonished his friends to learn that Captain Jack was playing hockey again. He had played no game except in a desultory way since the war. He had resisted the united efforts of the Eagles and their women friends to take the captaincy of that team. The mere thought of ever appearing on the ice in hockey uniform gave him a sick feeling at his heart. Of that noble seven whom he had in pre-war days led so often to victory four were still “over there,” one was wandering round a darkened room. Of the remaining two, one Rupert Stillwell was too deeply engrossed in large financial affairs for hockey. Captain Jack himself was the seventh, and the mere sight of a hockey stick on a school boy's shoulder gave him a heart stab.
It was his loyal pal Patricia Templeton, who gave him the first impulse toward the game again. To her pleading he had yielded so far as to coach, on a Saturday afternoon, her team of High School girls to victory. But it was the Reverend Murdo Matheson who furnished the spur to conscience that resulted in the organising of the Maitland Mill team.
“You, John Maitland, more than any of us and more than all of us together can draw these lads of yours from the pool rooms and worse,” the Reverend Murdo had said one day in early winter.
“Great Scott, Padre”—the Reverend Murdo had done his bit overseas—“what are you giving me now?”
“You, more than any or all of us, I am saying,” repeated the minister solemnly. “For God's sake, man, get these lads on the ice or anywhere out-of-doors for the good of their immortal souls.”
“Me! And why me, pray?” Captain Jack had asked. “I'm no uplifter. Why jump on me?”
“You, because God has bestowed on you the gift to lead men,” said the minister with increasing solemnity. “A high gift it is, and one for which God will hold you responsible.”
That very night, passing by the Lucky Strike Pool Rooms, Captain Jack had turned in to find a score and more of youths—many of them from the mills—flashing their money with reckless freedom in an atmosphere thick with foul tobacco-smoke and reeking with profane and lewd speech. On reaching his home that night Maitland went straight to the attic and dug up his hockey kit. Before he slept he had laid his plans for a league among the working lads in the various industries in the town.
It was no easy task to force these men into training habits, to hold them to the grind, to discipline them into self-control in temper and in desire. It was of vast assistance to him that three of his seven were overseas men, while some dozen or so of the twenty in the club were returned soldiers. It was part of his discipline that his team should never shirk a day's work for the game except on the rare occasions when they went on tour. Hence the management in the various mills and factories, at first hostile and suspicious, came to regard these athletic activities on the part of their employees with approval and finally came to give encouragement and support to the games.
To-day was a half holiday for the Maitland Mills and the streets were noticeably full of the men and their sweethearts and wives in their Sunday clothes. Not the team, however. Maitland knew better than that. He took his men for a run in the country before noon, bringing them home in rich warm glow. Then after a bath and a hard rubdown they dined together at the mill and then their Captain ordered them home to sleep, forbidding them the streets till they were on their way to the game.
On his way home Captain Jack was waylaid by his admirer and champion, Patricia. She, standing in front of his car, brought him to a halt.
“I have not even seen you for a whole week,” she complained, getting in beside him, “and your phone is always busy in the evening. Of course no one can get you during the day. And I do want to know how the team is. Oh! do tell me they are fit for the game of their lives! Are they every one fit?”
“Fit and fine.”
“And will they win?”
“Sure thing,” said Captain Jack quietly.
“Oh, I hope you are right. But you are so sure,” exclaimed his companion. “The Cornwalls are wonderful, Rupert says.”
“He would.”
“Oh! I forgot you don't think much of Rupert,” sighed Patricia.
“I haven't time, you see,” answered Captain Jack gravely.
“Oh, you know what I mean. It is a pity, too, for he is really very nice. I mean he is so good to me,” sighed Patricia again.
“Don't sigh, Patsy, old girl. It really isn't worth it, you know. How is the supply of choc's keeping up?”
“Now you are thinking me a pig. But tell me about your men. Are they really in form?”
“Absolutely at the peak.”
“And that darling Fatty Findlay. I do hope he will not lose his head and let a goal in. He is perfectly adorable with that everlasting smile of his. I do hope Fatty is at the peak, too. Is he, really?” The anxiety in Patricia's tone was more than painful.
“Dear Patsy, he is right at the pinnacle.”
“Captain Jack, if you don't win to-night I shall—well, I shall just weep my eyes out.”
“That settles it, Pat. We shall win. We can't—I can't spare those lovely eyes, you know,” said Captain Jack, smiling at her.
One by one Captain Jack's team were passed in review—the defence, Macnamara and “Jack” Johnson, so called for his woolly white head; “Reddy” Hughes, Ross, “Snoopy” Sykes, who with Captain Jack made the forward line, all were declared to be fit to deliver the last ounce in their bodies, the last flicker in their souls.
“Do you know, Captain Jack,” said Patricia gravely, “there is one change you ought to make in your forward line.”
“Yes! What is that, Pat?” asked Captain Jack, with never a suggestion of a smile.
“I would change Snoopy for Geordie Ross. You know Geordie is a little too careful, and he is hardly fast enough for you. Now you and Snoopy on left wing would be oh! perfectly wonderful.”
“Patsy, you are a wizard!” exclaimed Captain Jack. “That very change has been made and the improvement is unbelievable. We are both left-handers and we pull off our little specialties far more smoothly than Geordie and I could. You have exactly hit the bull. You watch for that back of the goal play to-night. Well, here we are. You have good seats, I understand.”
“Oh, yes. Rupert, you see, as patron of the Eagles was able to get the very best. But won't you come in and see mother? She is really quite worked up over it, though of course she couldn't bear to go.”
Captain Jack checked the refusal on his lips.
“Yes, I will go in for a few minutes,” he said gravely. “No! Your mother would not—could not come, of course.”
There flashed before his mind a picture from pre-war days. The rink packed with wildly excited throngs and in a certain reserved section midway down the side the Templeton-Maitland party with its distinguished looking men and beautiful women following with eager faces and shining eyes the fortunes of their sons in the fight before them. The flash of that picture was like a hand of ice upon his heart as Captain Jack entered the cosy living room.
“Here he is, Mamma!” cried Patricia as she ushered her hero into the room with a sweeping gesture. “And he brings the most cheering news. They are going to win!”
“But how delightful!” exclaimed Adrien coming from the piano where she had been playing, with Rupert Stillwell turning her music for her.
“I suppose upon the best authority,” said Stillwell, grinning at Patricia.
“We are so glad you found time to run in,” said Mrs. Templeton. “You must have a great deal to say to your team on the last afternoon.”
“I'm glad I came too, now,” said Captain Jack, holding the fragile hand in his and patting it gently. “I am afraid Patricia is responsible for my coming in. I don't really believe I could have ventured on my own.”
A silence fell on the company which none of them seemed able to break. Other days were hard upon them. In this very room it was that that other seven were wont to meet for their afternoon tea before their great matches.
Mrs. Templeton, looking up at Jack, found his eyes fixed upon her and full of tears. With a swift upward reach of her arms she caught him and drew his head to her breast.
“I know, Jack dear,” she said, with lips that quivered piteously. For a moment or two he knelt before her while she held him in a close embrace. Then he gently kissed her cheek and rose to his feet.
“Give him some tea, Adrien,” she said, making a gallant struggle to steady her voice, “a cup of tea—and no cake. I remember, you see,” she added with a tremulous smile.
Adrien came back quickly from the window.
“Yes! a fresh cup!” she cried eagerly, “and a sandwich. You, Pat, get the sandwiches. No cake. We must do nothing to imperil the coming victory.”
“You have a wonderful team, Jack, I hear,” said her mother. “Come and sit here beside me and tell me about them. Patricia has been keeping me informed, but she is not very coherent at times. Of course, I know about your wonderful goal keeper Findlay, is it not?” And the gentle little lady kept a stream of conversation going, for she saw how deeply moved Maitland was. It was his first visit to the Rectory since he had taken up the game again, and the rush of emotion released by the vivid memory of those old happy days when that jolly group of boys had filled this familiar room with their noisy clatter wellnigh overcame him.
For a minute or two he fussed with the tea things till he could master his voice, then he said very quietly:
“They are very decent chaps—really very good fellows and they have taken their training extraordinarily well. Of course, Macnamara and Johnson were in my old company, and that helps a lot.”
“Yes, I remember Macnamara quite well. He is a fine big Irishman.”
“Fancy you remembering him, Mrs. Templeton,” said Captain Jack.
“Of course, I remember him. He is one of our boys.”
“Let's see, he is one of your defence, isn't he?” said Stillwell, who had felt himself rather out of the conversation. Maitland nodded. The presence of Stillwell in that room introduced a painful element. Once he had been one of the seven and though never so intimately associated with the Rectory life as the others, yet at all team gatherings he had had his place. But since the war Maitland had never been able to endure his presence in that room. To-day, with the memory of those old thrilling days pressing hard upon his heart, he could not bear to look upon a man, once one of them, now forever an outsider. The tea coming in brought to Maitland relief.
“Ah, here you are,” he cried anticipating Stillwell in relieving Adrien of part of her load. “You are a life saver. Tea is the thing for this hour.”
“Three lumps, is it not?” said the girl, smiling at him. “You see, I remember, though you really don't deserve it. And here is Pat with the sandwiches.”
“Yes! a whole plate for yourself, Captain Jack,” said Patricia. “Come and sit by me here.”
“No indeed!” said her sister with a bright glow on her cheeks. “Jack is going to sit right here by the tea-pot, and me,” she added, throwing him a swift glance.
“No! you are both wrong, children,” said their mother. “Jack is coming to sit beside me. He's my boy this afternoon.”
“Mother, we will all share him,” said Patricia, placing chairs near her mother. “I must talk about the match, I simply must.”
A shadow for a moment wiped the brightness from the face and eyes of the elder sister, but yielding to her mother's appeal, she joined the circle, saying to Maitland,
“I don't believe you want to talk about the match, do you? That is not supposed to be good psychology before a match. What you really want is a good sleep. Isn't that right?”
“He has just sent his men off to bed, I know,” said Patricia, “and we will send him off when he has had his tea.”
“I am so glad you are playing again,” said Mrs. Templeton to Maitland as he sat down by her side. “You need more recreation than you have been taking, I believe.”
A shadow crossed Maitland's face.
“I don't believe I need recreation very much, but these chaps of mine do,” he said simply.
“The workmen, you mean!”
“Yes. They lead rather a dull life, you know. Not much colour. A pool room on the whole has rather a rotten effect upon a chap who has been nine or ten hours indoors already and who sticks at the same thing day in and day out for months at a time.”
“Ah, I see. You mean you took up hockey for—ah—to help—”
“Well, I don't want to pose as a workingman's advocate and that sort of thing. But really he has a slow time.”
“Then, why doesn't he get busy and do something for himself,” broke in Stillwell, impatiently. “The Lord knows he is getting most of the money these days and has more spare time than anyone else in the community.”
But Maitland ignored him, till Patricia intervened.
“Tell me about that,” she demanded.
“Look here!” said her sister. “You are not going to get Jack into a labour controversy this afternoon. But I would just like to ask you, Pat, how keen you'd be on organising and conducting a Literary and Debating Society after you had put in not five and a half hours' lessons, but eight or nine hours'! It would take some doing, eh? But let's cut out the labour trouble. It is nearly time for his sleep, isn't it?”
“Is it, Captain Jack? If so, we won't keep you a minute,” said Patricia anxiously. “No, mother! you must not keep him. He must be on tip-toe to-night.”
Captain Jack rose. “Patricia would make an ideal trainer,” he said. “I fear I must really go. I am awfully glad to have come in and seen you all. Somehow I feel a whole lot better.”
“And so do we, Jack,” said the old lady in a wistful voice. “Won't you come again soon?”
Maitland hesitated a moment, glancing at Adrien.
“Oh, do!” said the girl, with a little colour coming into her face. “It has been a little like old times to see you this way.”
“Yes, hasn't it?” said Stillwell. “Awfully jolly.”
Maitland stiffened and turned again to the old lady whose eyes were turned on him with sad entreaty.
“Yes, I shall come to see you,” said Maitland, bowing over her hand in farewell.
“We shall expect you to come and see us to-night at the match, remember, Captain Jack,” said Patricia, as he passed out of the room. “Now be sure to go and have your sleep.”
But there was no sleep that afternoon for Captain Jack. On his way through the town he was halted by McNish.
“The boys want to see you,” he said briefly.
“What boys? What do you mean, McNish?”
“At the rooms. Will you come down now?”
“Now? I can't come now, McNish. I have to be on the ice in three hours and I must get a little rest. What's up, anyway? Tell them I'll see them to-morrow.”
“No! they want you now!” said McNish firmly. “I would advise that you come.”
“What do you mean, McNish? Well, get in here and I'll go to see them.” McNish got into the car. “Now, what's all the mystery?”
“Better wait,” said McNish, grimly.
“Well, it is a dog's trick,” said Maitland wrathfully, “to get on to a chap before a big match like this.”
In the Union Committee rooms a group of men were awaiting them, among them Mr. Wigglesworth and the little cockney who had made himself so obnoxious at the public meeting.
“What's all this tomfoolery, Wigglesworth?” demanded Captain Jack, striding in among them.
“(H)excuse me,” said the little cockney. “You are a member of the Woodworkers' Union I (h)understand.”
“Who the devil are you, may I ask?” said Maitland in a rage.
“(H)allow me,” said Mr. Wigglesworth. “Mister Simmons, Mr. Maitland—Mr. Simmons is our new secretary, (h)elected last meetin'.”
“Well, what do you want of me?” demanded Maitland. “Don't you know I am tied up this afternoon?”
“Tied (h)up?” asked Simmons coolly, “'ow?”
“With the match, confound you.”
“Oh, the match! And w'at match may that be? (H)Anythin' to do with your Union?”
Maitland glared at him, too dumfounded to speak.
“You see, Mr. Maitland,” began Mr. Wigglesworth in a hurried and apologetic manner.
“'Ere! you keep aht o' this,” said Simmons sharply, “this 'ere's my job. I shall tell Brother Maitland all that is necessary.”
“I was only going to (h)explain—” began Mr. Wigglesworth.
“Naw then! IS this your job or mine? Was you (h)appointed or was I? When I find myself (h)unable to discharge my dooty to the Union I might per'aps call on you, Brother Wigglesworth; but until I find myself in that situation I 'ope you will refrain from shovin' in your 'orn.” Brother Simmons' sarcasm appeared to wither Brother Wigglesworth into silence.
“Naw then, Brother Maitland, we shall get (h)on.”
Maitland glanced round on the group of half a dozen men. Some of them he knew; others were strangers to him.
“I don't know what the business is, gentlemen,” he said, curbing his wrath, “but I want to know if it can't wait till to-morrow? You know our boys are going on the ice in a couple of hours or so—”
“Goin' on the (h)ice! Goin' on the (h)ice! W'at's that to do with Union business?” snarled Simmons. “This 'ere's no silly kids' gaime! It's a man's work we ave in 'and, if you don't want to do the business to w'ich you are (h)appointed w'y just say so and we shall know 'ow to (h)act. There 'as been too much o' this gaime business to suit me. If we are men let us (h)act like men.”
“Better get on wi' it,” said McNish curtly.
“I shall get on w'en I am good and ready, Brother McNish,” answered Simmons.
“All r-r-right, brother, but A doot ye're oot o' order. Who is the chairman o' this Committee?” asked McNish calmly.
“Brother Phillips,” answered two or three voices.
“All right. I suggest you proceed regularly and call the meeting to order,” said McNish quietly. Simmons, recognising that it was Greek meeting Greek, agreed to this.
Clumsily and hesitatingly Brother Phillips began stating the business of the Committee. He had not gone far before Simmons interrupted.
“Mr. Chairman, with your permission I would just like to say that the resolution passed at the representative joint meetin' of the Maitland Mills and Box Factory (h)employees last night will sufficiently (h)explain the (h)object of this meetin' 'ere.” Brother Simmons' tone suggested infinite pity for the lumbering efforts of the chairman.
“Yes, I guess it will,” said the chairman, blushing in his confusion. Brother Phillips was new to his position and its duties.
“I would suggest that that resolution be read,” said Brother Simmons, the pity in his tone hardly veiling his contempt.
“Yes! Yes! Of course!” said Brother Phillips hurriedly. “Eh—would you please read it, Mr.—that is—Brother Simmons?”
With great show of deliberation and of entire mastery of the situation Mr. Simmons produced a Minute Book and began:
“Mr. Chairman and brothers, I may say that this 'ere resolution was passed at a joint representative meetin' of all the (h)employees of the Maitland Company—”
“There is no sich company, Mr. Chairman,” said McNish. “A say let us hear the resolution. We'll hear the speech afterwards if we must.” It was again Greek meeting Greek, and the little man turned with a sarcastic smile to McNish.
“I suppose Brother McNish is (h)anxious to get ready for this gaime we've bin 'earing abaht. I should just like to remind 'im that we 'ave a bigger gaime on 'and, if 'e wants to get into it. Personally I don't 'ave no use for these 'ere gaimes. I 'ave seen the same kind of capitalistic dodge to distract the workin' man's (h)attention from 'is real gaime in life. These circumventions—”
“Maister Chair-r-man! A rise—”
“Mr. Chairman, I 'ave the floor and if Brother McNish knows (h)anythink abaht constitootional proceedin's—”
“Maister Chair-r-man—Maister-r Chair-r-r-man!” Brother McNish's Doric was ominously rasping. “A rise tae a pint of or-r-de-r-r. And Brother Simmons, who claims to be an expert in constitutional law and procedure knows I have the floor. Ma pint of order is this, that there is no business before the meeting and as apparently only aboot half the members are absent—”
“And 'oo's fault is that? 'E was to get them 'isself,” shouted Mr. Simmons.
“A searched the toon for them but cudna find them, but as A was sayin'—as the secretary has no business tae bring before the meeting but a wheen havers, A move we adjourn tae tomorrow at 12:30 p. m. in this place, and I believe that as Brither Maitland is also a member o' this committee he will second the motion.”
Maitland, not knowing in the least what the whole thing was about, but seeing a way out of the present mix-up, promptly seconded the motion.
“Mr. Chairman!” shouted Simmons. “I am prepared to—”
“Maister Chair-r-man, A need not remind you that there is no discussion on a motion to adjourn.”
“That is quite right,” said the chairman, in whose memory by some obscure mental process this fact seemed to have found a lodging.
“It is moved that this committee do now adjourn.”
“Mr. Chairman! I protest,” shrieked Brother Simmons frantically.
“Ay, he's a grand protester!” said Brother McNish.
The motion was carried by a majority of one, Brothers Wigglesworth, McNish and Maitland voting in the affirmative.
“Traitors!” shrieked Brother Simmons. “Capitalistic traitors!”
“Hoot mon! Ye're no in Hyde Park. Save yere breath for yere porritch the morn—” said McNish, relaxing into a grim smile as he left the rooms.
“We'll get 'im,” said Simmons to his ally and friend. “'E's in with that there young pup. 'E knows 'ow to work 'im and 'e'd sell us all up, 'e would.” Brother Simmons' brand of profanity strongly savoured of the London pavements in its picturesque fluency.
“Get in here, McNish,” said Maitland, who was waiting at the door. With some hesitation McNish accepted the invitation.
“Now, what does this mean?” said Maitland savagely, then checking his rage, “but I ought to thank you for getting me out of the grip of that frantic idiot. What is this fool thing?”
“It's nae that,” said McNish shortly. “It is anything but that. But I grant ye this was no time to bring it on. That was beyond me. A doot yon puir cratur had a purpose in it, however. He disna—does not think much of these games of yours. But that's anither—another”—McNish was careful of his speech—“matter.”
“But what in—”
“I am just telling you. There is a strong, a very strong movement under way among the unions at present.”
“A movement? Strike, do you mean?”
“It may be, or worse.” McNish's tone was very grave. “And as a good union man they expect your assistance.”
“Wages again?”
“Ay, and condeetions and the like.”
“But it is not six months since the last agreement was signed and that agreement is running still.”
“Ay, it is, but condeetions, conditions have changed since that date,” said McNish, “and there must be readjustment—at least, there is a feeling that way.”
“Readjustment? But I have had no hint of this in our meetings. This has not come up for discussion.”
A gentle pity smiled from the rugged face of the man beside him.
“Hardly,” he said. “It's no done that way.”
They came to McNish's door.
“Will you come in?” he said courteously. A refusal was at Maitland's lips when the door was opened by an old lady in a white frilled cap and without being able to explain how it came about he found himself in the quaintly furnished but delightfully cosy living-room, soaking in the comfort of a great blazing fire.
“This is really solid comfort,” he said, spreading his hands to the glowing pine slabs.
“Ay, ye need it the day. The fire cheers the heart,” said the old lady.
“But you don't need it for that, Mrs. McNish,” said her visitor, smiling at the strong, serene face under the white frilled cap.
“Do I not then? An' what aboot yersel'?” The keen grey eye searched his face. Maitland was immediately conscious of a vast dreariness in his life. He sat silent looking into the blazing fire.
“Ay,” continued the old lady, “but there are the bright spots tae, an' it's ill tae glower at a cauld hearth stone.” Maitland glanced quickly at the shrewd and kindly face. What did she know about him and his life and his “cauld hearth stone”? So he said nothing but waited. Suddenly she swerved to another theme.
“Malcolm,” she said, “have ye secured the tickets for the match?”
“Aw, mither, now it is the terrible auld sport ye are. She drags me out to all these things.” His eyes twinkled at Maitland. “I can't find time for any study.”
“Hoots ye and ye're study. A doot a rale heartening scramble on the ice wad dae ye mair guid than an oor wi' yon godless Jew buddie.”
“She means Marx, of course,” said McNish, in answer to Maitland's look of perplexity. “She has no use for him.”
“But the tickets, Malcolm,” insisted his mother.
“Well, mither, A'll confess I clean forgot them. Ye see,” he hurried to say, “A was that fashed over yon Committee maitter—”
“Committee maitter!” exclaimed the old lady indignantly. “Did I not tell ye no to heed yon screamin' English cratur wi' his revolutionary nonsense?”
“She means Simmons,” interjected Malcolm with a little smile. “He means well, mither, but A'm vexed aboot the tickets.”
“Mrs. McNish,” said Maitland, “I happen to have two tickets that I can let you have.” For an instant she hesitated.
“We can find a way in, I think, Mr. Maitland,” said Malcolm, forestalling his mother's answer. But with simple dignity his mother put him aside.
“A shall be verra pleased indeed to have the tickets, provided you can spare them, Mr. Maitland. Never mind, noo, Malcolm. A ken well what ye're thinkin'. He's gey independent and his mind is on thae revolutionary buddies o' his. A'm aye tellin' him this is nae land for yon nonsense. Gin we were in Rooshie, or Germany whaur the people have lived in black slavery or even in the auld land whaur the fowk are haudden doon wi' generations o' class bondage, there might be a chance for a revolutionary. But what can ye dae in a land whaur the fowk are aye climbin' through ither, noo up, noo down, noo maister, noo man? Ye canna make Canadians revolutionaries. They are a' on the road to be maisters. Malcolm is a clever loon but he has a wee bee in his bonnet.” The old lady smiled quizzically at her big, serious-faced son.
“Noo, mither, ye're just talkin' havers,” he said. “My mother is as great a Socialist as I am.”
“Ay, but A keep ma heid.”
“That ye do, mither. Ye're gey cannie,” replied her son, shaking his head, and so they passed the word to and fro, and Maitland sat listening to the chat. The delightful spirit of camaraderie between mother and son reminded him of a similar relationship between mother and sons in his own home in pre-war days. He could not tear himself away. It was well on to his dinner hour before he rose to go.
“You have given me a delightful hour, Mrs. McNish,” he said as he shook hands. “You made me think of my own home in the old days,—I mean before the war came and smashed everything.” The old lady's eyes were kindly scanning his face.
“Ay, the war smashed yere hame?” Maitland nodded in silence.
“His brither,” said Malcolm, quietly.
“Puir laddie,” she said, patting his hand.
“And my mother,” added Maitland, speaking with difficulty, “and that, of course, meant our home—and everything. So I thank you for a very happy hour,” he added with a smile.
“Wad ye care to come again?” said the old lady with a quiet dignity. “We're plain fowk but ye'll be always welcome.”
“I just will, Mrs. McNish. And I will send you the tickets.”
“Man! I wish ye grand luck the night. A grand victory.”
“Thank you. We are going to make a try for it,” said Maitland. “You must shout for us.”
“Ay, wull I,” she answered grimly. And she kept her word for of all the company that made up the Maitland party, none was more conspicuously enthusiastic in applause than was a white-haired old lady in a respectable black bonnet whose wild and weird Doric expletives and exclamations were the joy of the whole party about her.
It was an hour after the match. They were gathered in the old rendezvous of the hockey teams in pre-war days. And they were all wildly excited over the Great Victory.
“Just think of it, Mamma, dear,” Patricia shouted, pirouetting now on one foot and then on the other, “Eight to six! Oh, it is too glorious to believe! And against that wonderful team, the Cornwalls! Now listen to me, while I give you a calm and connected account of the game. I shall always regret that you were not present, Mamma. Victory! And at half time we were down, five to two! I confess disaster and despair stared me in the face. And we started off so gloriously! Captain Jack and Snoopy in the first five minutes actually put in two goals, with that back goal play of theirs. You know, I explained it to you, Mamma.”
“Yes, dear, I know,” said her mother, “but if you will speak a little more quietly and slowly—”
“I will, Mamma,” said her daughter, sitting down with great deliberation, in front of her. “I will explain to you again that 'round the goal' play.”
“I am afraid, my dear, that I could hardly grasp just what you mean.”
“Well, never mind, Mamma. It is a particular and special play that Captain Jack worked out. They rush down to the goal and instead of trying to shoot, the one with the puck circles round the back and delivers the puck immediately in front of the goal, where another takes and slips it in. Two goals in about five minutes, wasn't it, Hugh?”
“About eight minutes, I should say,” replied Hugh Maynard, the big Captain of the Eagles.
“Well, eight minutes,” continued Patricia, taking up the tale, “and then they began the roughhouse business. Jumbo Larson—a terribly big Swede, Mamma—put it all over little Snoopy. Chucked him about, wiped the ice with him!”
“My dear!” exclaimed her mother.
“Well, you know what I mean. A great big, two-hundred-pound monster, who simply threw Snoopy and Georgie Ross all about the rink. It took Captain Jack all his time to stand up against him. And then they ran in goals at a perfectly terrific rate. Two—three—four—five! And only Fatty Findlay's marvelous play kept down the score. I adore Fatty! You know, Mamma, that dear old Scotchwoman—”
“Scotchwoman?” exclaimed Mrs. Templeton.
“Yes. Oh! you don't know about her. Captain Jack brought her along. Mrs. Mc-something.”
“McNish,” supplied Adrien.
“Yes, McNish,” continued Patricia, “a perfect dear! She did everything but swear. Indeed, she may have been swearing for I could not understand half of what she said.”
Adrien interrupted: “She is perfectly priceless, Mother. I wish you could meet her—so dignified and sweet.”
“Sweet!” exclaimed Patricia, with a laugh. “Well, I didn't see the sweetness, exactly. But at half time, Mamma, fancy! they stood five to two against us. It was a truly awful moment for all of us. And then, after half time, didn't those Cornwalls within five minutes run in another goal, and, worse than all, Jumbo Larson laid out Snoopy flat on the ice! Now the game stood six to two! Think of it, Mamma!”
Then Adrien put in: “It was at this point that the old lady made a remark which, I believe, saved the day. What was it exactly, Hugh?”
“I didn't quite get it.”
“I know,” said little Vic Forsythe, himself a star of the Eagle forward line. “You poor Sassenach! You couldn't be expected to catch the full, fine flavour of it. Maitland was trying to cheer the old lady up when she said to him: 'Yon half backs, A'm thinkin''—she was a soccer fan in the old land, I believe—'yon half backs, A'm thinkin', are gey confident. It is a peety they cudna be shaken a bit in their nerves.' By Jove! Maitland jumped at it. 'Mrs. McNish, you're right! you're right. I wonder I did not think of it before.'”
Then Adrien broke in: “Yes, from that moment there was a change in our men's tactics.”
Then Patricia broke in: “Well, then, let me go on. Captain Jack knew quite well there was no use of allowing those little chaps, Snoopy and Geordie Ross, to keep feeding themselves to those horrid monsters, Jumbo Larson and Macnab, so what did they do but move up 'Jack' Johnson and Macnamara. That is, you see, Mamma, the forwards would take down the puck and then up behind them would come the backs, Macnamara and 'Jack' Johnson, like a perfect storm, and taking the puck from the forwards, who would then fall back to defence, would smash right on the Cornwall defence. The very first time when 'Jack' Johnson came against Jumbo, Jumbo found himself sitting on the ice. Oh! it was lovely! Perfectly lovely! And the next time they did it, Jumbo came at him like a bull. But that adorable 'Jack' Johnson just lifted him clear off his feet and flung him against the side. It seemed to me that the whole rink shook!”
Here Vic broke in: “You didn't hear what the old lady said at this point, I suppose. I was sitting next to her. She was really a whole play by herself. When Jumbo went smashing against the side, the old lady gave a grunt. 'Hum, that wull sort ye a doot.' Oh! she is a peach!”
“And the next time they came down,” cried Patricia, taking up the tale again, “Jumbo avoided him. For Macnamara, 'Jack' Johnson and Captain Jack came roaring down the ice at a terrific pace, and with never a stop, smashed head on into Jumbo and Macnab and fairly hurled them in on Hepburn—that is their goal keeper, you know—and scored. Oh! Oh! Oh! Such a yell! Six to three, and ten minutes to play.”
“But Patricia,” said Mrs. Templeton, “do moderate your tone. We are not in the rink. And this terrible excitement can't be good for you.”
“Good for me?” cried Patricia. “What difference does that make? Ten minutes to play, Mamma! But that was the end of the roughhouse game by the Cornwall defence.”
Then Hugh stepped in: “It really did break up that defence. It was a wonderful piece of generalship, I must say. They never seemed to get together after that.”
“Let me talk, Hugh,” exclaimed Patricia, “I want to tell Mamma what happened next, for this was really the most terribly exciting part of the game. And I think it was awfully clever of Captain Jack. You know, next time, Mamma, when they came down—I mean our men—they pretended to be playing the same game, but they weren't. For Captain Jack and Snoopy went back to their old specialty, and before the Cornwalls knew where they were at, they ran in three goals—one-two-three, just like that! Oh! you ought to have seen that rink, Mamma, and you ought to have heard the yelling! I wish you had been there! And then, just at that last goal didn't that horrid Jumbo make a terrible and cruel swing at Snoopy's ankle, just as he passed. Knocked him clean off his feet so that poor Snoopy lay on the ice quite still! He was really nearly killed. They had to carry him off!”
“Well, I wouldn't say that exactly,” said Hugh. “The fact of the matter is, Snoopy is a clever little beggar and I happened to catch his wink as Maitland was bending over him. I was helping him off the ice, you know, and I heard him whisper, 'Don't worry, Captain, I'm all right. Get me another pair of skates. It will take a little time.'”
“Do you mean he wasn't hurt?” exclaimed Patricia indignantly. “Indeed he was; he was almost killed, I am sure he was.”
“Oh, he was hurt right enough,” said Hugh, “but he wasn't killed by any means!”
“And then,” continued Patricia, “there was the most terrible riot and uproar. Everybody seemed to be on the ice and fighting. Hugh ran in, and Vic—I should loved to have gone myself—Hugh was perfectly splendid—and all the Eagles were there and—”
Then Mrs. Templeton said: “What do you mean—a fight, a riot?”
“A real riot, Mother,” said Adrien, “the whole crowd demanding Jumbo's removal from the ice.”
“Yes,” continued Patricia impatiently, pushing her sister aside, “Hugh went straight to the umpire and it looked almost as though he was going to fight, the way he tore in. But he didn't. He just spoke quietly to the umpire. What did you say, Hugh?”
“Oh,” cried Vic, “Hugh was perfectly calm and superior. He knows the umpire well. Indeed, I think the umpire owes his life to Hugh and his protecting band of Eagles.”
“What did he say,” cried Patricia. “I wish I could have heard that.”
“Oh,” said Vic, “there was an interesting conversation. 'Keep out of this, Maynard. You ought to know better,' the umpire said, 'keep out.' 'Baker, that man Larson must go off.' 'Rubbish,' said the umpire, 'they were both roughing it.' 'Look here, Baker, that's rot and you know it. It was a deliberate and beastly trick. Put him off!' 'He stays on!' said the umpire, and he stuck to it, I'll give him credit for that. It was old Maitland that saved the day. He came up smiling. 'I hope you are taking off the time, umpire,' he said, with that little laugh of his. 'I am not going to put Larson off,' shouted the umpire to him. 'Who asked you to?' said Maitland. 'Go on with the game.' That saved the day. They all started cheering. The ice was cleared and the game went on.”
“Oh, that was it. I couldn't understand. They were so savage first, and then suddenly they all seemed to quiet down. It was Captain Jack. Well, Mamma, on they came again! But when poor Snoopy came out, all bandaged round the head and the blood showing through—”
“Quite a clever little beggar,” murmured Vic.
“Clever? What do you mean?” cried Patricia.
“Oh, well, good psychology, I mean—that's all. Bloody bandages—demanding vengeance, Jack's team, you know—Macnamara, for instance, entreating his captain for the love of heaven to put him opposite Jumbo—shaking the morale of the enemy and so forth—mighty good psychology.”
“I don't know exactly what you mean,” said Patricia, “but the Cornwall defence was certainly rattled. They pulled their men back and played defence like perfect demons, with the Mill men on to them like tigers.”
“But Patricia, my dear,” said her mother, “those are terrible words.”
“But, Mamma, not half so terrible as the real thing. Oh, it was perfectly splendid! And then how did it finish, Hugh? I didn't quite see how that play came about.”
“I didn't see, either,” said Hugh.
“Didn't you?” cried Adrien, “I did. Jack and Geordie Ross were going down the centre at a perfectly terrific speed, big Macnamara backing them up. Out came Macnab and Jumbo Larson following him. Macnab checked Geordie, who passed to Jack, who slipped it back to Macnamara. Down came Jumbo like a perfect thunderbolt and fairly hurled himself upon Macnamara. I don't know what happened then, but—”
“Oh, I do!” cried Vic. “When old Jumbo came hurtling down upon Macnamara, this was evidently what Macnamara was waiting for. Indeed, what he had been praying for all through the game. I saw him gather himself, crouch low, lurch forward with shoulder well down, a wrestler's trick—you know Macnamara was the champion wrestler of his division in France—he caught Jumbo low. Result, a terrific catapult, and the big Swede lay on his back some twenty feet away. Everybody thought he was dead.”
“Oh, it was perfectly lovely!” exclaimed Patricia, rapturously.
“But, my dear,” said her mother, “lovely, and they thought the man was dead!”
“Oh, but he wasn't dead. He came to. I will say he was very plucky. Then just as they faced off, time was called. Six to six! Think of it, Mamma, six to six! And we had been five to two at half time!”
“Six to six?” said Mrs. Templeton. “But I thought you said we won?”
“Oh, listen, Mamma, this is the most wonderful thing of the whole match,” said Adrien, trying to break in on the tornado of words from her younger sister.
“No, let me, Adrien! I know exactly how it was done. Captain Jack explained it to me before. It was Captain Jack's specialty. It was what they call the double-circle. Here is the way it was worked.” Patricia sprang to her feet, arranged two chairs for goal and proceeded to demonstrate. “You see, Mamma, in the single circle play, Captain Jack and Snoopy come down—say Snoopy has the puck. Just as they get near the goal Snoopy fools the back, rushes round the goal and passes to Jack, who is standing in front ready to slip it in. But of course the Cornwalls were prepared for the play. But that is where the double-circle comes in. This time Geordie had the puck, with Captain Jack immediately at his left and Snoopy further out. Well, Geordie had the puck, you see. He rushes down and pretends to make the circle of the goal. But this time he doesn't. He tears like mad around the goal with the puck, Snoopy tears like mad around the goal from the other side, the defence all rush over to the left to check them, leaving the right wide open. Snoopy takes the ball from Geordie, rushes around the goal the other way, Mamma, do you see?—passes back to Reddy, his partner, who slips it in! And poor Jumbo was unable to do anything. I believe he was still dazed from his terrible fall!”
Then Hugh breaks in: “It really was beautifully done.”
“It certainly was,” said Vic.
“Seven to six, Mamma, think of it! Seven to six, and two minutes of the first overtime to play. Two minutes! It just seemed that our men could do as they liked. The last time the whole forward lines came down, with Macnamara and 'Jack' Johnson roaring and yelling like—like—I don't know what. And they did the double-circle again! Think of it! And then time was called. Oh, I am perfectly exhausted with this excitement!” said Patricia, sinking back into her chair. “I don't believe I could go down to that rink, not even for another game. It is terribly trying!”
At this moment Rupert Stillwell came in, full of enthusiasm for the Cornwalls' scientific hockey, and with grudging praise for the local team, deploring their roughhouse tactics. But he met a sharp and unexpected check, for Adrien took him in hand, in her quiet, cool, efficient manner.
“Roughhouse!” she said. “What do you mean exactly by that?”
“Well,” said Rupert, somewhat taken aback, “for instance that charge of Macnamara on Jumbo Larson at the last.”
“I saw that quite clearly,” said Adrien, “and it appeared to me quite all right. It was Larson who made the most furious charge upon Macnamara.”
“Of course it was,” cried Patricia, indignantly. “Jumbo deserved all he got. Why, the way he mauled little Snoopy and Geordie Ross in the first part of the game was perfectly horrid. Don't you think so, Hugh?”
“Oh, well, hockey is not tiddly-winks, you know, Patricia, and—”
“As if I didn't know that!” broke in the girl indignantly.
“And Jumbo and Macnab,” continued Hugh, “really had to break up the dangerous combination there. Of course that was a rotten assault on Snoopy. It wasn't Jumbo's fault that he didn't break an ankle. As it was, he gave him a very bad fall.”
At this Rupert laughed scornfully. “Rot,” he said, “the whole town is laughing at all that bloody bandage business. It was a bit of stage play. Very clever, I confess, but no hockey. I happen to know that Maitland was quite hot about it.”
But Hugh and Vic only laughed at him.
“He is a clever little beggar, is Snoopy,” said Vic.
“But, meantime,” said Mrs. Templeton, “where is Jack! He was going to be here, was he not?”
“Feasting and dancing, I expect,” said Rupert. “There is a big supper on, given by the Mill management, and a dance afterwards—'hot time in the old town,' eh?”
“A dance?” gasped Patricia. “A dance! Where?”
“Odd Fellows' Hall,” said Rupert. “Want to go? I have tickets. Don't care for that sort of thing myself. Rather a mixed affair, I guess. Mill hands and their girls.”
“Oh,” breathed Patricia, “I should love to go. Couldn't we?”
“But my dear Patricia,” said her mother, “a dance, with all those people? What nonsense. But I wish Jack would drop in. I should so like to congratulate him on his great victory.”
“Oh, do let us go, just for a few minutes, Mamma” entreated Patricia. “Hugh, have you tickets?”
The men looked at each other.
“Well,” confessed Vic, “I was thinking of dropping in myself. After all, it is our home team and they are good sports. And Maitland handled them with wonderful skill.”
“Yes, I am going,” said Hugh. “I am bound to go as Captain of the Eagles, and that sort of thing, but I would, anyway. Would you care to come, Adrien, if Mrs. Templeton will allow you? Of course there are chaperons. Maitland would see to that.”
“I should like awfully to go,” said Adrien eagerly. “We might, for a few minutes, Mother? Of course, Patricia should be in bed, really.”
Poor Patricia's face fell.
“It is no place for any of you,” said the mother, decidedly. “Just think of that mixed multitude! And you, Patricia, you should be in bed.”
“But oh, Mamma, dear,” wailed Patricia, “I can rest all day to-morrow.”
At this point a new voice broke in to the discussion and Doctor Templeton appeared. “Well, what's the excitement,” he enquired. “Oh, the match, of course! Well, what was the result?”
“Oh, Daddy, we won, we won!” cried Patricia, springing at him. “The most glorious match! Big Jumbo Larson, a perfect monster on the Cornwall defence, was knocked out! Oh, it was a glorious match! And can't I go down to see the dance? Adrien and Hugh and Vic are going. Only for a few minutes,” she begged, with her arms around her father's neck. “Say yes, Daddy!”
“Give me time; let me get my breath, Patricia. Now, do begin somewhere—say, with the score.”
They all gave him the score.
“Hurrah!” cried the old doctor. “No one hurt—seriously, I mean?”
“No,” said Patricia, “except perhaps Jumbo Larson,” she added hopefully.
“The Lord was merciful to this family when he made you a girl, Patricia,” said her father.
“But, Daddy, it was a wonderful game.” Quite breathlessly, she went once more over the outstanding features of the play.
“Sounds rather bloody, I must say,” said her father, doubtfully.
But Hugh said: “It was not really—not quite so bad as Patricia makes it, sir. Rough at times, of course, but, on the whole, clean.”
“Clean,” cried Patricia, “what about Jumbo's swing at Snoopy?”
“Oh, well, Snoopy had the puck, you know. It was a little off-colour, I must confess.”
“And now, Daddy,” said Patricia, going at her father again, “we all want to go down to the dance. There will be speeches, you know, and I do want to hear Captain Jack,” she added, not without guile. “Won't you let me go with them? Hugh will take care of me.”
“I think I should rather like to go myself,” said her father. A shout of approval rose from the whole company. “But,” continued the doctor, “I don't think I can. My dear, I think they might go for a few minutes—and you can bring me in a full account of the speeches, Patricia,” he added, with a twinkle in his eye.
“But, my dear,” exclaimed his wife, “this is one of those awful public affairs. You can't imagine what they are like. The Mill hands will all be there, and that sort of people.”
“Well, my dear, Jack Maitland will be there, I fancy, and you were thinking of going, Hugh?”
“Yes, sir, I am going. Of course there will be a number of the friends of both teams, townspeople. Of course the Mill hands will be there, too, in large numbers. It will be great fun.”
“Well, my dear,” said the doctor, “I think they might go down for a few minutes. But be sure to be back before midnight. Remember, Patricia, you are to do exactly as your sister says.”
Then Vic said: “I shall keep a firm hand on her, sir.”
“Oh, you darling,” Patricia cried, hugging her father rapturously. “I will be so good; and won't it be fun!”
Odd Fellows' Hall was elaborately decorated with bunting and evergreens. The party from the Rectory, arriving in time to hear the closing speeches of the two team captains, took their places in the gallery. The speeches were brief and to the point.
The Captain of the visiting team declared that he had greatly enjoyed the game. He was not quite convinced that the best team had won, but he would say that the game had gone to the team that had put up the best play. He complimented Captain Maitland upon his generalship. He had known Captain Maitland in the old days and he ought to have been on the lookout for the kind of thing he had put over. The Maitland Mill team had made a perfectly wonderful recovery in the last quarter, though he rather thought his friend Macnamara had helped it a little at a critical point.
“He did that,” exclaimed Jumbo Larson, with marked emphasis.
After the roar of laughter had quieted down, the Cornwall Captain closed by expressing the hope that the Maitland Mill team would try for a place next season in the senior hockey. In which case he expressed the hope that he might have the pleasure of meeting them again.
Captain Maitland's speech was characteristic. He had nothing but praise for the Cornwalls. They played a wonderful game and a clean game. He shared in the doubt of their Captain as to which was the better team. He frankly confessed that in the last quarter the luck came to his team.
“Not a bit of it,” roared the Cornwalls with one voice.
As to his own team, he was particularly proud of the way they had taken the training—their fine self-denial, and especially the never-dying spirit which they showed. It was a great honour for his team to meet the Cornwalls. A hard team to meet—sometimes—as Snoopy and himself had found out that evening—but they were good sports and he hoped some day to meet them again.
After the usual cheers for the teams, individually and collectively, for their supporters, for the Mill management and for the ladies, the dinner came to an end, the whole party joining with wide open throats and all standing at attention, in the Canadian and the Empire national anthems.
While the supper table was being cleared away preparatory to the dance, Captain Jack rushed upstairs to the party in the gallery. Patricia flung herself at him in an ecstasy of rapture.
“Oh! Captain Jack, you did win! You did win! You did win! It was glorious! And that double-circle play that you and Snoopy put up—didn't it work beautifully!”
“We were mighty lucky,” said Captain Jack.
The others, Hugh, Vic and Rupert, crowded round, offering congratulations. Adrien waited behind, a wonderful light shining in her eyes, a faint colour touching her pale cheek. Captain Jack came slowly forward.
“Are you not going to congratulate us, too, Adrien?” he said.
She moved a pace forward.
“Oh, Jack,” she whispered, leaning toward him and breathing quickly, “it was so like the old, the dear old days.”
Into Maitland's eyes there flashed a look of surprise, of wonder, then of piercing scrutiny, while his face grew white.
“Adrien,” he said, in a voice low, tense, almost stern, which she alone heard. “What do you mean? Then do you—”
“Oh, Captain Jack,” cried Patricia, catching his arm, “are you going to dance? You are, aren't you? And will you give me—Oh, I daren't ask! You are such a great hero to-night!”
“Why, Patsy, will you give me a dance?”
The girl stood gazing at him with eyes that grew misty, the quick beating of her loyal heart almost suffocating her.
“Oh, Captain Jack,” she gasped, “how many?”
Maitland laughed at her, and turned to her sister.
“And you, Adrien, may I have a dance?”
Again Adrien leaned toward him.
“One?” she asked.
“And as many more as you can spare.”
“My program is quite empty, you see,” she said, flinging out her hands and laughing joyously into his face.
“What about me? And me? And me?” said the other three men.
“I suppose we are all nowhere to-night,” added Rupert, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.
“Well, there is only one conquering hero, you know,” replied Adrien, smiling at them all.
“Now I must run off,” said Maitland. “You see, I am on duty, as it were. Come down in a few minutes.”
“Yes, go, Jack,” said Adrien, throwing him a warm smile. “We will follow you in a few minutes.”
“Oh, I am so excited!” said Patricia, as Maitland disappeared down the stairs. “I mean to dance with every one of the team. I know I am going to have a perfectly lovely time! But I would give them all up if I could have Captain Jack all the time.”
“Pig,” said her sister, smiling at her.
“Wretch,” cried Vic, making a face.
But Patricia was quite unabashed. “I am going to have him just as often as I can,” she said, brazenly.
For a few minutes they stood watching the dancers on the floor below. It was indeed, as Mrs. Templeton had said, a “mixed multitude.” Mill hands and their girls, townsfolk whose social standing was sufficiently assured to endure the venture. A mixed multitude, but thoroughly jolly, making up in vigour what was lacking in grace in their exposition of the Terpsichorean art.
“Rather ghastly,” said Rupert, who appeared to be quite disgusted with the whole evening's proceedings.
“Lovely!” exclaimed Patricia.
“They are enjoying themselves, at any rate,” said Adrien, “and, after all, that is what people dance for.”
“Stacks of fun. I am all for it, eh, Pat?” said Vic, making adoring eyes at the young girl.
But Patricia severely ignored him.
“Oh, Adrien, look!” she cried suddenly. “There is Annette, and who is the big man with her? Oh, what an awful dancer he is! But Annette, isn't she wonderful! What a lovely dress! I think she is the most beautiful thing.” And Patricia was right, for Annette was radiant in colour and unapproachable in the grace of her movement.
“By Jove! She is a wonder!” said Vic. “Some dancer, if she only had a chance.”
“Well, why don't you go down, Vic,” said Patricia sharply. “You know you are just aching to show off your fox trot. Run away, little boy, I won't mind.”
“I don't believe you would,” replied Vic ruefully.
For some minutes longer they all stood watching the scene below.
“They are a jolly crowd,” said Adrien. “I don't think we have half the fun at our dances.”
“They certainly get a lot for their money,” said Vic. “But wait till they come to 'turkey-in-the-straw!' That is where they really cut loose.”
“Oh, pshaw!” cried Patricia. “I can 'turkey' myself. Just wait and you'll see.”
“So can I,” murmured Vic. “Will you let me in on it? Hello,” he continued, “there is the Captain and Annette. Now look out for high art. I know the Captain's style. And a two-step! My eye! She is a little airy fairy!”
“How beautifully she dances,” said Adrien. “And how charmingly she is dressed.”
“They do hit it off, don't they,” said Rupert. “They evidently know each other's paces.”
Suddenly Adrien turned to Hugh: “Don't you think we should go down?” she asked. “You know we must not stay late.”
“Yes, do come along!” cried Patricia, seizing Victor by the arm and hurrying to the stairs, the others making their way more leisurely to the dancing room.
The hall was a scene of confused hilarity. Maitland was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh! let us dance, Vic!” cried Patricia. “There is really no use waiting for Captain Jack. At any rate, Adrien will claim the first dance.”
No second invitation was needed and together they swung off into the medley of dancers.
“We may as well follow,” said Hugh. “We shall doubtless run into Maitland somewhere before long.”
But not in that dance, nor in the three successive dances did Maitland appear. The precious moments were slipping by. Patricia was becoming more and more anxious and fretful at the non-appearance of her hero. Also, Hugh began to notice and detect a lagging in his partner's step.
“Shall we go out into the corridor?” he said. “This air is beginning to be rather trying.”
From the crowded hall they passed into the corridor, from which opened side rooms which were used as dressing and retiring rooms, and whose entrances were cleverly screened by a row of thick spruce trees set up for the occasion.
“This is better,” said Hugh, drawing a deep breath. “Shall we sit a bit and rest?”
“Oh, do let us,” said Adrien. “This has been a strenuous and exciting evening. I really feel quite done out. Here is a most inviting seat.”
Wearily she sat down on a bench which faced the entrance to one of the rooms.
“Shall I bring you a glass of water or an ice, Adrien?” inquired Hugh, noting the pallor in her face.
“Thank you. A glass of water, if you will be so kind. How deliciously fragrant that spruce is.”
As her partner set off upon his errand, Adrien stepped to the spruce tree which screened the open door of the room opposite, and taking the bosky branches in her hands, she thrust her face into the aromatic foliage.
“How deliciously fragrant,” she murmured.
Suddenly, as if stabbed by a spine in the trees, she started back and stood gazing through the thick branches into the room beyond There stood Maitland and Annette, the girl, with her face tearfully pale and pleading, uplifted to his and with her hands gripped tight and held fast in his, clasped against his breast. More plainly than words her face, her eyes, her attitude told her tale. She was pouring out her very soul to him in entreaty, and he was giving eager, sympathetic heed to her appeal.
Swiftly Adrien stepped back from the screening tree, her face white as if from a stunning blow, her heartbeats checking her breath. Quickly, blindly, she ran down the corridor. At the very end she met Hugh with a glass of water in his hand.
“What is the matter, Adrien? Have you seen a ghost?” he cried in an anxious voice.
She caught the glass from his hand and began to drink, at first greedily, then more slowly.
“Ah!” she said, drawing a deep breath. “That is good. Do you know, I was almost overcome. The air of that room is quite deadly. Now I am all right. Let us get a breath from the outside, Hugh.”
Taking him by the arm, she hastened him to the farther end of the corridor and opened the door. “Oh, delicious!” She drew in deep breaths of the cold, fresh air.
“How wonderful the night is, Hugh.” She leaned far out, “and the snow was like a cloth of silver and diamonds in this glorious moon.” She stooped, and from a gleaming bank beside the door she caught up a double handful of the snow and, packing it into a little ball, flung it at her partner, catching him fairly on the ear.
“Aha!” she cried. “Don't ever say a woman is a poor shot. Now then,” she added, stamping her feet free from the clinging flakes and waving her hands in the air to dry them, “I feel fit for anything. Let us have one more dance before we go home, for I feel we really must go.”
“You are sure you are quite fit?” inquired Hugh, still anxious for her.
“Fit? Look at me!” Her cheeks were bright with colour, her eyes with light.
“You surely do look fit,” said Hugh, beaming at her with frank admiration. “But you were all in a few moments ago.”
“Come along. There is a way into the hall by this door,” she cried, catching his hand and hurrying him into the dancing room again.
At the conclusion of their dance they came upon Patricia near the main entrance, in great distress. “I have not seen Captain Jack anywhere,” she lamented. “Have you, Adrien? I have just sent Vic for a final search. I simply cannot go home till I have had my dance.” The girl was almost in tears.
“Never mind, dear,” said Adrien. “He has many duties to-night with all these players to look after. I think we had better go whenever Vic returns. I am awfully sorry for you, Patricia,” she added. “No! Don't! You simply must not cry here.” She put her arm around her sister's shoulder, her own lips trembling, and drew her close. “Where has Vic gone, I wonder?”
That young man, however, was having his own trials. In his search for Maitland he ran across McNish, whom he recognised as Annette's partner in the first dance.
“Hello!” he cried. “Do you know where Captain Maitland is, by any chance?”
“No, how should I know,” replied McNish, in a voice fiercely guttural.
“Oh!” said Vic, somewhat abashed. “I saw you dance with Annette—with Miss Perrotte—and I thought perhaps you might know where the Captain was.”
McNish stood glowering at him for a moment or two, then burst forth:
“They are awa'—he's ta'en her awa'.”
“Away,” said Vic. “Where?”
“To hell for all I ken or care.”
Then with a single stride McNish was close at his side, gripping his arm with fingers that seemed to reach the bone.
“Ye're a friend o' his. Let me say tae ye if ony ill cames tae her, by the leevin' God above us he wull answer tae me.” Hoarse, panting, his face that of a maniac, he stood glaring wild-eyed at the young man before him. To say that Vic was shaken by this sudden and violent onslaught would be much within the truth. Nevertheless he boldly faced the passion-distracted man.
“Look here! I don't know who you are or what you mean,” he said, in as steady tones as he could summon, “but if you suggest that any girl will come to harm from Captain Maitland, then I say you are a liar and a fool.” So speaking, little Vic set himself for the rush which he was firmly convinced would come. McNish, however, stood still, fighting for control. Then, between his deep-drawn breaths, he slowly spoke:
“Ye may be richt. A hope tae God A am baith liar and fule.” The agony in his face moved Vic to pity.
“I say, old chap,” he said, “you are terribly mistaken somehow, I can swear to that. Where is Maitland, anyway, do you know?”
“They went away together.” McNish had suddenly gotten himself in hand. “They went away in his car, secretly.”
“Secretly,” said Vic, scornfully. “Now, that is perfect rot. Look here, do you know Captain Maitland? I am his friend, and let me tell you that all I ever hope to own, here and hereafter, and all my relatives and friends, I would gladly trust with him.”
“Maybe, maybe,” muttered McNish. “Ye may be richt. A apologise, sir, but if—” His eyes blazed again.
“Aw, cut out the tragedy stuff,” said Vic, “and don't be an ass. Good-night.”
Vic turned on his heel and left McNish standing in a dull and dazed condition, and made his way toward the ballroom.
“Who is the Johnny, anyway?” he said to himself. “He is mad—looney—utterly bughouse. Needs a keeper in the worst way. But what about the Captain—must think up something. Let's see. Taken suddenly ill? Hardly—there is the girl to account for. Her mother—grandmother—or something—stricken—let's see. Annette has a brother—By Jove! the very thing—I've got it—brother met with an accident—run over—fell down a well—anything. Hurry call—ambulance stuff. Good line. Needs working up a bit, though. What has happened to my grey matter? Let me think. Ah, yes—when that Johnny brought word of an accident, a serious accident to her brother, Maitland, naturally enough, the gallant soul, hurries her off in his car, sending word by aforesaid mad Johnny.”
Vic went to the outer door, feeling the necessity for a somewhat careful conning of his tale to give it, as he said himself, a little artistic verisimilitude. Then, with his lesson—as he thought—well learned, and praying for aid of unknown gods, he went back to find his partner.
“If only Patricia will keep out of it,” he said to himself as he neared the hall door, “or if I could only catch old Hugh first. But he is not much of a help in this sort of thing. Dash it all! I am quite nervous. This will never do. Must find a way—good effect—cool and collected stuff.” So, ruminating and praying and moving ever more slowly, he reached the door. Coming in sight of his party, he hurried to meet them. “Awfully sorry!” he exclaimed excitedly. “The most rotten luck! Old Maitland's just been called off.”
“Called off!” cried Patricia, in dismay. “Where to!”
“Now, don't jump at me like that. Remember my heart. Met that Johnny—the big chap dancing with Annette, you know—just met him—quite worked up—a hurry call for the girl—for the girl, Annette, you know.”
“The girl!” exclaimed Patricia. “You said Captain Jack.”
“I know! I know!” replied Vic, somewhat impatiently. “I am a bit excited, I confess. Rather nasty thing—Annette's brother, you know—something wrong—accident, I think. Couldn't get the particulars.”
“But Annette's brother is in Toronto,” said Adrien, gravely.
“Exactly!” cried Vic. “That is what I have been telling you. A hurry call—phone message for Annette—horrible accident. Maitland rushed her right away in his car to catch the midnight to Toronto.”
“By Jove! That is too bad,” said Hugh, a genuine sympathy in his honest voice. “That is hard luck on poor Annette. Tony is not exactly a safe proposition, you know.”
“Was he—is he killed?” cried Patricia, in a horror-stricken voice.
“Killed! Not a bit of it,” said Vic cheerfully. “Slight injury—but serious, I mean. You know, just enough to cause anxiety.” Vic lit another cigarette with ostentatious deliberation. “Nasty shock, you know,” he said.
“Who told you all this?” inquired Rupert.
“Who told me?” said Vic. “Why, that mad Johnny.”
“Mad Johnny? What mad Johnny?”
Vic said: “Eh! What? You know, that—ahr—big chap who was falling over her in the fox trot. Looked kind of crazy, you know—big chap—Scotch.”
“Where is he now?” enquired Rupert.
“Oh, I fancy about there, somewhere,” replied Vic, remembering that he had seen McNish moving toward the door. “Better go and look him up and get more particulars. Might help some, you know.”
“Oh, Adrien, let us go to her,” said Patricia. “I am sure Annette would love to have you. Poor Annette!”
“Oh! I say!” interposed Vic hurriedly. “There is really no necessity. I shouldn't like to intrude in family affairs and that sort of thing, you know what I mean.”
Adrien's grave, quiet eyes were upon Vic's face. “You think we had better not go, then,” she said slowly.
“Sure thing!” replied Vic, with cheerful optimism. “There is no necessity—slight accident—no need to make a fuss about it.”
“But you said it was a serious accident—a terrible thing,” said Patricia.
“Oh, now, Patricia, come out of it. You check a fellow up so hard. Can't you understand the Johnny was so deucedly worked up over it he couldn't give me the right of it. Dash it all! Let's have another turn, Patricia!”
But Adrien said: “I think we will go home, Hugh.”
“Very well, if you think so, Adrien. I don't fancy you need worry over Annette. The accident probably is serious but not dangerous. Tony is a tough fellow.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Vic. “Just as I have been telling you. Serious, but not dangerous. At least, that was the impression I got.”
“Oh, Vic, you are so terribly confusing!” exclaimed Patricia. “Why can't you get things straight? I say, Adrien, we can ride round to Annette's on our way home, and then we will get things quite clearly.”
“Certainly,” said Hugh. “It will only take us a minute. Eh, what!” he added to Vic, who was making frantic grimaces at him. “Well, if you ladies will get your things, we will go.”
“But I am so disappointed,” said Patricia to Adrien, as they went to their dressing room together.
After they had gone, Hugh turned upon Vic: “Now then, what the deuce and all are you driving at?”
“Driving at!” cried Vic, in an exasperated tone. “You are a sweet support for a fellow in distress. I am a nervous wreck—a perfect mess. Another word from that kid and I should have run screaming into the night. And as for you, why the deuce didn't you buck up and help a fellow out?”
“Help you out? How in the name of all that is reasonable could I help you out? What is all the yarn about? Of course I know it isn't true. Where's Maitland?”
“Search me,” said Vic. “All I know is that I hit upon that Scotch Johnny out in the hall—he nearly wrenched an arm off me and did everything but bite—spitting out incoherent gaspings indicating that Maitland had 'gone awa' wi' his gur-r-l, confound him!' and suggesting the usual young Lochinvar stuff. You know—nothing in it, of course. But what was I to do? Some tale was necessary! Fortunately or unfortunately, brother Tony sprang to the thing I call my mind and—well, you know the mess I made of it. But Hugh, remember, for heaven's sake, make talk about something—about the match—and get that girl quietly home. I bag the back seat and Adrien. It is hard on me, I know, but fifteen minutes more of Patsy and I shall be counting my tootsies and prattling nursery rhymes. Here they come,” he breathed. “Now, 'a little forlorn hope, deadly breach act, if you love me, Hardy.' Play up, old boy!”
And with commendable enthusiasm and success, Hugh played up, supported—as far as his physical and mental condition allowed—by the enfeebled Vic, till they had safely deposited their charges at the Rectory door, whence, refusing an invitation to stop for cocoa, they took their homeward way.
“'And from famine, pestilence and sudden death,' and from the once-over by that penetrating young female, 'good Lord, deliver us,'” murmured Vic, falling into the seat beside his friend. “Take me home to mother,” he added, and refused further speech till at his own door. He waved a weak adieu and staggered feebly into the house.
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