The World for Sale, Complete

  CHAPTER VIII. THE SULTAN

  Ingolby's square head jerked forwards in stern inquiry and his eyesfastened those of Jowett, the horsedealer. "Take care what you'resaying, Jowett," he said. "It's a penitentiary job, if it can be proved.Are you sure you got it right?"

  Jowett had unusual shrewdness, some vanity and a humorous tongue. Hewas a favourite in both towns, and had had the better of both inhorse-dealing a score of times.

  That did not make him less popular. However, it was said he liked lowcompany, and it was true that though he had "money in the bank," andowned a corner lot or so, he seemed to care little what his company was.His most constant companion was Fabian Osterhaut, who was the commonproperty of both towns, doing a little of everything for a living, frombill-posting to the solicitation of an insurance agent.

  For any casual work connected with public functions Osterhaut wasindispensable, and he would serve as a doctor's assistant and help cutoff a leg, be the majordomo for a Sunday-school picnic, or arrange asoiree at a meeting-house with equal impartiality. He had been known toattend a temperance meeting and a wake in the same evening. Yet no oneever questioned his bona fides, and if he had attended mass at Manitouin the morning, joined a heathen dance in Tekewani's Reserve in theafternoon, and listened to the oleaginous Rev. Reuben Tripple in theevening, it would have been taken as a matter of course.

  He was at times profane and impecunious, and he had been shifted fromone boarding-house to another till at last, having exhausted credit inLebanon, he had found a room in the house of old Madame Thibadeau inManitou. She had taken him in because, in years gone by, he had nursedher only son through an attack of smallpox on the Siwash River, andsomehow Osterhaut had always paid his bills to her. He was curiouslyexact where she was concerned. If he had not enough for his week's boardand lodging, he borrowed it, chiefly of Jowett, who used him profitablyat times to pass the word about a horse, or bring news of a possibledeal.

  "It's a penitentiary job, Jowett," Ingolby repeated. "I didn't thinkMarchand would be so mad as that."

  "Say, it's all straight enough, Chief," answered Jowett, sucking hisunlighted cigar. "Osterhaut got wind of it--he's staying at old MotherThibadeau's, as you know. He moves round a lot, and he put me on toit. I took on the job at once. I got in with the French toughs over atManitou, at Barbazon's Tavern, and I gave them gin--we made it a ginnight. It struck their fancy--gin, all gin! 'Course there's nothing ingin different from any other spirit; but it fixed their minds, and tookaway suspicion.

  "I got drunk--oh, yes, of course, blind drunk, didn't I? Kissed me,half a dozen of the Quebec boys did--said I was 'bully boy' and'hell-fellow'; said I was 'bon enfant'; and I said likewise in my bestpatois. They liked that. I've got a pretty good stock of monkey-French,and I let it go. They laughed till they cried at some of my mistakes,but they weren't no mistakes, not on your life. It was all donea-purpose. They said I was the only man from Lebanon they wouldn't havecut up and boiled, and they was going to have the blood of the Lebanonlot before they'd done. I pretended to get mad, and I talked wild. Isaid that Lebanon would get them first, that Lebanon wouldn'twait, but'd have it out; and I took off my coat and staggeredabout--blind-fair blind boozy. I tripped over some fool's footpurposely, just beside a bench against the wall, and I come down on thatbench hard. They laughed--Lord, how they laughed! They didn't mind mygivin' 'em fits--all except one or two. That was what I expected. Theone or two was mad. They begun raging towards me, but there I was asleepon the bench-stony blind, and then they only spit fire a bit. Some onethrew my coat over me. I hadn't any cash in the pockets, not much--Iknew better than that--and I snored like a sow. Then it happened what Ithought would happen. They talked. And here it is. They're going to havea strike in the mills, and you're to get a toss into the river. That'sto be on Friday. But the other thing--well, they all cleared away buttwo. They were the two that wanted to have it out with me. They stayedbehind. There was I snoring like a locomotive, but my ears open allright.

  "Well, they give the thing away. One of 'em had just come from FelixMarchand and he was full of it. What was it? Why, the second night ofthe strike your new bridge over the river was to be blown up. Marchandwas to give these two toughs three hundred dollars each for doing it."

  "Blown up with what?" Ingolby asked sharply.

  "Dynamite."

  "Where would they get it?"

  "Some left from blasting below the mills."

  "All right! Go on."

  "There wasn't much more. Old Barbazon, the landlord, come in and theyquit talking about it; but they said enough to send 'em to gaol for tenyears."

  Ingolby blinked at Jowett reflectively, and his mouth gave a twist thatlent to his face an almost droll look.

  "What good would it do if they got ten years--or one year, if the bridgewas blown up? If they got skinned alive, and if Marchand was handed overto a barnful of hungry rats to be gnawed to death, it wouldn't help.I've heard and seen a lot of hellish things, but there's nothing toequal that. To blow up the bridge--for what? To spite Lebanon, andto hurt me; to knock the spokes out of my wheel. He's the dregs, isMarchand."

  "I guess he's a shyster by nature, that fellow," interposed Jowett. "Hewas boilin' hot when he was fifteen. He spoiled a girl I knew when hewas twenty-two, not fourteen she was--Lil Sarnia; and he got her awaybefore--well, he got her away East; and she's in a dive in Winnipegnow. As nice a girl--as nice a little girl she was, and could ride anybroncho that ever bucked. What she saw in him--but there, she was only achild, just the mind of a child she had, and didn't understand. He'd ha'been tarred and feathered if it'd been known. But old Mick Sarnia saidhush, for his wife's sake, and so we hushed, and Sarnia's wife doesn'tknow even now. I thought a lot of Lil, as much almost as if she'd beenmy own; and lots o' times, when I think of it, I sit up straight, andthe thing freezes me; and I want to get Marchand by the scruff of theneck. I got a horse, the worst that ever was--so bad I haven't had theheart to ride him or sell him. He's so bad he makes me laugh. There'snothing he won't do, from biting to bolting. Well, I'd like to tie Mr.Felix Marchand, Esquire, to his back, and let him loose on the prairie,and pray the Lord to save him if he thought fit. I fancy I know what theLord would do. And Lil Sarnia's only one. Since he come back fromthe States, he's the limit, oh, the damnedest limit. He's a pest allround-and now, this!"

  Ingolby kept blinking reflectively as Jowett talked. He was doing twothings at once with a facility quite his own. He was understanding allJowett was saying, but he was also weighing the whole situation. Hismind was gone fishing, figuratively speaking. He was essentially a manof action, but his action was the bullet of his mind; he had to be quietphysically when he was really thinking. Then he was as one in a dreamwhere all physical motion was mechanical, and his body was actingautomatically. His concentration, and therefore his abstraction, wasphenomenal. Jowett's reminiscences at a time so critical did not disturbhim--did not, indeed, seem to be irrelevant. It was as though FelixMarchand was being passed in review before him in a series of aspects.He nodded encouragement to Jowett to go on.

  "It's because Marchand hates you, Chief. The bump he got when youdropped him on the ground that day at Carillon hurts still. It's achronic inflammation. Closing them railway offices at Manitou, anddislodging the officials give him his first good chance. The feudbetween the towns is worse now than it's ever been. Make no mistake.There's a whole lot of toughs in Manitou. Then there's religion,and there's race, and there's a want-to-stand-still andleave-me-alone-feeling. They don't want to get on. They don't wantprogress. They want to throw the slops out of the top windows into thestreet; they want their cesspools at the front door; they think thateverybody's got to have smallpox some time or another, and the soonerthey have it the better; they want to be bribed; and they think that ifa vote's worth having it's worth paying for--and yet there's a bridgebetween these two towns! A bridge--why, they're as far apart as theYukon and Patagonia."

  "What'd buy Felix Marchand?" Ingolby asked meditatively. "What's h
isprice?"

  Jowett shifted with impatience. "Say, Chief, I don't know what you'rethinking about. Do you think you could make a deal with Felix Marchand?Not much. You've got the cinch on him. You could send him to quod, andI'd send him there as quick as lightning. I'd hang him, if I could, forwhat he done to Lil Sarnia. Years ago when he was a boy he offered mea gold watch for a mare I had. The watch looked as right as couldbe--solid fourteen-carat, he said it was. He got my horse, and I got hiswatch. It wasn't any more gold than he was. It was filled--just platedwith nine-carat gold. It was worth about ten dollars."

  "What was the mare worth?" asked Ingolby, his mouth twisting again withquizzical meaning.

  "That mare--she was all right."

  "Yes, but what was the matter with her?"

  "Oh, a spavin--she was all right when she got wound up--go like Dexteror Maud S."

  "But if you were buying her what would you have paid for her, Jowett?Come now, man to man, as they say. How much did you pay for her?"

  "About what she was worth, Chief, within a dollar or two."

  "And what was she worth?"

  "What I paid for her-ten dollars."

  Then the two men looked at each other full in the eyes, and Jowett threwback his head and laughed outright--laughed loud and hard. "Well, yougot me, Chief, right under the guard," he observed.

  Ingolby did not laugh outright, but there was a bubble of humour in hiseyes. "What happened to the watch?" he asked.

  "I got rid of it."

  "In a horse-trade?"

  "No, I got a town lot with it."

  "In Lebanon?"

  "Well, sort of in Lebanon's back-yard."

  "What's the lot worth now?"

  "About two thousand dollars!"

  "Was it your first town lot?"

  "The first lot of Mother Earth I ever owned."

  "Then you got a vote on it?"

  "Yes, my first vote."

  "And the vote let you be a town-councillor?"

  "It and my good looks."

  "Indirectly, therefore, you are a landowner, a citizen, a publicservant, and an instrument of progress because of Felix Marchand. If youhadn't had the watch you wouldn't have had that town lot."

  "Well, mebbe, not that lot."

  Suddenly Ingolby got to his feet and squared himself, and his facebecame alight with purpose. His mind had come back from fishing, and hewas ready now for action. His plans were formed. He was in for a fight,and he had made up his mind how, with the new information to his hand,he would develop his campaign further.

  "You didn't make a fuss about the watch, Jowett. You might have gone toFelix Marchand or to his father and proved him a liar, and got even thatway. You didn't; you got a corner lot with it. That's what I'm going todo. I can have Felix Marchand put in the jug, and make his old father,Hector Marchand, sick; but I like old Hector Marchand, and I thinkhe's bred as bad a pup as ever was. I'm going to try and do with thisbusiness as you did with that watch. I'm going to try and turn it toaccount and profit in the end. Felix Marchand's profiting by a mistakeof mine--a mistake in policy. It gives him his springboard; and there'senough dry grass in both towns to get a big blaze with a very littlematch. I know that things are seething. The Chief Constable keeps meposted as to what's going on here, and pretty fairly as to what's goingon in Manitou. The police in Manitou are straight enough. That'sone comfort. I've done Felix Marchand there. I guess that the ChiefConstable of Manitou and Monseigneur Lourde and old Mother Thibadeau areabout the only people that Marchand can't bribe. I see I've got to facea scrimmage before I can get what I want."

  "What you want you'll have, I bet," was the admiring response.

  "I'm going to have a good try. I want these two towns to be one. That'llbe good for your town lots, Jowett," he added whimsically. "If my policyis carried out, my town lot'll be worth a pocketful of gold-platedwatches or a stud of spavined mares." He chuckled to himself, and hisfingers reached towards a bell on the table, but he paused. "When was itthey said the strike would begin?" he asked.

  "Friday."

  "Did they say what hour?"

  "Eleven in the morning."

  "Third of a day's work and a whole day's pay," he mused. "Jowett," headded, "I want you to have faith. I'm going to do Marchand, and I'mgoing to do him in a way that'll be best in the end. You can help asmuch if not more than anybody--you and Osterhaut. And if I succeed,it'll be worth your while."

  "I ain't followin' you because it's worth while, but because I want to,Chief."

  "I know; but a man--every man--likes the counters for the game." Heturned to the table, opened a drawer, and took out a folded paper.He looked it through carefully, wrote a name on it, and handed it toJowett.

  "There's a hundred shares in the Northwest Railway, with my regards,Jowett. Some of the counters of the game."

  Jowett handed it back at once with a shake of the head. "I don't live inManitou," he said. "I'm almost white, Chief. I've never made a deal withyou, and don't want to. I'm your man for the fun of it, and because I'dgive my life to have your head on my shoulders for one year."

  "I'd feel better if you'd take the shares, Jowett. You've helped me, andI can't let you do it for nothing."

  "Then I can't do it at all. I'm discharged." Suddenly, however, ahumorous, eager look shot into Jowett's face. "Will you toss for it?" heblurted out. "Certainly, if you like," was the reply.

  "Heads I win, tails it's yours?"

  "Good."

  Ingolby took a silver dollar from his pocket, and tossed. It came downtails. Ingolby had won.

  "My corner lot against double the shares?" Jowett asked sharply, hisface flushed with eager pleasure. He was a born gambler.

  "As you like," answered Ingolby with a smile. Ingolby tossed, and theystooped over to look at the dollar on the floor. It had come up heads."You win," said Ingolby, and turning to the table, took out anotherhundred shares. In a moment they were handed over.

  "You're a wonder, Jowett," he said. "You risked a lot of money. Are yousatisfied?"

  "You bet, Chief. I come by these shares honestly now."

  He picked up the silver dollar from the floor, and was about to put itin his pocket.

  "Wait--that's my dollar," said Ingolby.

  "By gracious, so it is!" said Jowett, and handed it over reluctantly.

  Ingolby pocketed it with satisfaction.

  Neither dwelt on the humour of the situation. They were only concernedfor the rules of the game, and both were gamesters in their way.

  After a few brief instructions to Jowett, and a message for Osterhautconcerning a suit of workman's clothes, Ingolby left his offices andwalked down the main street of the town with his normal rapidity,responding cheerfully to the passers-by, but not encouraging evidentdesire for talk with him. Men half-started forward to him, but he heldthem back with a restraining eye. They knew his ways. He was responsivein a brusque, inquisitive, but good-humoured and sometimes very drollway; but there were times when men said to themselves that he was to beleft alone; and he was so much master of the place that, as Osterhautand Jowett frequently remarked, "What he says goes!" It went even withthose whom he had passed in the race of power.

  He had had his struggles to be understood in his first days in Lebanon.He had fought intrigue and even treachery, had defeated groups whichwere the forces at work before he came to Lebanon, and had compelled thesubmission of others. All these had vowed to "get back at him," but whenit became a question of Lebanon against Manitou they swung over to hisside and acknowledged him as leader. The physical collision between therougher elements of the two towns had brought matters to a head, andnearly every man in Lebanon felt that his honour was at stake, and wasready "to have it out with Manitou."

  As he walked along the main street after his interview with Jowett,his eyes wandered over the buildings rising everywhere; and his mindreviewed as in a picture the same thinly inhabited street five years agowhen he first came. Now farmers' wagons clacked and rumbled through theprairie dust, smal
l herds of cattle jerked and shuffled their way tothe slaughter-yard, or out to the open prairie, and caravans of settlerswith their effects moved sturdily forward to the trails which led to anew life beckoning from three points of the compass. That point whichdid not beckon was behind them. Flaxen-haired Swedes and Norwegians;square-jawed, round-headed North Germans; square-shouldered,loose-jointed Russians with heavy contemplative eyes and long hair,looked curiously at each other and nodded understandingly. Jostling themall, with a jeer and an oblique joke here and there, and crude chaff oneach other and everybody, the settler from the United States assertedhimself. He invariably obtruded himself, with quizzical inquiry, halfcontempt and half respect, on the young Englishman, who gazed round withphlegm upon his fellow adventurers, and made up to the sandy-facedScot or the cheerful Irishman with his hat on the back of his head, whoshowed in the throng here and there. This was one of the days when theemigrant and settlers' trains arrived both from the East and from "theStates," and Front Street in Lebanon had, from early morning, been alivewith the children of hope and adventure.

  With hands plunged deep in the capacious pockets of his grey jacket,Ingolby walked on, seeing everything; yet with his mind occupiedintently, too, on the trouble which must be faced before Lebanon andManitou would be the reciprocating engines of his policy. Coming to aspot where a great gap of vacant land showed in the street-land whichhe had bought for the new offices of his railway combine--he stoodand looked at it abstractedly. Beyond it, a few blocks away, was theSagalac, and beyond the Sagalac was Manitou, and a little way to theright was the bridge which was the symbol of his policy. His eyes gazedalmost unconsciously on the people and the horses and wagons coming andgoing upon the bridge. Then they were lifted to the tall chimneys risingat two or three points on the outskirts of Manitou.

  "They don't know a good thing when they get it," he said to himself. "Astrike--why, wages are double what they are in Quebec, where most of 'emcome from! Marchand--"

  A hand touched his arm. "Have you got a minute to spare, kind sir?" avoice asked.

  Ingolby turned and saw Nathan Rockwell, the doctor. "Ah, Rockwell," heresponded cheerfully, "two minutes and a half, if you like! What is it?"

  The Boss Doctor, as he was familiarly called by every one, to identifyhim from the newer importations of medical men, drew from his pocket anewspaper.

  "There's an infernal lie here about me," he replied. "They say that I--"

  He proceeded to explain the misstatement, as Ingolby studied the papercarefully, for Rockwell was a man worth any amount of friendship.

  "It's a lie, of course," Ingolby said firmly as he finished theparagraph. "Well?"

  "Well, I've got to deal with it."

  "You mean you're going to deny it in the papers?"

  "Exactly."

  "I wouldn't, Rockwell."

  "You wouldn't?"

  "No. You never can really overtake a newspaper lie. Lots of the peoplewho read the lie don't see the denial. Your truth doesn't overtake thelie--it's a scarlet runner."

  "I don't see that. When you're lied about, when a lie like that--"

  "You can't overtake it, Boss. It's no use. It's sensational, it runs toofast. Truth's slow-footed. When a newspaper tells a lie about you, don'ttry to overtake it, tell another."

  He blinked with quizzical good-humour. Rockwell could not resist theaudacity. "I don't believe you'd do it just the same," he retorteddecisively, and laughing.

  "I don't try the overtaking anyhow; I get something spectacular in myown favour to counteract the newspaper lie."

  "In what way?"

  "For instance, if they said I couldn't ride a moke at a villagesteeplechase, I'd at once publish the fact that, with a jack-knife, I'dkilled two pumas that were after me. Both things would be lies, but theone would neutralize the other. If I said I could ride a moke, nobodywould see it, and if it were seen it wouldn't make any impression; butto say I killed two mountain-lions with a jack-knife on the edge of aprecipice, with the sun standing still to look at it, is as good as theoriginal lie and better; and I score. My reputation increases."

  Nathan Rockwell's equilibrium was restored. "You're certainly a wonder,"he declared. "That's why you've succeeded."

  "Have I succeeded?"

  "Thirty-three-and what you are!"

  "What am I?"

  "Pretty well master here."

  "Rockwell, that'd do me a lot of harm if it was published. Don't sayit again. This is a democratic country. They'd kick at my being calledmaster of anything, and I'd have to tell a lie to counteract it."

  "But it's the truth, and it hasn't to be overtaken."

  A grim look came into Ingolby's face. "I'd like to be master-boss oflife and death, holder of the sword and balances, the Sultan, here justfor one week. I'd change some things. I'd gag some people that are doingterrible harm. It's a real bad business. The scratch-your-face period isover, and we're in the cut-your-throat epoch."

  Rockwell nodded assent, opened the paper again, and pointed to a column."I expect you haven't seen that. To my mind, in the present state ofthings, it's dynamite."

  Ingolby read the column hastily. It was the report of a sermon deliveredthe evening before by the Rev. Reuben Tripple, the evangelical ministerof Lebanon. It was a paean of the Scriptures accompanied by a crazycharge that the Roman Church forbade the reading of the Bible. It had atirade also about the Scarlet Woman and Popish idolatry.

  Ingolby made a savage gesture. "The insatiable Christian beast!" hegrowled in anger. "There's no telling what this may do. You know whatthose fellows are over in Manitou. The place is full of them going tothe woods, besides the toughs at the mills and in the taverns. They'renot psalm-singing, and they don't keep the Ten Commandments, but they'resavagely fanatical, and--"

  "And there's the funeral of an Orangeman tomorrow. The Orange Lodgeattends in regalia."

  Ingolby started and looked at the paper again. "The sneaking, prayingliar," he said, his jaw setting grimly. "This thing's a call to riot.There's an element in Lebanon as well that'd rather fight than eat. It'sthe kind of lie that--"

  "That you can't overtake," said the Boss Doctor appositely; "and Idon't know that even you can tell another that'll neutralize it. Yourprescription won't work here."

  An acknowledging smile played at Ingolby's mouth. "We've got to have atry. We've got to draw off the bull with a red rag somehow."

  "I don't see how myself. That Orange funeral will bring a row on to us.I can just see the toughs at Manitou when they read this stuff, and knowabout that funeral."

  "It's announced?"

  "Yes, here's an invitation in the Budget to Orangemen to attend thefuneral of a brother sometime of the banks of the Boyne!"

  "Who's the Master of the Lodge?" asked Ingolby. Rockwell told him,urging at the same time that he see the Chief Constable as well, andMonseigneur Lourde at Manitou.

  "That's exactly what I mean to do--with a number of other things.Between ourselves, Rockwell, I'd have plenty of lint and bandages readyfor emergencies if I were you."

  "I'll see to it. That collision the other day was serious enough,and it's gradually becoming a vendetta. Last night one of the Lebanonchampions lost his nose."

  "His nose--how?"

  "A French river-driver bit a third of it off."

  Ingolby made a gesture of disgust. "And this is the twentieth century!"

  They had moved along the street until they reached a barber-shop, fromwhich proceeded the sound of a violin. "I'm going in here," Ingolbysaid. "I've got some business with Berry, the barber. You'll keep meposted as to anything important?"

  "You don't need to say it. Shall I see the Master of the Orange Lodgeor the Chief Constable for you?" Ingolby thought for a minute. "No, I'lltackle them myself, but you get in touch with Monseigneur Lourde. He'sgrasped the situation, and though he'd like to have Tripple boiled inoil, he doesn't want broken heads and bloodshed."

  "And Tripple?"

  "I'll deal with him at once. I've got a hold on him.
I never wantedto use it, but I will now without compunction. I have the means in mypocket. They've been there for three days, waiting for the chance."

  "It doesn't look like war, does it?" said Rockwell, looking up thestreet and out towards the prairie where the day bloomed like a flower.Blue above--a deep, joyous blue, against which a white cloud rested orslowly travelled westward; a sky down whose vast cerulean bowl flocks ofwild geese sailed, white and grey and black, while the woods across theSagalac were glowing with a hundred colours, giving tender magnificenceto the scene. The busy eagerness of a pioneer life was still a quiet,orderly thing, so immense was the theatre for effort and movement. Inthese wide streets, almost as wide as a London square, there was roomto move; nothing seemed huddled, pushing, or inconvenient. Eventhe disorder of building lost its ugly crudity in the space and thesunlight.

  "The only time I get frightened in life is when things look like that,"Ingolby answered. "I go round with a life-preserver on me when it seemsas if 'all's right with the world.'"

  The violin inside the barber-shop kept scraping out its cheap music--acoon-song of the day.

  "Old Berry hasn't much business this morning," remarked Rockwell. "He'sin keeping with this surface peace."

  "Old Berry never misses anything. What we're thinking, he's thinking.I go fishing when I'm in trouble; Berry plays his fiddle. He's aphilosopher and a friend."

  "You don't make friends as other people do."

  "I make friends of all kinds. I don't know why, but I've always had akind of kinship with the roughs, the no-accounts, and the rogues."

  "As well as the others--I hope I don't intrude!"

  Ingolby laughed. "You? Oh, I wish all the others were like you. It's thehighly respectable members of the community I've always had to watch."

  The fiddle-song came squeaking out upon the sunny atmosphere. Itarrested the attention of a man on the other side of the street--astranger in strange Lebanon. He wore a suit of Western clothes as amilitary man wears mufti, if not awkwardly, yet with a manner not whollynatural--the coat too tight across the chest, too short in the body.However, the man was handsome and unusual in his leopard way, with hisbrown curling hair and well-cared-for moustache. It was Jethro Fawe.

  Attracted by the sound of the violin, he stayed his steps and smiledscornfully. Then his look fell on the two figures at the door of thebarber-shop, and his eyes flashed.

  Here was the man he wished to see--Max Ingolby, the man who stoodbetween him and his Romany lass. Here was a chance of speaking face toface with the man who was robbing him. What he should do when they metmust be according to circumstances. That did not matter. There was theimpulse storming in his brain, and it drove him across the street asthe Boss Doctor walked away, and Ingolby entered the shop. All Jethrorealized was that the man who stood in his way, the big, rich, masterfulGorgio was there.

  He entered the shop after Ingolby, and stood for an instant unseen. Theold negro barber with his curly white head, slave-black face, and large,shrewd, meditative eyes was standing in a corner with a violin under hischin, his cheek lovingly resting against it, as he drew his bow throughthe last bars of the melody. He had smiled in welcome as Ingolbyentered, instantly rising from his stool, but continuing to play. Hewould not have stopped in the middle of a tune for an emperor, and heput Ingolby higher than an emperor. For one who had been born a slave,and had still the scars of the overseer's whip on his back, he was veryindependent. He cut everybody's hair as he wanted to cut it, trimmedeach beard as he wished to trim it, regardless of its owner's wishes. Ifthere was dissent, then his customer need not come again, that was all.There were other barbers in the place, but Berry was the master barber.To have your head massaged by him was never to be forgotten, especiallyif you found your hat too small for your head in the morning. Also hesinged the hair with a skill and care, which had filled many a thinlycovered scalp with luxuriant growth, and his hair-tonic, known as"Smilax," gave a pleasant odour to every meeting-house or church orpublic hall where the people gathered. Berry was an institution even inthis new Western town. He kept his place and he forced the white man,whoever he was, to keep his place.

  When he saw Jethro Fawe enter the shop he did not stop playing, but hiseyes searched the newcomer. Following his glance, Ingolby turned roundand saw the Romany. His first impression was one of admiration, butsuspicion was quickly added. He was a good judge of men, and therewas something secluded about the man which repelled him. Yet he wasinterested. The dark face had a striking racial peculiarity.

  The music died away, and old Berry lowered the fiddle from his chin andgave his attention to the Romany.

  "Yeth-'ir?" he said questioningly.

  For an instant Jethro was confused. When he entered the shop he had notmade up his mind what he should do. It had been mere impulse and thefever of his brain. As old Berry spoke, however, his course opened out.

  "I heard. I am a stranger. My fiddle is not here. My fingers itch forthe cat-gut. Eh?"

  The look in old Berry's face softened a little. His instinct had beenagainst his visitor, and he had been prepared to send him to anothershop-besides, not every day could he talk to the greatest man in theWest.

  "If you can play, there it is," he said after a slight pause, and handedthe fiddle over.

  It was true that Jethro Fawe loved the fiddle. He had played it inmany lands. Twice, in order to get inside the palace of a monarch fora purpose--once in Berlin and once in London--he had played the secondviolin in a Tzigany orchestra. He turned the fiddle slowly round,looking at it with mechanical intentness. Through the passion of emotionthe sure sense of the musician was burning. His fingers smoothed theoval brown breast of the instrument with affection. His eyes found joyin the colour of the wood, which had all the graded, merging tints ofAutumn leaves.

  "It is old--and strange," he said, his eyes going from Berry to Ingolbyand back again with a veiled look, as though he had drawn down blindsbefore his inmost thoughts. "It was not made by a professional."

  "It was made in the cotton-field by a slave," observed old Berrysharply, yet with a content which overrode antipathy to his visitor.

  Jethro put the fiddle to his chin, and drew the bow twice or thricesweepingly across the strings. Such a sound had never come from Berry'sviolin before. It was the touch of a born musician who certainly hadskill, but who had infinitely more of musical passion.

  "Made by a slave in the cotton-fields!" Jethro said with a veiled look,and as though he was thinking of something else: "'Dordi', I'd like tomeet a slave like that!"

  At the Romany exclamation Ingolby swept the man with a searching look.He had heard the Romany wife of Ruliff Zaphe use the word many years agowhen he and Charley Long visited the big white house on the hill. Wasthe man a Romany, and, if so, what was he doing here? Had it anything todo with Gabriel Druse and his daughter? But no--what was there strangein the man being a Romany and playing the fiddle? Here and there in theWest during the last two years, he had seen what he took to be Romanyfaces. He looked to see the effect of the stranger's remark on oldBerry.

  "I was a slave, and I was like that. My father made that fiddle in thecotton-fields of Georgia," the aged barber said.

  The son of a race which for centuries had never known country or flagor any habitat, whose freedom was the soul of its existence, if it hada soul; a freedom defying all the usual laws of social order--the sonof that race looked at the negro barber with something akin to awe. Herewas a man who had lived a life which was the staring antithesis of hisown, under the whip as a boy, confined to compounds; whose vision wasconstricted to the limits of an estate; who was at the will of one man,to be sold and trafficked with like a barrel of herrings, to be workedat another's will--and at no price! This was beyond the understanding ofJethro Fawe. But awe has the outward look of respect, and old Berry whohad his own form of vanity, saw that he had had a rare effect on thefellow, who evidently knew all about fiddles. Certainly that was awonderful sound he had produced from his own cotton-field fiddle.
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  In the pause Ingolby said to Jethro Fawe, "Play something, won't you?I've got business here with Mr. Berry, but five minutes of good musicwon't matter. We'd like to hear him play--wouldn't we, Berry?"

  The old man nodded assent. "There's plenty of music in the thing," hesaid, "and a lot could come out in five minutes, if the right man playedit."

  His words were almost like a challenge, and it reached to Jethro'sinnermost nature. He would show this Gorgio robber what a Romany coulddo, and do as easily as the birds sing. The Gorgio was a money-master,they said, but he would find that a Romany was a master, too, in his ownway. He thought of one of the first pieces he had ever heard, a rhapsodywhich had grown and grown, since it was first improvised by a Tzigany inHungary. He had once played it to an English lady at the Amphitryon Clubin London, and she had swooned in the arms of her husband's best friend.He had seen men and women avert their heads when he had played it,daring not to look into each other's eyes. He would play it now--alittle of it. He would play it to her--to the girl who had set him freein the Sagalac woods, to the ravishing deserter from her people, to theonly woman who had told him the truth in all his life, and who insulatedhis magnetism as a ground-wire insulates lightning. He would summon herhere by his imagination, and tell her to note how his soul had caughtthe music of the spheres. He would surround himself with an atmosphereof his own. His rage, his love, and his malignant hate, his tendernessand his lust should fill the barber's shop with a flood which woulddrown the Gorgio raider. He laughed to himself, almost unconsciously.Then suddenly he leaned his cheek to the instrument and drew the bowacross the strings with a savage softness. The old cottonfield fiddlecried out with a thrilling, exquisite pain, but muffled, as a hand atthe lips turns agony into a tender moan. Some one--some spirit--in thefiddle was calling for its own.

  Five minutes later-a five minutes in which people gathered at thedoor of the shop, and heads were thrust inside in ravished wonder--thepalpitating Romany lowered the fiddle from his chin, and stood for aminute looking into space, as though he saw a vision.

  He was roused by old Berry's voice. "Das a fiddle I wouldn't sell fora t'ousand dollars. If I could play like dat I wouldn't sell it for tent'ousand. You kin play a fiddle to make it worth a lot--you."

  The Romany handed back the instrument. "It's got something inside itthat makes it better than it is. It's not a good fiddle, but it hassomething--ah, man alive, it has something!" It was as though he wastalking to himself.

  Berry made a quick, eager gesture. "It's got the cotton-fields and theslave days in it. It's got the whip and the stocks in it; it's got thecry of the old man that'd never see his children ag'in. That's what thefiddle's got in it."

  Suddenly, in an apparent outburst of anger, he swept down on the frontdoor and drove the gathering crowd away.

  "Dis is a barber-shop," he said with an angry wave of his hand; "itain't a circuse."

  One man protested. "I want a shave," he said. He tried to come inside,but was driven back.

  "I ain't got a razor that'd cut the bristle off your face," the oldbarber declared peremptorily; "and, if I had, it wouldn't be busy onyou. I got two customers, and that's all I'm going to take befo' I havemy dinner. So you git away. There ain't goin' to be no more music."

  The crowd drew off, for none of them cared to offend this autocrat ofthe shears and razor.

  Ingolby had listened to the music with a sense of being swayed by a windwhich blew from all quarters of the compass at once. He loved music; itacted as a clearing-house to his mind; and he played the piano himselfwith the enthusiasm of a wilful amateur, who took liberties with everypiece he essayed. There was something in this fellow's playing which thegreat masters, such as Paganini, must have had. As the music ceased, hedid not speak, but remained leaning against the great red-plush barber'schair looking reflectively at the Romany. Berry, however, said to thestill absorbed musician: "Where did you learn to play?"

  The Romany started, and a flush crossed his face. "Everywhere," heanswered sullenly.

  "You've got the thing Sarasate had," Ingolby observed. "I only heard himplay but once--in London years ago: but there's the same something init. I bought a fiddle of Sarasate. I've got it now."

  "Here in Lebanon?" The eyes of the Romany were burning. An idea had justcome into his brain. Was it through his fiddling that he was going tofind a way to deal with this Gorgio, who had come between him and hisown?

  "Only a week ago it came," Ingolby replied. "They actually charged meCustoms duty on it. I'd seen it advertised, and I made an offer and gotit at last."

  "You have it here--at your house here?" asked old Berry in surprise.

  "It's the only place I've got. Did you think I'd put it in a museum? Ican't play it, but there it is for any one that can play. How would youlike to try it?" he added to Jethro in a friendly tone. "I'd give a gooddeal to see it under your chin for an hour. Anyhow, I'd like to show itto you. Will you come?"

  It was like him to bring matters to a head so quickly.

  The Romany's eyes glistened. "To play the Sarasate alone to you?" heasked.

  "That's it-at nine o'clock to-night, if you can."

  "I will come--yes, I will come," Jethro answered, the lids drooping overhis eyes in which were the shadows of the first murder of the createdworld.

  "Here is my address, then." Ingolby wrote something on hisvisiting-card. "My man'll let you in, if you show that. Well, good-bye."

  The Romany took the card, and turned to leave. He had been dismissed bythe swaggering Gorgio, as though he was a servant, and he had not evenbeen asked his name, of so little account was he! He could come and playon the Sarasate to the masterful Gorgio at the hour which the masterfulGorgio fixed--think of that! He could be--a servant to the pleasureof the man who was stealing from him the wife sealed to him in theRoumelian country. But perhaps it was all for the best--yes, he wouldmake it all for the best! As he left the shop, however, and passed downthe street his mind remained in the barber-shop. He saw in imaginationthe masterful Gorgio in the red-plush chair, and the negro barberbending over him, with black fingers holding the Gorgio's chin, andan open razor in the right hand lightly grasped. A flash of maliciousdesire came into his eyes as the vision shaped itself in hisimagination, and he saw himself, instead of the negro barber, holdingthe Gorgio chin and looking down at the Gorgio throat with the razor,not lightly, but firmly grasped in his right hand. How was it that morethroats were not cut in that way? How was it that while the scissorspassed through the beard of a man's face the points did not suddenlyslip up and stab the light from helpless eyes? How was it that men didnot use their chances? He went lightly down the street, absorbed ina vision which was not like the reality; but it was evidence that hisvisit to Max Ingolby's house was not the visit of a virtuoso alone, butof an evil spirit.

  As the Romany disappeared, Max Ingolby had his hand on the oldbarber's shoulder. "I want one of the wigs you made for that theatricalperformance of the Mounted Police, Berry," he said. "Never mind whatit's for. I want it at once--one with the long hair of a French-Canadiancoureur-de-bois. Have you got one?"

  "Suh, I'll send it round-no, I'll bring it round as I come from dinner.Want the clothes, too?"

  "No. I'm arranging for them with Osterhaut. I've sent word by Jowett."

  "You want me to know what it's for?"

  "You can know anything I know--almost, Berry. You're a friend of theright sort, and I can trust you."

  "Yeth-'ir, I bin some use to you, onct or twict, I guess."

  "You'll have a chance to be of use more than ever presently."

  "Suh, there's gain' to be a bust-up, but I know who's comin' out on thetop. That Felix Marchand and his roughs can't down you. I hear and seea lot, and there's two or three things I was goin' to put befo' you;yeth-'ir."

  He unloaded his secret information to his friend, and was rewarded byIngolby suddenly shaking his hand warmly.

  "That's the line," Ingolby said decisively. "When do you go over toManitou again to cut o
ld Hector Marchand's hair? Soon?"

  "To-day is his day--this evening," was the reply.

  "Good. You wanted to know what the wig and the habitant's clothes arefor, Berry--well, for me to wear in Manitou. In disguise I'm going theretonight among them all, among the roughs and toughs. I want to find outthings for myself. I can speak French as good as most of 'em, and I canchew tobacco and swear with the best."

  "You suhly are a wonder," said the old man admiringly. "How you fin' thetime I got no idee."

  "Everything in its place, Berry, and everything in its time. I've got alot to do to-day, but it's in hand, and I don't have to fuss. You'll notforget the wig--you'll bring it round yourself?"

  "Suh. No snoopin' into the parcel then. But if you go to Manitouto-night, how can you have that fiddler?"

  "He comes at nine o'clock. I'll go to Manitou later. Everything in itsown time."

  He was about to leave the shop when some one came bustling in. Berry wasbetween Ingolby and the door, and for an instant he did not see who itwas. Presently he heard an unctuous voice: "Ah, good day, good day, Mr.Berry. I want to have my hair cut, if you please," it said.

  Ingolby smiled. The luck was with him to-day so far. The voice belongedto the Rev. Reuben Tripple, and he would be saved a journey to themanse. Accidental meetings were better than planned interviews. OldBerry's grizzled beard was bristling with repugnance, and he was aboutto refuse Mr. Tripple the hospitality of the shears when Ingolby said:"You won't mind my having a word with Mr. Tripple first, will you,Berry? May we use your back parlour?"

  A significant look from Ingolby's eyes gave Berry his cue.

  "Suh, Mr. Ingolby. I'm proud." He opened the door of another room.

  Mr. Tripple had not seen Ingolby when he entered, and he recognized himnow with a little shock of surprise. There was no reason why he shouldnot care to meet the Master Man, but he always had an uncanny feelingwhen his eye met that of Ingolby. His apprehension had no foundationin any knowledge, yet he had felt that Ingolby had no love for him, andthis disturbed the egregious vanity of a narrow nature. His slouching,corpulent figure made an effort to resist the gesture with whichIngolby drew him to the door, but his will succumbed, and he shuffledimportantly into the other room.

  Ingolby shut the door quietly behind him, and motioned the minister to achair beside the table. Tripple sank down, mechanically smiling, placedhis hat on the floor, and rested his hands on the table. Ingolby couldnot help but notice how coarse the hands were--with fingers suddenlyending as though they had been cut off, and puffy, yellowish skin thatsuggested fat foods, or worse.

  Ingolby came to grips at once. "You preached a sermon last night whichno doubt was meant to do good, but will only do harm," he said abruptly.

  The flabby minister flushed, and then made an effort to hold his own.

  "I speak as I am moved," he said, puffing out his lips. "You spokeon this occasion before you were moved--just a little while before,"answered Ingolby grimly. "The speaking was last night, the moving comestoday."

  "I don't get your meaning," was the thick rejoinder. The man had afeeling that there was some real danger ahead.

  "You preached a sermon last night which might bring riot and bloodshedbetween these two towns, though you knew the mess that's brewing."

  "My conscience is my own. I am responsible to my Lord for words which Ispeak in His name, not to you."

  "Your conscience belongs to yourself, but your acts belong to all ofus. If there is trouble at the Orange funeral to-morrow it will be yourfault. The blame will lie at your door."

  "The sword of the Spirit--"

  "Oh, you want the sword, do you? You want the sword, eh?" Ingolby's jawwas set now like a millstone. "Well, you can have it, and have it now.If you had taken what I said in the right way, I would not have donewhat I'm going to do. I'm going to send you out of Lebanon. You're a badand dangerous element here. You must go."

  "Who are you to tell me I must go?"

  The fat hands quivered on the table with anger and emotion, but alsowith fear of something. "You may be a rich man and own railways, but--"

  "But I am not rich and I don't own railways. Lately bad feeling has beengrowing on the Sagalac, and only a spark was needed to fire the ricks.You struck the spark in your sermon last night. I don't see the end ofit all. One thing is sure--you're not going to take the funeral serviceto-morrow."

  The slack red lips of the man of God were gone dry with excitement, theloose body swayed with the struggle to fight it out.

  "I'll take no orders from you," the husky voice protested. "Myconscience alone will guide me. I'll speak the truth as I feel it, andthe people will stand by me."

  "In that case you WILL take orders from me. I'm going to save the townfrom what hurts it, if I can. I've got no legal rights over you, but Ihave moral rights, and I mean to enforce them. You gabble of conscienceand truth, but isn't it a new passion with you--conscience and truth?"

  He leaned over the table and fastened the minister's eyes with his own."Had you the same love of conscience and truth at Radley?"

  A whiteness passed over the flabby face, and the beady eyes took on aglazed look. Fight suddenly died out of them.

  "You went on a missionary tour on the Ottawa River. At Radley youtoiled and rested from your toil--and feasted. The girl had no father orbrother, but her uncle was a railway-man. He heard where you were, andhe hired with my company to come out here as a foreman. He came to dropon you. The day after he came he had a bad accident. I went to see him.He told me all; his nerves were unstrung, you observe. He meant to ruinyou, as you ruined the girl. He had proofs enough. The girl herself isin Winnipeg. Well, I know life, and I know man and man's follies andtemptations. I thought it a pity that a career and a life like yoursshould be ruined--"

  A groan broke from the twitching lips before him, and a heavy sweatstood out on the round, rolling forehead.

  "If the man spoke, I knew it would be all up with you, for the worldis very hard on men of God who fall. I've seen men ruined before this,because of an hour's passion and folly. I said to myself that you wereonly human, and that maybe you had paid heavy in remorse and fear. Thenthere was the honour of the town of Lebanon. I couldn't let the thingtake its course. I got the doctor to tell the man that he must go forspecial treatment to a hospital in Montreal, and I--well, I boughthim off on his promising to keep his mouth shut. He was a bit stiffin terms, because he said the girl needed the money. The child died,luckily for you. Anyhow I bought him off, and he went. That was a yearago. I've got all the proofs in my pocket, even to the three sillyletters you wrote her when your senses were stronger than your judgment.I was going to see you about them to-day."

  He took from his pocket a small packet, and held them before theother's face. "Have a good look at your own handwriting, and see if yourecognize it," Ingolby continued.

  But the glazed, shocked eyes did not see. Reuben Tripple had passed theseveral stages of horror during Ingolby's merciless arraignment, and hehad nearly collapsed before he heard the end of the matter. When heknew that Ingolby had saved him, his strength gave way, and he trembledviolently. Ingolby looked round and saw a jug of water. Pouring out aglassful, he thrust it into the fat, wrinkled fingers.

  "Drink and pull yourself together," he said sternly. The shaken figurestraightened itself, and the water was gulped down. "I thank you," hesaid in a husky voice.

  "You see I treated you fairly, and that you've been a fool?" Ingolbyasked with no lessened determination.

  "I have tried to atone, and--"

  "No, you haven't had the right spirit to atone. You were fat with vanityand self-conceit. I've watched you."

  "In future I will--"

  "Well, that rests with yourself, but your health is bad, and you're notgoing to take the funeral tomorrow. You've had a sudden breakdown, andyou're going to get a call from some church in the East--as far Eastas Yokohama or Bagdad, I hope; and leave here in a few weeks. Youunderstand? I've thought the thing out, and you've got
to go. You'll dono good to yourself or others here. Take my advice, and wherever you go,walk six miles a day at least, work in a garden, eat half as much asyou do, and be good to your wife. It's bad enough for any woman to be aparson's wife, but to be a parson's wife and your wife, too, wants a lotof fortitude."

  The heavy figure lurched to the upright, and steadied itself with aforce which had not yet been apparent.

  "I'll do my best--so help me God!" he said and looked Ingolby squarelyin the face for the first time.

  "All right, see you keep your word," Ingolby replied, and noddedgood-bye.

  The other went to the door, and laid a hand on the knob.

  Suddenly Ingolby stopped him, and thrust a little bundle of billsinto his hand. "There's a hundred dollars for your wife. It'll pay theexpense of moving," he said.

  A look of wonder, revelation and gratitude crept into Tripple's face. "Iwill keep my word, so help me God!" he said again.

  "All right, good-bye," responded Ingolby abruptly, and turned away.

  A moment afterwards the door closed behind the Rev. Reuben Trippleand his influence in Lebanon. "I couldn't shake hands with him," saidIngolby to himself, "but I'm glad he didn't sniffle. There's some stuffin him--if it only has a chance."

  "I've done a good piece of business, Berry," he said cheerfully as hepassed through the barber-shop. "Suh, if you say so," said the barber,and they left the shop together.