The Preacher of Cedar Mountain: A Tale of the Open Country

  CHAPTER VI

  Jim Loses Everything

  The Widow never forgot that her tenure of the hotel might end at anytime; and, thinking ever of Jim and his future, she saved what she couldfrom the weekly proceeds. She was a good manager, and each month sawsomething added to her bank account. When it had grown to a considerablesize her friends advised her to invest it. There were Government bondspaying five per cent., local banks paying six and seven, and, last ofall, the Consolidated Trading Stores paying eight and sometimes more--anenterprise of which Tom Ford was head.

  The high interest was tempting, and pride was not without some power.Kitty was pleased to think that now she could go to the pompous Mayor asa capitalist. So, creating with an inward sense of triumph theimpression of huge deposits elsewhere, she announced that she would takea small block of stock in the C. T. S. as a nest-egg for her boy. Thusthe accumulations of ten years went into the company of which the Mayorwas head and guide. For a time, the interest was duly paid each halfyear. Then came a crash. After the reorganization the Mayor continued inhis big brick house and his wife still wore her diamonds; but thewidow's hard-earned savings were gone. Kitty was stunned but game;falling back on the strength that was inside, she bravely determined tobegin all over and build on a rock of safety. But fortune had anotherblow in store for Jim. And it fell within a month, just as he turnedthirteen.

  It was the end of the Canadian winter. Fierce frost and sudden thaw werealternated as the north wind and the south struggled for the woods, andthe heat of work in the warm sun left many ill prepared for the onset ofbitter cold at dusk. Bustling everywhere, seeing that pigs were fed,pies made, and clothes mended; now in the hot kitchen, a moment later inthe stable yard to manage some new situation; the Widow fell a victim topneumonia much as John Downey had done.

  For three days she lay in fever and pain. Jim was scarcely allowed tosee her. They did not understand pneumonia in those days, and as it wasthe general belief that all diseases were "catching," the boy was keptaway. The doctor was doing his best with old-fashioned remedies,blisters, mustard baths, hot herb teas and fomentations. He told her shewould soon be well, but Kitty knew better. On the third day, she askedin a whisper for Jim, but told them first to wash his face and handswith salt water. So the long-legged, bright-eyed boy came and sat by hismother's bed and held her hot hands. As he gazed on her over-brighteyes, she said softly:

  "My darling, you'll soon be alone, without friend or kith or kin. Thisplace will no longer be your home. God only knows where you'll go. ButHe will take care of you as He took care of me."

  For the first time Jim realized the meaning of the scene--his motherwas dying. She quieted his sobs with a touch of her hand and beganagain, slowly and painfully:

  "I tried to leave you well fixed, but it was not to be. The hotel willgo to another. This is all I have for you."

  She drew a little cedar box from under the covers, and opening it,showed him her Bible, the daguerreotype of his father and a laterphotograph of herself.

  "Jim, promise me again that you will never touch tobacco or liquor tillyou are eighteen."

  "Oh, mother, mother!" he wept. "I'll do anything you say. I'll promise.I give you my word I never will touch them."

  She rested in silence, her hand was on his head. When her strength in alittle measure came again, she said in a low tone:

  "My wish was to see you educated, a minister for Christ. I hope it mayyet be so."

  She was still a long time; then, gently patting his head, she said tothose around:

  "Take him away. Wash him with salt and water."

  * * * * *

  Thus it came about that the hotel which had been Jim's only home andwhich he thought belonged to his mother, passed into the hands of JohnDowney, Jr., nephew of the original owner. It was Mrs. John Downey whooffered the first ray of comfort in Jim's very bleak world. When she sawthe tall handsome boy she put her arms around him and said:

  "Never mind, Jim, don't go away. This will always be home for you."

  So the lad found a new home in the old house, but under greatly changedconditions. The new mistress had notions of her own as to the amount ofeducation necessary and the measure of service to be returned for one'skeep. Jim was able to read, write, and cipher; this much was ample inthe opinion of Mrs. Downey, and Jim's school days ended. Theunderstanding that he must make himself useful quickly resulted in histransference to the stable. A garret in the barn was furnished with abed for him, and Jim's life was soon down to its lowest level. He hadhis friends, for he was full of fun and good to look upon: but they werenot of the helpful kind, being recruited chiefly from the hostlers, thepugilists, and the horsemen. He had time for amusements, too; but theywere nearly always of the boxing glove and the saddle. Books had littlecharm for him, though he still found pleasure in reciting the heroicballads of Lachlin, the Raid of Dermid, the Battle of the Boyne, and insinging "My Pretty, Pretty Maid," or woodmen's "Come all ye's." Hisvoice was unusually good, except at the breaking time; and any one whoknew the part the minstrel played in Viking days would have thought thebygone times come back to see him among the roystering crowd atDowney's.

  The next three years that passed were useless except for this, theygifted Jim with a tall and stalwart form and shoulders like a grown man.But they added little to the good things he had gathered from his motherand from Fightin' Bill. At sixteen he was six feet high, slim and boyishyet, but sketched for a frame of power. All this time his meagre keepand his shabby clothes were his only pay. But Jim had often talkedthings over with his friends and they pointed out that he was now doingman's work and getting less than boy's pay. The scene that followed hisapplication for regular wages was a very unpleasant one; and John Downeymade the curious mistake of trying to throw young Jimmy out. The boynever lost his temper for a moment but laughingly laid his two stronghands on the landlord's fat little shoulders and shook him till hiscollar popped and his eyes turned red. Then Jim grinned and said:

  "I told ye I wasn't a kid anny more."

  It was the landlady's good sense that made a truce, and after a brief,stormy time the long-legged boy was reinstated at wages in the yard.

  At seventeen Jim was mentioned among the men as a likely "bhoy." Womenin the street would turn to look in admiration at his square shoulders,lithe swing, and handsome head. But the life he led was flat, or worsethan flat. The best that can be said of it is that in all this sordidround of bar and barn he learned nothing that in any sort had power toharm his rare physique. His language at times was the worst of its luridkind. His associates were coarse and drunken. Yet Jim lived with them inall their ways and neither chewed, smoked, nor drank. How or why, noneunderstood. He said simply that he "didn't feel like he wanted to." Withthe liquor it was a different matter. Here it was a question ofprinciple and his word to his mother helped him where by nature he wasweak. So he grew up, hedged about with a dignity that was in some sensea foreshadowing of his destiny. But there was much dross to be burnedaway and the two great passions that stood between Jim Hartigan and fullspiritual manhood had their roots in these early years at Downey's.Later he matched his strength against theirs and with that struggle, inwhich no quarter was asked or given, these pages are ultimatelyconcerned.