The Trail Of The Axe Part 14

Dave was by no means new to church bazaars. Any one living in a small western village must have considerable experience of such things. They are a form of taxation much in favor, and serve multifarious purposes.

They are at once a pleasant social function where young people can safely meet under the matronly eye; they keep all in close touch with religion; they give the usually idle something to think of and work for, and the busy find them an addition to their burdens. They create a sort of central bureau for the exchange of scandal, and a ready market for trading useless articles to people who do not desire to purchase, but having purchased feel that the moral sacrifice they have made is at least one step in the right direction to make up for many backslidings in the past.

Dave doubtless had long since considered all this. But he saw and appreciated the purpose underlying it. He knew Tom Chepstow to be a good man, and though he had little inspiration as a churchman, he spared no pains in his spiritual labors, and the larger portion of his very limited stipend went in un.o.btrusive charity. No sick bed ever went uncheered by his presence, and no poor ever went without warm clothing and wholesome food in the terrible Canadian winter so long as he had anything to give. Therefore Dave had come well provided with money, which he began at once to spend with hopeless prodigality.

The rest of the men followed in the lumberman's wake, and soon the bustle and noise waxed furious. They all bought indiscriminately. Dave started on Mrs. Checks' "gentlemen's outfitters" stall. His heart rejoiced when he sighted a pile of handkerchiefs which the lady had specially made for him, and which she now thrust at him with an exorbitant price marked upon them. He bought them all. He bought a number of s.h.i.+rts he could not possibly have worn. He bought underclothing that wouldn't have been a circ.u.mstance on his c.u.mbersome figure. He pa.s.sed on to Louisa Mudley's millinery stall and bought several hats, which he promptly shed upon the various women in his vicinity. He did his duty royally, and bought dozens of things which he promptly gave away. And his attentions in this matter were quite impartial. He did it with the air of some great good-natured schoolboy that set everybody delighted with him, with themselves, with everything; and the bazaar, as a result, went with a royal, prosperous swing. Here, as in his work, his personality carried with it the magic of success.

At last he reached Betty's stall. She was presiding over a hideous collection of cheap bric-a-brac. With her usual unselfishness and desire to promote harmony amongst the workers, and so help the success of the bazaar, she had sacrificed herself on the altar of duty by taking charge of the most unpopular stall. n.o.body wanted the goods she had to sell; consequently Dave found her deserted. She smiled up at him a little pathetically as he came over to her.

"Are you coming as a friend or as a customer? Most of the visits I have received have been purely friendly." She laughed, but Dave could see that the natural spirit of rivalry was stirred, and she was a little unhappy at the rush of business going on everywhere but at her stall.

"I come as both," he said, with that air of frank kindliness so peculiarly his own.

The girl's eyes brightened.

"Then let's get to work on the customer part of your visit first," she said at once; "the other can wait. Now here I have a nice plate. You can hang it in your office on the wall. You see it's already wired. It might pa.s.s for old Worcester if you don't let in too much light. But there, you never have your windows washed, do you? Then I have," she hurried on, turning to other articles, "this. This is a sh.e.l.l--at least I suppose it is," she added navely. "And this is a Toby jug; and this is a pipe-rack; this is for matches; this is for a whisk brush; and these two vases, they're real fine. Look at them. Did you ever see such colors? No, and I don't suppose anybody else ever did." She laughed, and Dave joined in her laugh.

But her laugh suddenly died out. The man heard a woman, only a few feet away, mention Jim Truscott's name, and he knew that Betty had heard it too. He knew that her smiling chatter, which had seemed so gay, so irresponsible, had all been pretense, a pretense which had suddenly been swept aside at the mere mention of Jim's name. At that moment he felt he could have taken the man up in his two strong hands and strangled him. However, he allowed his feelings no display, but at once took up the challenge of the saleswoman.

"Say, Betty, there's just one thing in the world I'm crazy about: it's bits of pots and things such as you've got on your stall. It seems like fate you should be running this stall. Now just get right to it, and fetch out some tickets--a heap of 'em--and write 'sold' on 'em, and dump 'em on all you like. How much for the lot?"

"What do you mean, Dave?" the girl cried, her eyes wide and questioning.

"How much? I don't want anybody else buying those things," Dave said seriously. "I want 'em all."

Betty's eyes softened almost to tears.

"I can't let you do it, Dave," she said gently. "Not all. Some."

But the man was not to be turned from his purpose.

"I want 'em all," he said doggedly. "Here. Here's two hundred dollars.

That'll cover it." He laid four bills of fifty dollars each on the stall. "There," he added, "you can sell 'em over again if any of the boys want to buy."

Betty was not sure which she wanted to do, cry or laugh. However, she finally decided on the latter course. Dave's simple contradiction was quite too much for her.

"You're the most refres.h.i.+ng old simpleton I ever knew," she said. "But I'll take your money--for the church," she added, as though endeavoring to quiet her conscience.

Dave sighed in relief.

"Well, that's that. Now we come to the friendly side of my visit," he said. "I've got a heap to say to you. Jim Truscott's been to me."

He made his statement simply, and waited. But no comment was forthcoming. Betty was stooping over a box, collecting cards to place on the articles on her stall. Presently she looked up, and her look was an invitation for him to go on.

The man's task was not easy. It would have been easy enough had he not spoken with Checks outside, but now it was all different. He had promised his help, but in giving it he had no clear conscience.

He propped himself against the side-post of her stall, and his weight set the structure shaking perilously.

"I've often wondered, Betty," he said, in a rumbling, confidential tone, "if there ever was a man, or for that matter a woman, who really understood human nature. We all think we know a lot about it. We size up a man, and we reckon he's good, bad, or indifferent, and if our estimate happens to prove, we pat ourselves, and hold our heads a shade higher, and feel sorry for those who can't read a man as easy as we can."

Betty nodded while she stuck some "Sold" cards about her stall.

"A locomotive's a great proposition, so long as it's on a set track.

It's an all-fired nuisance without. Guess a locomotive can do everything it shouldn't when it gets loose of its track. My word, I'd hate to be around with a loco up to its fool-tricks, running loose in a city. Seems to me that's how it is with human nature."

Betty's brown eyes were thoughtfully contemplating the man's ugly features.

"I suppose you mean we all need a track to run on?"

"Why, yes," Dave went on, brightening. "Some of us start out in life with a ready-made track, with 'points' we can jump if we've a notion.

Some of us have a track without 'points,' so there's no excuse for getting off it. Some of us have to lay down our own track, and keep right on it, building it as we go. That's the hardest. We're bound to have some falls. You see there's so much ballasting needed, the ground's so mighty b.u.mpy. I seem to know a deal about that sort of track. I've had to build mine, and I've fallen plenty. Sometimes it's been hard picking myself up, and I've been bruised and sore often.

Still, I've got up, and I don't seem no worse for falling."

Betty's eyes were smiling softly.

"But _you_ picked yourself up, Dave, didn't you?" she asked gently.

"Well--not always. You see, I've got a mother. She's helped a whole heap. You see, she's mostly all my world, and I used to hate to hurt her by letting her see me down. She kind of thinks I'm the greatest proposition ever, and it tickles my vanity. I want her to go on thinking it, as it keeps me hard at work building that track. And now, through her, I've been building so long that it comes easier, and thinking of her makes me hang on so tight I don't get falling around now. There's other fellows haven't got a mother, or--you see, I've always had her with me. That's where it comes in. Now, if she'd been away from me five years, when I was very young; you see----"

Dave broke off clumsily. He was floundering in rough water. He knew what he wanted to say, but words were not too easy to him.

"Poor Jim!" murmured Betty softly.

Dave's eyes were on her in a moment. Her manner was somehow different from what he had expected. There was sympathy and womanly tenderness in her voice; but he had expected---- Then his thoughts went back to the time when they had spoken of Jim on the bridge. And, without knowing why, his pulses quickened, and a warmth of feeling swept over him.

"Poor Jim!" he said, after a long pause, during which his pulses had steadied and he had become master of his feelings again. "He's fallen a lot, and I'm not sure it's all his fault. He always ran straight when he was here. He was very young to go away to a place like the Yukon.

Maybe--maybe you could pick him up; maybe you could hold him to that track, same as mother did for me?"

Betty was close beside him. She had moved out of her stall and was now looking up into his earnest face.

"Does he want me to?" she asked wistfully. "Do _you_ think I can help him?"

The man's hands clenched tightly. For a moment he struggled.

"You can," he said at last. "He wants you; he wants your help. He loves you so, he's nearly crazy."

The girl gazed up at him with eyes whose question the man tried but failed to read. It was some seconds before her lips opened to speak again.

But her words never came. At that moment Addlestone Checks hurried up to them. He drew Dave sharply on one side. His manner was mysterious and important, and his face wore a look of outraged piety.

"Something's got to be done," he said in a stage whisper. "It's the most outrageous thing I've seen in years. Right here--right here in the house where the parson preaches the Word! It sure is enough to set it shakin' to its foundation. Drunk! That's what he is--roarin', flamin', fightin' drunk! You must do something. It's up to you."

"What do you mean? Who is drunk?" cried Dave, annoyed at the man's Pharisaical air.

Before he could get a reply there was a commotion at the far end of the bazaar. Voices were raised furiously, and everybody had flocked in that direction. Once Dave thought he heard Chepstow's voice raised in protest. Betty ran to his side directly the tumult began.

"Oh, Dave, what's the matter down there? I thought I heard Jim's voice?"

"So you did, Miss Betty," cried Checks, with sanctimonious spleen. "So you did--the drunken----"