The World For Sale: Chapter 10

Chapter 10

FOR LUCK

Felix Marchand was in the highest spirits. His clean-shaven face was
wrinkled with smiles and sneers. His black hair was flung in waves of
triumph over his heavily-lined forehead; one hand was on his hip with
brave satisfaction, the other with lighted cigarette was tossed upwards
in exultation.

"I've got him. I've got him--like that!" he said transferring the
cigarette to his mouth, and clenching his right hand as though it could
not be loosed by an earthquake. "For sure, it's a thing finished as the
solder of a pannikin--like that."

He caught up a tin quart-pot from the bar-counter and showed the soldered
bottom of it.

He was alone in the bar of Barbazon's Hotel except for one person--the
youngest of the officials who had been retired from the offices of the
railways when Ingolby had merged them. This was a man who had got his
position originally by nepotism, and represented the worst elements of a
national life where the spoils system is rooted in the popular mind. He
had, however, a little residue of that discipline which, working in a
great industrial organization, begets qualms as to extreme courses.

He looked reflectively at the leaden pot and said in reply: "I'd never
believe in anything where that Ingolby is concerned till I had it in the
palm of my hand. He's as deep as a well, and when he's quietest it's good
to look out. He takes a lot of skinning, that badger."

"He's skinned this time all right," was Marchand's reply. "To-morrow'll
be the biggest day Manitou's had since the Indian lifted his wigwam and
the white man put down his store. Listen--hear them! They're coming!"

He raised a hand for silence, and a rumbling, ragged roar of voices could
be heard without.

"The crowd have gone the rounds," he continued. "They started at
Barbazon's and they're winding up at Barbazon's. They're drunk enough
to-night to want to do anything, and to-morrow when they've got sore
heads they'll do anything. They'll make that funeral look like a squeezed
orange; they'll show Lebanon and Master Ingolby that we're to be bosses
of our own show. The strike'll be on after the funeral, and after the
strike's begun there'll be--eh, bien sur!"

He paused sharply, as though he had gone too far. "There'll be what?"
whispered the other; but Marchand made no reply, save to make a warning
gesture, for Barbazon, the landlord, had entered behind the bar.

"They're coming back, Barbazon," Marchand said to the landlord, jerking
his head towards the front door. The noise of the crowd was increasing,
the raucous shouts were so loud that the three had to raise their voices.
"You'll do a land-office business to-night," he declared.

Barbazon had an evil face. There were rumours that he had been in gaol in
Quebec for robbery, and that after he had served his time he had dug up
the money he had stolen and come West. He had started the first saloon at
Manitou, and had grown with the place in more senses than one. He was
heavy and thick-set, with huge shoulders, big hands, and beady eyes that
looked out of a stolid face where long hours, greed and vices other than
drink had left their mark. He never drank spirits, and was therefore
ready to take advantage of those who did drink. More than one horse and
canoe and cow and ox, and acre of land, in the days when land was cheap,
had come to him across the bar-counter. He could be bought, could
Barbazon, and he sold more than wine and spirits. He had a wife who had
left him twice because of his misdemeanours, but had returned and
straightened out his house and affairs once again; and even when she went
off with Lick Baldwin, a cattle-dealer, she was welcomed back without
reproaches by Barbazon, chiefly because he had no morals, and her
abilities were of more value to him than her virtue. On the whole, Gros
Barbazon was a bad lot.

At Marchand's words Barbazon shrugged his shoulders. "The more spent
to-night, the less to spend to-morrow," he growled.

"But there's going to be spending for a long time," Marchand answered.
"There's going to be a riot to-morrow, and there's going to be a strike
the next day, and after that there's going to be something else."

"What else?" Barbazon asked, his beady eyes fastened on Marchand's face.

"Something worth while-better than all the rest." Barbazon's low forehead
seemed to disappear almost, as he drew the grizzled shock of hair down,
by wrinkling his forehead with a heavy frown.

"It's no damn good, m'sieu'," he growled. "Am I a fool? They'll spend
money to-night, and tomorrow, and the next day, and when the row is on;
and the more they spend then, the less they'll have to spend by-and-by.
It's no good. The steady trade for me--all the time. That is my idee. And
the something else--what? You think there's something else that'll be
good for me? Nom de Dieu, there's nothing you're doing, or mean to do,
but'll hurt me and everybody."

"That's your view, is it, Barbazon?" exclaimed Marchand loudly, for the
crowd was now almost at the door. "You're a nice Frenchman and patriot.
That crowd'll be glad to hear you think they're fools. Suppose they took
it into their heads to wreck the place?"

Barbazon's muddy face got paler, but his eyes sharpened, and he leaned
over the bar-counter, and said with a snarl: "Go to hell, and say what
you like; and then I'll have something to say about something else,
m'sieu'."

Marchand was about to reply angrily, but he instantly changed his mind,
and before Barbazon could stop him, he sprang over the counter and
disappeared into the office behind the bar.

"I won't steal anything, Barbazon," he said over his shoulder as he
closed the door behind him.

"I'll see to that," Barbazon muttered stolidly, but with malicious eyes.

The front door was flung open now, and the crowd poured into the room,
boisterous, reckless, though some were only sullen, watchful and angry.
These last were mostly men above middle age, and of a fanatical and
racially bitter type. They were not many, but in one sense they were the
backbone and force of the crowd, probably the less intelligent but the
more tenacious and consistent. They were black spots of gathering storm
in an electric atmosphere.

All converged upon the bar. Two assistants rushed the drinks along the
counter with flourishes, while Barbazon took in the cash and sharply
checked the rougher element, who were inclined to treat the bar as a
place for looting. Most of them, however, had a wholesome fear of
Barbazon, and also most of them wished to stand well with him--credit was
a good thing, even in a saloon.

For a little time the room was packed, then some of the more restless
spirits, their thirst assuaged, sallied forth to taste the lager and old
rye elsewhere, and "raise Cain" in the streets. When they went, it became
possible to move about more freely in the big bar-room, at the end of
which was a billiard-table. It was notable, however, that the more sullen
elements stayed. Some of them were strangers to each other. Manitou was a
distributing point for all radiations of the compass, and men were thrown
together in its streets who only saw one another once or twice a
year-when they went to the woods in the Fall or worked the rivers in the
Summer. Some were Mennonites, Doukhobors and Finlanders, some Swedes,
Norwegians and Icelanders. Others again were birds of passage who would
probably never see Manitou in the future, but they were mostly French,
and mostly Catholic, and enemies of the Orange Lodges wherever they were,
east or west or north or south. They all had a common ground of
unity--half-savage coureurs-de-bois, river-drivers, railway-men, factory
hands, cattlemen, farmers, labourers; they had a gift for prejudice, and
taking sides on something or other was as the breath of the nostrils to
them.

The greater number of the crowd were, however, excitable, good-natured
men, who were by instinct friendly, save when their prejudices were
excited; and their oaths and exclamations were marvels of droll
ingenuity. Most of them were still too good-humoured with drink to be
dangerous, but all hoped for trouble at the Orange funeral on principle,
and the anticipated strike had elements of "thrill." They were of a
class, however, who would swing from what was good-humour to deadly anger
in a minute, and turn a wind of mere prejudice into a hurricane of life
and death with the tick of a clock. They would all probably go to the
Orange funeral to-morrow in a savage spirit. Some of them were loud in
denunciation of Ingolby and "the Lebanon gang"; they joked coarsely over
the dead Orangeman, but their cheerful violence had not yet the
appearance of reality.

One man suddenly changed all that. He was a river-driver of stalwart
proportions, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and with loose
corded trousers tucked into his boots. He had a face of natural ugliness
made almost repulsive by marks of smallpox. Red, flabby lips and an
overhanging brow made him a figure which men would avoid on a dark night.

"Let's go over to Lebanon to-night and have it out," he said in French.
"That Ingolby--let's go break his windows and give him a dip in the
river. He's the curse of this city. Holy, once Manitou was a place to
live in, now it's a place to die in! The factories, the mills, they're
full of Protes'ants and atheists and shysters; the railway office is gone
to Lebanon. Ingolby took it there. Manitou was the best town in the West;
it's no good now. Who's the cause? Ingolby's the cause. Name of God, if
he was here I'd get him by the throat as quick as winkin'."

He opened and shut his fingers with spasmodic malice, and glared round
the room. "He's going to lock us out if we strike," he added. "He's going
to take the bread out of our mouths; he's going to put his heel on
Manitou, and grind her down till he makes her knuckle to Lebanon--to a
lot of infidels, Protes'ants, and thieves. Who's going to stand it? I
say-bagosh, I say, who's going to stand it!"

"He's a friend of the Monseigneur," ventured a factory-hand, who had a
wife and children to support, and however partisan, was little ready for
that which would stop his supplies.

"Sacre bapteme! That's part of his game," roared the big river-driver in
reply. "I'll take the word of Felix Marchand about that. Look at him!
That Felix Marchand doesn't try to take the bread out of people's mouths.
He gives money here, he gives it there. He wants the old town to stay as
it is and not be swallowed up."

"Three cheers for Felix Marchand!" cried some one in the throng. All
cheered loudly save one old man with grizzled hair and beard, who leaned
against the wall half-way down the room smoking a corncob pipe. He was a
French Canadian in dress and appearance, and he spat on the floor like a
navvy--he had filled his pipe with the strongest tobacco that one man
ever offered to another. As the crowd cheered for Felix Marchand, he made
his way up towards the bar slowly. He must have been tall when he was
young; now he was stooped, yet there was still something very sinewy
about him.

"Who's for Lebanon?" cried the big river-driver with an oath. "Who's for
giving Lebanon hell, and ducking Ingolby in the river?"

"I am--I am--I am--all of us!" shouted the crowd. "It's no good waiting
for to-morrow. Let's get the Lebs by the scruff to-night. Let's break
Ingolby's windows and soak him in the Sagalac. Allons--allons gai!"

Uproar and broken sentences, threats, oaths, and objurgations sounded
through the room. There was a sudden movement towards the door, but the
exit of the crowd was stopped by a slow but clear voice speaking in
French.

"Wait a minute, my friends!" it cried. "Wait a minute. Let's ask a few
questions first."

"Who's he?" asked a dozen voices. "What's he going to say?" The mob moved
again towards the bar.

The big river-driver turned on the grizzled old man beside the
bar-counter with bent shoulders and lazy, drawling speech.

"What've you got to say about it, son?" he asked threateningly.

"Well, to ask a few questions first--that's all," the old man replied.

"You don't belong here, old cock," the other said roughly.

"A good many of us don't belong here," the old man replied quietly. "It
always is so. This isn't the first time I've been to Manitou. You're a
river-driver, and you don't live here either," he continued.

"What've you got to say about it? I've been coming and going here for ten
years. I belong--bagosh, what do you want to ask? Hurry up. We've got
work to do. We're going to raise hell in Lebanon."

"And give hell to Ingolby," shouted some one in the crowd.

"Suppose Ingolby isn't there?" questioned the old man.

"Oh, that's one of your questions, is it?" sneered the big river-driver.
"Well, if you knew him as we do, you'd know that it's at night-time he
sits studyin' how he'll cut Lebanon's throat. He's home, all right. He's
in Lebanon anyhow, and we'll find him."

"Well, but wait a minute--be quiet a bit," said the old man, his eyes
blinking slowly at the big riverdriver. "I've been 'round a good deal,
and I've had some experience in the world. Did you ever give that Ingolby
a chance to tell you what his plans were? Did you ever get close to him
and try to figure what he was driving at? There's no chance of getting at
the truth if you don't let a man state his case--but no. If he can't make
you see his case then is the time to jib, not before."

"Oh, get out!" cried a rowdy English road-maker in the crowd. "We know
all right what Ingolby's after."

"Eh, well, what is he after?" asked the old man looking the other in the
eye.

"What's he after? Oof-oof-oof, that's what he's after. He's for his own
pocket, he's for being boss of all the woolly West. He's after keeping us
poor and making himself rich. He's after getting the cinch on two towns
and three railways, and doing what he likes with it all; and we're after
not having him do it, you bet. That's how it is, old hoss."

The other stroked his beard with hands which, somehow, gave little
indication of age, and then, with a sudden jerk forward of his head, he
said: "Oh, it's like that, eh? Is that what M'sieu' Marchand told you?
That's what he said, is it?"

The big river-driver, eager to maintain his supreme place as leader,
lunged forward a step, and growled a challenge.

"Who said it? What does it matter if M'sieu' Marchand said it--it's true.
If I said it, it's true. All of us in this room say it, and it's true.
Young Marchand says what Manitou says."

The old man's eyes grew brighter--they were exceedingly sharp for one so
old, and he said quite gently now:

"M. Marchand said it first, and you all say it afterwards--ah, bah! But
listen to me; I know Max Ingolby that you think is such a villain; I know
him well. I knew him when he was a little boy and--"

"You was his nurse, I suppose!" cried the Englishman's voice amid a roar
of laughter.

"Taught him his A-B-C-was his dear, kind teacher, eh?" hilariously cried
another.

The old man appeared not to hear. "I have known him all the years since.
He has only been in the West a few years, but he has lived in the world
exactly thirty-three years. He never willingly did anybody harm--never.
Since he came West, since he came to the Sagalac, he's brought work to
Lebanon and to Manitou. There are hundreds more workmen in both the towns
than there were when he came. It was he made others come with much money
and build the factories and the mills. Work means money, money means
bread, bread means life--so."

The big river-driver, seeing the effect of the old man's words upon the
crowd, turned to them with an angry gesture and a sneer.

"I s'pose Ingolby has paid this old skeesicks for talking this swash. We
know all right what Ingolby is, and what he's done. He's made war between
the two towns--there's hell to pay now on both sides of the Sagalac. He
took away the railway offices from here, and threw men out of work. He's
done harm to Manitou--he's against Manitou every time."

Murmurs of approval ran through the crowd, though some were silent,
looking curiously at the forceful and confident old man. Even his bent
shoulders seemed to suggest driving power rather than the weight of
years. He suddenly stretched out a hand in command as it were.

"Comrades, comrades," he said, "every man makes mistakes. Even if it was
a mistake for Ingolby to take away the offices from Manitou, he's done a
big thing for both cities by combining the three railways."

"Monopoly," growled a voice from the crowd. "Not monopoly," the old man
replied with a ring to his voice, which made it younger, fresher. "Not
monopoly, but better management of the railways, with more wages, more
money to spend on things to eat and drink and wear, more dollars in the
pocket of everybody that works in Manitou and Lebanon. Ingolby works, he
doesn't loaf."

"Oh, gosh all hell, he's a dynamo," shouted a voice from the crowd. "He's
a dynamo running the whole show-eh!"

The old man seemed to grow shorter, but as he thrust his shoulders
forward, it was like a machine gathering energy and power.

"I'll tell you, friends, what Ingolby is trying to do," he said in a low
voice vibrating with that force which belongs neither to age nor youth,
but is the permanent activity uniting all ages of a man. "Of course,
Ingolby is ambitious and he wants power. He tries to do the big things in
the world because there is the big thing to do--for sure. Without such
men the big things are never done, and other men have less work to do,
and less money and poorer homes. They discover and construct and design
and invent and organize and give opportunities. I am a working man, but I
know what Ingolby thinks. I know what men think who try to do the big
things. I have tried to do them."

The crowd were absolutely still now, but the big river-driver shook
himself free of the eloquence, which somehow swayed them all, and said:

"You--you look as if you'd tried to do big things, you do, old skeesicks.
I bet you never earned a hundred dollars in your life." He turned to the
crowd with fierce gestures. "Let's go to Lebanon and make the place
sing," he roared. "Let's get Ingolby out to talk for himself, if he wants
to talk. We know what we want to do, and we're not going to be bossed.
He's for Lebanon and we're for Manitou. Lebanon means to boss us, Lebanon
wants to sit on us because we're Catholics, because we're French, because
we're honest."

Again a wave of revolution swept through the crowd. The big river-driver
represented their natural instincts, their native fanaticism, their
prejudices. But the old man spoke once more.

"Ingolby wants Lebanon and Manitou to come together, not to fall apart,"
he declared. "He wants peace. If he gets rich here he won't get rich
alone. He's working for both towns. If he brings money from outside,
that's good for both towns. If he--"

"Shut your mouth, let Ingolby speak for himself," snarled the big
river-driver. "Take his dollars out of your pocket and put them on the
bar, the dollars Ingolby gives you to say all this. Put them dollars of
Ingolby's up for drinks, or we'll give you a jar that'll shake you, old
wart-hog."

At that instant a figure forced itself through the crowd, and broke into
the packed circle which was drawing closer upon the old man.

It was Jethro Fawe. He flung a hand out towards the old man.

"You want Ingolby--well, that's Ingolby," he shouted.

Like lightning the old man straightened himself, snatched the wig and
beard away from his head and face, and with quiet fearlessness said:

"Yes, I am Ingolby."

For an instant there was absolute silence, in which Ingolby weighed his
chances. He was among enemies. He had meant only to move among the crowd
to discover their attitude, to find things out for himself. He had
succeeded, and his belief that Manitou could be swayed in the right
direction if properly handled, was correct. Beneath the fanaticism and
the racial spirit was human nature; and until Jethro Fawe had appeared,
he had hoped to prevent violence and the collision at to-morrow's
funeral.

Now the situation was all changed. It was hard to tell what sharp turn
things might take. He was about to speak, but suddenly from the crowd
there was spat out at him the words, "Spy! Sneak! Spy!"

Instantly the wave of feeling ran against him. He smiled frankly,
however, with that droll twist of his mouth which had won so many, and
the raillery of his eyes was more friendly than any appeal.

"Spy, if you like, my friends," he said firmly and clearly. "Moses sent
spies down into the Land of Promise, and they brought back big bunches of
grapes. Well, I've come down into a land of promise. I wanted to know
just how you all feel without being told it by some one else. I knew if I
came here as Max Ingolby I shouldn't hear the whole truth; I wouldn't see
exactly how you see, so I came as one of you, and you must admit, my
French is as good as yours almost."

He laughed and nodded at them.

"There wasn't one of you that knew I wasn't a Frenchman. That's in my
favour. If I know the French language as I do, and can talk to you in
French as I've done, do you think I don't understand the French people,
and what you want and how you feel? I'm one of the few men in the West
that can talk your language. I learned it when I was a boy, so that I
might know my French fellow-countrymen under the same flag, with the same
King and the same national hope. As for your religion, God knows, I wish
I was as good a Protestant as lots of you are good Catholics. And I tell
you this, I'd be glad to have a minister that I could follow and respect
and love as I respect and love Monseigneur Lourde of Manitou. I want to
bring these two towns together, to make them a sign of what this country
is, and what it can do; to make hundreds like ourselves in Manitou and
Lebanon work together towards health, wealth, comfort and happiness.
Can't you see, my friends, what I'm driving at? I'm for peace and work
and wealth and power--not power for myself alone, but power that belongs
to all of us. If I can show I'm a good man at my job, maybe better than
others, then I have a right to ask you to follow me. If I can't, then
throw me out. I tell you I'm your friend--Max Ingolby is your friend."

"Spy! Spy! Spy!" cried a new voice.

It came from behind the bar. An instant after, the owner of the voice
leaped up on the counter. It was Felix Marchand. He had entered by the
door behind the bar into Barbazon's office.

"When I was in India," Marchand cried, "I found a snake in the bed. I
killed it before it stung me. There's a snake in the bed of Manitou--what
are you going to do with it?"

The men swayed, murmured, and shrill shouts of "Marchand! Marchand!
Marchand!" went up. The crowd heaved upon Ingolby. "One minute!" he
called with outstretched arm and commanding voice. They paused. Something
in him made him master of them even then.

At that moment two men were fiercely fighting their way through the crowd
towards where Ingolby was. They were Jowett and Osterhaut. Ingolby saw
them coming.

"Go back--go back!" he called to them.

Suddenly a drunken navvy standing on a table in front of and to the left
of Ingolby seized a horseshoe hanging on the wall, and flung it with an
oath.

It caught Ingolby in the forehead, and he fell to the floor without a
sound.

A minute afterwards the bar was empty, save for Osterhaut, Jowett, old
Barbazon, and his assistants.

Barbazon and Jowett lifted the motionless figure in their arms, and
carried it into a little room.

Then Osterhaut picked up the horseshoe tied with its gay blue ribbons,
now stained with blood, and put it in his pocket.

"For luck," he said.

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