The World For Sale: Chapter 8

Chapter 8

THE SULTAN

Ingolby's square head jerked forwards in stern inquiry and his eyes
fastened those of Jowett, the horsedealer. "Take care what you're saying,
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. He was
a favourite in both towns, and had had the better of both in
horse-dealing a score of times.

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

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

He was at times profane and impecunious, and he had been shifted from one
boarding-house to another till at last, having exhausted credit in
Lebanon, he had found a room in the house of old Madame Thibadeau in
Manitou. She had taken him in because, in years gone by, he had nursed
her only son through an attack of smallpox on the Siwash River, and
somehow Osterhaut had always paid his bills to her. He was curiously
exact where she was concerned. If he had not enough for his week's board
and lodging, he borrowed it, chiefly of Jowett, who used him profitably
at times to pass the word about a horse, or bring news of a possible
deal.

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

"Say, it's all straight enough, Chief," answered Jowett, sucking his
unlighted cigar. "Osterhaut got wind of it--he's staying at old Mother
Thibadeau's, as you know. He moves round a lot, and he put me on to it. I
took on the job at once. I got in with the French toughs over at Manitou,
at Barbazon's Tavern, and I gave them gin--we made it a gin night. It
struck their fancy--gin, all gin! 'Course there's nothing in gin
different from any other spirit; but it fixed their minds, and took away
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 best patois. 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 done a-purpose. They said I was
the only man from Lebanon they wouldn't have cut up and boiled, and they
was going to have the blood of the Lebanon lot before they'd done. I
pretended to get mad, and I talked wild. I said that Lebanon would get
them first, that Lebanon wouldn't wait, but'd have it out; and I took off
my coat and staggered about--blind-fair blind boozy. I tripped over some
fool's foot purposely, just beside a bench against the wall, and I come
down on that bench hard. They laughed--Lord, how they laughed! They
didn't mind my givin' 'em fits--all except one or two. That was what I
expected. The one or two was mad. They begun raging towards me, but there
I was asleep on the bench-stony blind, and then they only spit fire a
bit. Some one threw my coat over me. I hadn't any cash in the pockets,
not much--I knew better than that--and I snored like a sow. Then it
happened what I thought would happen. They talked. And here it is.
They're going to have a strike in the mills, and you're to get a toss
into the river. That's to be on Friday. But the other thing--well, they
all cleared away but two. They were the two that wanted to have it out
with me. They stayed behind. There was I snoring like a locomotive, but
my ears open all right.

"Well, they give the thing away. One of 'em had just come from Felix
Marchand and he was full of it. What was it? Why, the second night of the
strike your new bridge over the river was to be blown up. Marchand was 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 they
quit talking about it; but they said enough to send 'em to gaol for ten
years."

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

"What good would it do if they got ten years--or one year, if the bridge
was blown up? If they got skinned alive, and if Marchand was handed over
to 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 to equal
that. To blow up the bridge--for what? To spite Lebanon, and to hurt me;
to knock the spokes out of my wheel. He's the dregs, is Marchand."

"I guess he's a shyster by nature, that fellow," interposed Jowett. "He
was boilin' hot when he was fifteen. He spoiled a girl I knew when he was
twenty-two, not fourteen she was--Lil Sarnia; and he got her away
before--well, he got her away East; and she's in a dive in Winnipeg now.
As nice a girl--as nice a little girl she was, and could ride any broncho
that ever bucked. What she saw in him--but there, she was only a child,
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 said hush,
for his wife's sake, and so we hushed, and Sarnia's wife doesn't know
even now. I thought a lot of Lil, as much almost as if she'd been my own;
and lots o' times, when I think of it, I sit up straight, and the thing
freezes me; and I want to get Marchand by the scruff of the neck. I got a
horse, the worst that ever was--so bad I haven't had the heart to ride
him or sell him. He's so bad he makes me laugh. There's nothing 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 the Lord would do. And
Lil Sarnia's only one. Since he come back from the States, he's the
limit, oh, the damnedest limit. He's a pest all round-and now, this!"

Ingolby kept blinking reflectively as Jowett talked. He was doing two
things at once with a facility quite his own. He was understanding all
Jowett was saying, but he was also weighing the whole situation. His mind
was gone fishing, figuratively speaking. He was essentially a man of
action, but his action was the bullet of his mind; he had to be quiet
physically when he was really thinking. Then he was as one in a dream
where all physical motion was mechanical, and his body was acting
automatically. His concentration, and therefore his abstraction, was
phenomenal. Jowett's reminiscences at a time so critical did not disturb
him--did not, indeed, seem to be irrelevant. It was as though Felix
Marchand 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 you dropped
him on the ground that day at Carillon hurts still. It's a chronic
inflammation. Closing them railway offices at Manitou, and dislodging the
officials give him his first good chance. The feud between 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 and leave-me-alone-feeling. They don't want to get
on. They don't want progress. They want to throw the slops out of the top
windows into the street; they want their cesspools at the front door;
they think that everybody's got to have smallpox some time or another,
and the sooner they have it the better; they want to be bribed; and they
think that if a vote's worth having it's worth paying for--and yet
there's a bridge between these two towns! A bridge--why, they're as far
apart as the Yukon and Patagonia."

"What'd buy Felix Marchand?" Ingolby asked meditatively. "What's his
price?"

Jowett shifted with impatience. "Say, Chief, I don't know what you're
thinking 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, and
I'd send him there as quick as lightning. I'd hang him, if I could, for
what he done to Lil Sarnia. Years ago when he was a boy he offered me a
gold watch for a mare I had. The watch looked as right as could be--solid
fourteen-carat, he said it was. He got my horse, and I got his watch. It
wasn't any more gold than he was. It was filled--just plated with
nine-carat gold. It was worth about ten dollars."

"What was the mare worth?" asked Ingolby, his mouth twisting again with
quizzical 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 Dexter or
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 threw
back his head and laughed outright--laughed loud and hard. "Well, you got
me, Chief, right under the guard," he observed.

Ingolby did not laugh outright, but there was a bubble of humour in his
eyes. "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 public servant,
and an instrument of progress because of Felix Marchand. If you hadn'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 face became
alight with purpose. His mind had come back from fishing, and he was
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 to
Felix Marchand or to his father and proved him a liar, and got even that
way. You didn't; you got a corner lot with it. That's what I'm going to
do. 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 think he's
bred as bad a pup as ever was. I'm going to try and do with this business
as you did with that watch. I'm going to try and turn it to account and
profit in the end. Felix Marchand's profiting by a mistake of mine--a
mistake in policy. It gives him his springboard; and there's enough dry
grass in both towns to get a big blaze with a very little match. I know
that things are seething. The Chief Constable keeps me posted as to
what's going on here, and pretty fairly as to what's going on in Manitou.
The police in Manitou are straight enough. That's one comfort. I've done
Felix Marchand there. I guess that the Chief Constable of Manitou and
Monseigneur Lourde and old Mother Thibadeau are about the only people
that Marchand can't bribe. I see I've got to face a 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'll
be good for your town lots, Jowett," he added whimsically. "If my policy
is carried out, my town lot'll be worth a pocketful of gold-plated
watches or a stud of spavined mares." He chuckled to himself, and his
fingers reached towards a bell on the table, but he paused. "When was it
they 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," he
added, "I want you to have faith. I'm going to do Marchand, and I'm going
to do him in a way that'll be best in the end. You can help as much 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." He
turned 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 to Jowett.

"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 in
Manitou," he said. "I'm almost white, Chief. I've never made a deal with
you, and don't want to. I'm your man for the fun of it, and because I'd
give 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, and
I can't let you do it for nothing."

"Then I can't do it at all. I'm discharged." Suddenly, however, a
humorous, eager look shot into Jowett's face. "Will you toss for it?" he
blurted 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 down
tails. Ingolby had won.

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

"As you like," answered Ingolby with a smile. Ingolby tossed, and they
stooped 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 another
hundred shares. In a moment they were handed over.

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

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

He picked up the silver dollar from the floor, and was about to put it in
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 concerned
for the rules of the game, and both were gamesters in their way.

After a few brief instructions to Jowett, and a message for Osterhaut
concerning a suit of workman's clothes, Ingolby left his offices and
walked down the main street of the town with his normal rapidity,
responding cheerfully to the passers-by, but not encouraging evident
desire for talk with him. Men half-started forward to him, but he held
them back with a restraining eye. They knew his ways. He was responsive
in a brusque, inquisitive, but good-humoured and sometimes very droll
way; but there were times when men said to themselves that he was to be
left alone; and he was so much master of the place that, as Osterhaut and
Jowett frequently remarked, "What he says goes!" It went even with those
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 which were
the forces at work before he came to Lebanon, and had compelled the
submission of others. All these had vowed to "get back at him," but when
it became a question of Lebanon against Manitou they swung over to his
side and acknowledged him as leader. The physical collision between the
rougher elements of the two towns had brought matters to a head, and
nearly every man in Lebanon felt that his honour was at stake, and was
ready "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 mind reviewed
as in a picture the same thinly inhabited street five years ago when he
first came. Now farmers' wagons clacked and rumbled through the prairie
dust, small herds of cattle jerked and shuffled their way to the
slaughter-yard, or out to the open prairie, and caravans of settlers with
their effects moved sturdily forward to the trails which led to a new
life beckoning from three points of the compass. That point which did 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 them
all, with a jeer and an oblique joke here and there, and crude chaff on
each other and everybody, the settler from the United States asserted
himself. He invariably obtruded himself, with quizzical inquiry, half
contempt and half respect, on the young Englishman, who gazed round with
phlegm upon his fellow adventurers, and made up to the sandy-faced Scot
or the cheerful Irishman with his hat on the back of his head, who showed
in the throng here and there. This was one of the days when the emigrant
and settlers' trains arrived both from the East and from "the States,"
and Front Street in Lebanon had, from early morning, been alive with 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 occupied
intently, too, on the trouble which must be faced before Lebanon and
Manitou would be the reciprocating engines of his policy. Coming to a
spot where a great gap of vacant land showed in the street-land which he
had bought for the new offices of his railway combine--he stood and
looked at it abstractedly. Beyond it, a few blocks away, was the Sagalac,
and beyond the Sagalac was Manitou, and a little way to the right was the
bridge which was the symbol of his policy. His eyes gazed almost
unconsciously on the people and the horses and wagons coming and going
upon the bridge. Then they were lifted to the tall chimneys rising at two
or three points on the outskirts of Manitou.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's a lie, of course," Ingolby said firmly as he finished the
paragraph. "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 people
who read the lie don't see the denial. Your truth doesn't overtake the
lie--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 too
fast. Truth's slow-footed. When a newspaper tells a lie about you, don't
try to overtake it, tell another."

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

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

"In what way?"

"For instance, if they said I couldn't ride a moke at a village
steeplechase, I'd at once publish the fact that, with a jack-knife, I'd
killed two pumas that were after me. Both things would be lies, but the
one would neutralize the other. If I said I could ride a moke, nobody
would see it, and if it were seen it wouldn't make any impression; but to
say I killed two mountain-lions with a jack-knife on the edge of a
precipice, with the sun standing still to look at it, is as good as the
original 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 say it
again. This is a democratic country. They'd kick at my being called
master 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 of life
and death, holder of the sword and balances, the Sultan, here just for
one week. I'd change some things. I'd gag some people that are doing
terrible harm. It's a real bad business. The scratch-your-face period is
over, 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 of
things, it's dynamite."

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

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

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

Ingolby started and looked at the paper again. "The sneaking, praying
liar," 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's
the kind of lie that--"

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

An acknowledging smile played at Ingolby's mouth. "We've got to have a
try. 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 know
about that funeral."

"It's announced?"

"Yes, here's an invitation in the Budget to Orangemen to attend the
funeral 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, and Monseigneur
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 ready for
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 Lebanon
champions 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, from
which proceeded the sound of a violin. "I'm going in here," Ingolby said.
"I've got some business with Berry, the barber. You'll keep me posted as
to anything important?"

"You don't need to say it. Shall I see the Master of the Orange Lodge or
the Chief Constable for you?" Ingolby thought for a minute. "No, I'll
tackle them myself, but you get in touch with Monseigneur Lourde. He's
grasped the situation, and though he'd like to have Tripple boiled in
oil, 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 wanted to
use it, but I will now without compunction. I have the means in my
pocket. They've been there for three days, waiting for the chance."

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

"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 seems
as if 'all's right with the world.'"

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

"Old Berry hasn't much business this morning," remarked Rockwell. "He's
in 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 a
philosopher 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 a
kind 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 the
highly respectable members of the community I've always had to watch."

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

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

Here was the man he wished to see--Max Ingolby, the man who stood between
him and his Romany lass. Here was a chance of speaking face to face with
the man who was robbing him. What he should do when they met must be
according to circumstances. That did not matter. There was the impulse
storming in his brain, and it drove him across the street as the Boss
Doctor walked away, and Ingolby entered the shop. All Jethro realized was
that the man who stood in his way, the big, rich, masterful Gorgio was
there.

He entered the shop after Ingolby, and stood for an instant unseen. The
old negro barber with his curly white head, slave-black face, and large,
shrewd, meditative eyes was standing in a corner with a violin under his
chin, his cheek lovingly resting against it, as he drew his bow through
the last bars of the melody. He had smiled in welcome as Ingolby entered,
instantly rising from his stool, but continuing to play. He would not
have stopped in the middle of a tune for an emperor, and he put 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 very independent. He
cut everybody's hair as he wanted to cut it, trimmed each beard as he
wished to trim it, regardless of its owner's wishes. If there 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, especially if you found
your hat too small for your head in the morning. Also he singed the hair
with a skill and care, which had filled many a thinly covered scalp with
luxuriant growth, and his hair-tonic, known as "Smilax," gave a pleasant
odour to every meeting-house or church or public hall where the people
gathered. Berry was an institution even in this 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 his
eyes searched the newcomer. Following his glance, Ingolby turned round
and saw the Romany. His first impression was one of admiration, but
suspicion was quickly added. He was a good judge of men, and there was
something secluded about the man which repelled him. Yet he was
interested. The dark face had a striking racial peculiarity.

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

"Yeth-'ir?" he said questioningly.

For an instant Jethro was confused. When he entered the shop he had not
made up his mind what he should do. It had been mere impulse and the
fever 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 for the
cat-gut. Eh?"

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

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

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

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

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

Jethro put the fiddle to his chin, and drew the bow twice or thrice
sweepingly across the strings. Such a sound had never come from Berry's
violin before. It was the touch of a born musician who certainly had
skill, 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 to
meet 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 ago
when he and Charley Long visited the big white house on the hill. Was the
man a Romany, and, if so, what was he doing here? Had it anything to do
with Gabriel Druse and his daughter? But no--what was there strange in
the man being a Romany and playing the fiddle? Here and there in the West
during the last two years, he had seen what he took to be Romany faces.
He looked to see the effect of the stranger's remark on old Berry.

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

The son of a race which for centuries had never known country or flag or
any habitat, whose freedom was the soul of its existence, if it had a
soul; a freedom defying all the usual laws of social order--the son of
that race looked at the negro barber with something akin to awe. Here was
a man who had lived a life which was the staring antithesis of his own,
under the whip as a boy, confined to compounds; whose vision was
constricted 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 worked at
another's will--and at no price! This was beyond the understanding of
Jethro Fawe. But awe has the outward look of respect, and old Berry who
had his own form of vanity, saw that he had had a rare effect on the
fellow, who evidently knew all about fiddles. Certainly that was a
wonderful sound he had produced from his own cotton-field fiddle.

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 music
won'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," he
said, "and a lot could come out in five minutes, if the right man played
it."

His words were almost like a challenge, and it reached to Jethro's
innermost nature. He would show this Gorgio robber what a Romany could
do, 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 own
way. He thought of one of the first pieces he had ever heard, a rhapsody
which had grown and grown, since it was first improvised by a Tzigany in
Hungary. He had once played it to an English lady at the Amphitryon Club
in 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--a little of it.
He would play it to her--to the girl who had set him free in the Sagalac
woods, to the ravishing deserter from her people, to the only woman who
had told him the truth in all his life, and who insulated his magnetism
as a ground-wire insulates lightning. He would summon her here by his
imagination, and tell her to note how his soul had caught the music of
the spheres. He would surround himself with an atmosphere of his own. His
rage, his love, and his malignant hate, his tenderness and his lust
should fill the barber's shop with a flood which would drown the Gorgio
raider. He laughed to himself, almost unconsciously. Then suddenly he
leaned his cheek to the instrument and drew the bow across the strings
with a savage softness. The old cottonfield fiddle cried out with a
thrilling, exquisite pain, but muffled, as a hand at the lips turns agony
into a tender moan. Some one--some spirit--in the fiddle was calling for
its own.

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

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

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

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

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

"Dis is a barber-shop," he said with an angry wave of his hand; "it ain'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 old
barber declared peremptorily; "and, if I had, it wouldn't be busy on you.
I got two customers, and that's all I'm going to take befo' I have my
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 of the
shears and razor.

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

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

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

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

"Only a week ago it came," Ingolby replied. "They actually charged me
Customs duty on it. I'd seen it advertised, and I made an offer and got
it 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? I
can't play it, but there it is for any one that can play. How would you
like to try it?" he added to Jethro in a friendly tone. "I'd give a good
deal to see it under your chin for an hour. Anyhow, I'd like to show it
to 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?" he
asked.

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

"I will come--yes, I will come," Jethro answered, the lids drooping over
his eyes in which were the shadows of the first murder of the created
world.

"Here is my address, then." Ingolby wrote something on his visiting-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 by
the swaggering Gorgio, as though he was a servant, and he had not even
been asked his name, of so little account was he! He could come and play
on the Sarasate to the masterful Gorgio at the hour which the masterful
Gorgio fixed--think of that! He could be--a servant to the pleasure of
the man who was stealing from him the wife sealed to him in the Roumelian
country. But perhaps it was all for the best--yes, he would make it all
for the best! As he left the shop, however, and passed down the street
his mind remained in the barber-shop. He saw in imagination the masterful
Gorgio in the red-plush chair, and the negro barber bending over him,
with black fingers holding the Gorgio's chin, and an open razor in the
right hand lightly grasped. A flash of malicious desire came into his
eyes as the vision shaped itself in his imagination, and he saw himself,
instead of the negro barber, holding the 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 more throats were not cut in that way? How
was it that while the scissors passed through the beard of a man's face
the points did not suddenly slip up and stab the light from helpless
eyes? How was it that men did not use their chances? He went lightly down
the street, absorbed in a vision which was not like the reality; but it
was evidence that his visit to Max Ingolby's house was not the visit of a
virtuoso alone, but of an evil spirit.

As the Romany disappeared, Max Ingolby had his hand on the old barber's
shoulder. "I want one of the wigs you made for that theatrical
performance of the Mounted Police, Berry," he said. "Never mind what it's
for. I want it at once--one with the long hair of a French-Canadian
coureur-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 the
right 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 the
top. That Felix Marchand and his roughs can't down you. I hear and see a
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 by
Ingolby suddenly shaking his hand warmly.

"That's the line," Ingolby said decisively. "When do you go over to
Manitou again to cut old 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 are
for, Berry--well, for me to wear in Manitou. In disguise I'm going there
tonight among them all, among the roughs and toughs. I want to find out
things for myself. I can speak French as good as most of 'em, and I can
chew tobacco and swear with the best."

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

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

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

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

He was about to leave the shop when some one came bustling in. Berry was
between Ingolby and the door, and for an instant he did not see who it
was. 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 belonged
to the Rev. Reuben Tripple, and he would be saved a journey to the manse.
Accidental meetings were better than planned interviews. Old Berry's
grizzled beard was bristling with repugnance, and he was about to 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 him
now with a little shock of surprise. There was no reason why he should
not care to meet the Master Man, but he always had an uncanny feeling
when his eye met that of Ingolby. His apprehension had no foundation in
any knowledge, yet he had felt that Ingolby had no love for him, and this
disturbed the egregious vanity of a narrow nature. His slouching,
corpulent figure made an effort to resist the gesture with which Ingolby
drew him to the door, but his will succumbed, and he shuffled importantly
into the other room.

Ingolby shut the door quietly behind him, and motioned the minister to a
chair beside the table. Tripple sank down, mechanically smiling, placed
his hat on the floor, and rested his hands on the table. Ingolby could
not help but notice how coarse the hands were--with fingers suddenly
ending as though they had been cut off, and puffy, yellowish skin that
suggested fat foods, or worse.

Ingolby came to grips at once. "You preached a sermon last night which no
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 spoke on
this occasion before you were moved--just a little while before,"
answered Ingolby grimly. "The speaking was last night, the moving comes
today."

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

"You preached a sermon last night which might bring riot and bloodshed
between 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 I
speak in His name, not to you."

"Your conscience belongs to yourself, but your acts belong to all of us.
If there is trouble at the Orange funeral to-morrow it will be your
fault. 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 jaw
was 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 done what
I'm going to do. I'm going to send you out of Lebanon. You're a bad and
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 also with
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 been
growing 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 of it
all. One thing is sure--you're not going to take the funeral service
to-morrow."

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

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

"In that case you WILL take orders from me. I'm going to save the town
from what hurts it, if I can. I've got no legal rights over you, but I
have moral rights, and I mean to enforce them. You gabble of conscience
and 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 a
glazed look. Fight suddenly died out of them.

"You went on a missionary tour on the Ottawa River. At Radley you toiled
and rested from your toil--and feasted. The girl had no father or
brother, but her uncle was a railway-man. He heard where you were, and he
hired with my company to come out here as a foreman. He came to drop on
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 ruin you,
as you ruined the girl. He had proofs enough. The girl herself is in
Winnipeg. Well, I know life, and I know man and man's follies and
temptations. I thought it a pity that a career and a life like yours
should be ruined--"

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

"If the man spoke, I knew it would be all up with you, for the world is
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 were
only human, and that maybe you had paid heavy in remorse and fear. Then
there was the honour of the town of Lebanon. I couldn't let the thing
take its course. I got the doctor to tell the man that he must go for
special treatment to a hospital in Montreal, and I--well, I bought him
off on his promising to keep his mouth shut. He was a bit stiff in 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 year ago. I've got
all the proofs in my pocket, even to the three silly letters 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 the other's
face. "Have a good look at your own handwriting, and see if you recognize
it," Ingolby continued.

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

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

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

"I have tried to atone, and--"

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

"In future I will--"

"Well, that rests with yourself, but your health is bad, and you're not
going to take the funeral tomorrow. You've had a sudden breakdown, and
you're going to get a call from some church in the East--as far East as
Yokohama or Bagdad, I hope; and leave here in a few weeks. You
understand? I've thought the thing out, and you've got to go. You'll do
no 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 as you
do, and be good to your wife. It's bad enough for any woman to be a
parson's wife, but to be a parson's wife and your wife, too, wants a lot
of fortitude."

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

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

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

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

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

A look of wonder, revelation and gratitude crept into Tripple's face. "I
will 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 Tripple and
his influence in Lebanon. "I couldn't shake hands with him," said Ingolby
to himself, "but I'm glad he didn't sniffle. There's some stuff in
him--if it only has a chance."

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

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