Black Rock by Ralph Connor (inspirational books for students TXT) 📖

But Idaho was never enamoured of the social ways of Black Rock. He was shocked and disgusted when he discovered that a ‘gun’ was decreed by British law to be an unnecessary adornment of a card-table. The manner of his discovery must have been interesting to behold.

It is said that Idaho was industriously pursuing his avocation in Slavin’s, with his ‘gun’ lying upon the card-table convenient to his hand, when in walked policeman Jackson, her Majesty’s sole representative in the Black Rock district. Jackson, ‘Stonewall’ Jackson, or ‘Stonewall,’ as he was called for obvious reasons, after watching the game for a few moments, gently tapped the pistol and asked what he used this for.

‘I’ll show you in two holy minutes if you don’t light out,’ said Idaho, hardly looking up, but very angrily, for the luck was against him. But Jackson tapped upon the table and said sweetly—

‘You’re a stranger here. You ought to get a guide-book and post yourself. Now, the boys know I don’t interfere with an innocent little game, but there is a regulation against playing it with guns; so,’ he added even more sweetly, but fastening Idaho with a look from his steel-grey eyes, ‘I’ll just take charge of this,’ picking up the revolver; ‘it might go off.’

Idaho’s rage, great as it was, was quite swallowed up in his amazed disgust at the state of society that would permit such an outrage upon personal liberty. He was quite unable to play any more that evening, and it took several drinks all round to restore him to articulate speech. The rest of the night was spent in retailing for his instruction stories of the ways of Stonewall Jackson.

Idaho bought a new ‘gun,’ but he wore it ‘in his clothes,’ and used it chiefly in the pastime of shooting out the lights or in picking off the heels from the boys’ boots while a stag dance was in progress in Slavin’s. But in Stonewall’s presence Idaho was a most correct citizen. Stonewall he could understand and appreciate. He was six feet three, and had an eye of unpleasant penetration. But this new feeling in the community for respectability he could neither understand nor endure. The League became the object of his indignant aversion, and the League men of his contempt. He had many sympathisers, and frequent were the assaults upon the newly-born sobriety of Billy Breen and others of the League. But Geordie’s watchful care and Mrs. Mavor’s steady influence, together with the loyal co-operation of the League men, kept Billy safe so far. Nixon, too, was a marked man. It may be that he carried himself with unnecessary jauntiness toward Slavin and Idaho, saluting the former with, ‘Awful dry weather! eh, Slavin?’ and the latter with, ‘Hello, old sport! how’s times?’ causing them to swear deeply; and, as it turned out, to do more than swear.

But on the whole the anti-League men were in favour of a respectable ball, and most of the League men determined to show their appreciation of the concession of the committee to the principles of the League in the important matter of refreshments by attending in force.

Nixon would not go. However jauntily he might talk, he could not trust himself, as he said, where whisky was flowing, for it got into his nose ‘like a fish-hook into a salmon.’ He was from Nova Scotia. For like reason, Vernon Winton, the young Oxford fellow, would not go. When they chaffed, his lips grew a little thinner, and the colour deepened in his handsome face, but he went on his way. Geordie despised the ‘hale hypothick’ as a ‘daft ploy,’ and the spending of five dollars upon a ticket he considered a ‘sinfu’ waste o’ guid siller’; and he warned Billy against ‘coontenancin’ ony sic redeeklus nonsense.’

But no one expected Billy to go; although the last two months he had done wonders for his personal appearance, and for his position in the social scale as well. They all knew what a fight he was making, and esteemed him accordingly. How well I remember the pleased pride in his face when he told me in the afternoon of the committee’s urgent request that he should join the orchestra with his ‘cello! It was not simply that his ‘cello was his joy and pride, but he felt it to be a recognition of his return to respectability.

I have often wondered how things combine at times to a man’s destruction.

Had Mr. Craig not been away at the Landing that week, had Geordie not been on the night-shift, had Mrs. Mavor not been so occupied with the care of her sick child, it may be Billy might have been saved his fall.

The anticipation of the ball stirred Black Rock and the camps with a thrill of expectant delight. Nowadays, when I find myself forced to leave my quiet smoke in my studio after dinner at the call of some social engagement which I have failed to elude, I groan at my hard lot, and I wonder as I look back and remember the pleasurable anticipation with which I viewed the approaching ball. But I do not wonder now any more than I did then at the eager delight of the men who for seven days in the week swung their picks up in the dark breasts of the mines, or who chopped and sawed among the solitary silences of the great forests. Any break in the long and weary monotony was welcome; what mattered the cost or consequence! To the rudest and least cultured of them the sameness of the life must have been hard to bear; but what it was to men who had seen life in its most cultured and attractive forms I fail to imagine. From the mine, black and foul, to the shack, bare, cheerless, and sometimes hideously repulsive, life swung in heart-grinding monotony till the longing for a ‘big drink’ or some other ‘big break’ became too great to bear.

It was well on towards evening when Sandy’s four horse team, with a load of men from the woods, came swinging round the curves of the mountain-road and down the street. A gay crowd they were with their bright, brown faces and hearty voices; and in ten minutes the whole street seemed alive with lumbermen—they had a faculty of spreading themselves so. After night fell the miners came down ‘done up slick,’ for this was a great occasion, and they must be up to it. The manager appeared in evening dress; but this was voted ‘too giddy’ by the majority.

As Graeme and I passed up to the Black Rock Hotel, in the large storeroom of which the ball was to be held, we met old man Nelson looking very grave.

‘Going, Nelson, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he answered slowly; ‘I’ll drop in, though I don’t like the look of things much.’

‘What’s the matter, Nelson?’ asked Graeme cheerily. ‘There’s no funeral on.’

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Nelson, ‘but I wish Mr. Craig were home.’ And then he added, ‘There’s Idaho and Slavin together, and you may bet the devil isn’t far off.’

But Graeme laughed at his suspicion, and we passed on. The orchestra was tuning up. There were two violins, a concertina, and the ‘cello. Billy Breen was lovingly fingering his instrument, now and then indulging himself in a little snatch of some air that came to him out of his happier past. He looked perfectly delighted, and as I paused to listen he gave me a proud glance out of his deep, little, blue eyes, and went on playing softly to himself. Presently Shaw came along.

‘That’s good, Billy,’ he called out. ‘You’ve got the trick yet, I see.”

But Billy only nodded and went on playing.

‘Where’s Nixon?’ I asked.

‘Gone to bed,’ said Shaw, ‘and I am glad of it. He finds that the safest place on pay-day afternoon. The boys don’t bother him there.’

The dancing-room was lined on two sides with beer-barrels and whisky-kegs; at one end the orchestra sat, at the other was a table with refreshments, where the ‘soft drinks’ might be had. Those who wanted anything else might pass through a short passage into the bar just behind.

This was evidently a superior kind of ball, for the men kept on their coats, and went through the various figures with faces of unnatural solemnity. But the strain upon their feelings was quite apparent, and it became a question how long it could be maintained. As the trips through the passage-way became more frequent the dancing grew in vigour and hilarity, until by the time supper was announced the stiffness had sufficiently vanished to give no further anxiety to the committee.

But the committee had other cause for concern, inasmuch as after supper certain of the miners appeared with their coats off, and proceeded to ‘knock the knots out of the floor’ in break-down dances of extraordinary energy. These, however, were beguiled into the bar-room and ‘filled up’ for safety, for the committee were determined that the respectability of the ball should be preserved to the end. Their reputation was at stake, not in Black Rock only, but at the Landing as well, from which most of the ladies had come; and to be shamed in the presence of the Landing people could not be borne. Their difficulties seemed to be increasing, for at this point something seemed to go wrong with the orchestra. The ‘cello appeared to be wandering aimlessly up and down the scale, occasionally picking up the tune with animation, and then dropping it. As Billy saw me approaching, he drew himself up with great solemnity, gravely winked at me, and said—

‘Shlipped a cog, Mishter Connor! Mosh hunfortunate! Beauchiful hinstrument, but shlips a cog. Mosh hunfortunate!’

And he wagged his little head sagely, playing all the while for dear life, now second and now lead.

Poor Billy! I pitied him, but I thought chiefly of the beautiful, eager face that leaned towards him the night the League was made, and of the bright voice that said, ‘You’ll sign with me, Billy?’ and it seemed to me a cruel deed to make him lose his grip of life and hope; for this is what the pledge meant to him.

While I was trying to get Billy away to some safe place, I heard a great shouting in the direction of the bar, followed by trampling and scuffling of feet in the passage-way. Suddenly a man burst through, crying—

‘Let me go! Stand back! I know what I’m about!’

It was Nixon, dressed in his best; black clothes, blue shirt, red tie, looking handsome enough, but half-drunk and wildly excited. The highland Fling competition was on at the moment, and Angus Campbell, Lachlan’s brother, was representing the lumber camps in the contest. Nixon looked on approvingly for a few moments, then with a quick movement he seized the little Highlander, swung him in his powerful arms clean off the floor, and deposited him gently upon a beer-barrel. Then he stepped into the centre of the room, bowed to the judges, and began a sailor’s hornpipe.

The committee were perplexed, but after deliberation they decided to humour the new competitor, especially as they knew that Nixon with whisky in him was unpleasant to cross.

Lightly and gracefully he went through his steps, the men crowding in from the bar to admire, for Nixon was famed for his hornpipe. But when, after the hornpipe, he proceeded to execute a clog-dance, garnished with acrobatic feats, the committee interfered. There were cries of ‘Put him out!’ and ‘Let him alone! Go on, Nixon!’ And Nixon hurled back into the crowd two of the committee who had laid remonstrating hands upon him, and, standing in the open centre, cried out scornfully—

‘Put me out! Put me out! Certainly! Help yourselves! Don’t mind me!’ Then grinding