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

his teeth, so that I heard them across the room, he added with savage deliberation, ‘If any man lays a finger on me, I’ll—I’ll eat his liver cold.’

He stood for a few moments glaring round upon the company, and then strode toward the bar, followed by the crowd wildly yelling. The ball was forthwith broken up. I looked around for Billy, but he was nowhere to be seen. Graeme touched my arm—

‘There’s going to be something of a time, so just keep your eyes skinned.’

‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.

‘Do? Keep myself beautifully out of trouble,’ he replied.

In a few moments the crowd came surging back headed by Nixon, who was waving a whisky-bottle over his head and yelling as one possessed.

‘Hello!’ exclaimed Graeme softly, ‘I begin to see. Look there!’

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘You see Idaho and Slavin and their pets,’ he replied.

‘They’ve got poor Nixon in tow. Idaho is rather nasty,’ he added, ‘but I think I’ll take a hand in this game; I’ve seen some of Idaho’s work before.’

The scene was one quite strange to me, and was wild beyond description. A hundred men filled the room. Bottles were passed from hand to hand, and men drank their fill. Behind the refreshment-tables stood the hotelman and his barkeeper with their coats off and sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, passing out bottles, and drawing beer and whisky from two kegs hoisted up for that purpose. Nixon was in his glory. It was his night. Every man was to get drunk at his expense, he proclaimed, flinging down bills upon the table. Near him were some League men he was treating liberally, and never far away were Idaho and Slavin passing bottles, but evidently drinking little.

I followed Graeme, not feeling too comfortable, for this sort of thing was new to me, but admiring the cool assurance with which he made his way through the crowd that swayed and yelled and swore and laughed in a most disconcerting manner.

‘Hello!’ shouted Nixon as he caught sight of Graeme. ‘Here you are!’ passing him a bottle. ‘You’re a knocker, a double-handed front door knocker. You polished off old whisky-soak here, old demijohn,’ pointing to Slavin, ‘and I’ll lay five to one we can lick any blankety blank thieves in the crowd,’ and he held up a roll of bills.

But Graeme proposed that he should give the hornpipe again, and the floor was cleared at once, for Nixon’s hornpipe was very popular, and tonight, of course, was in high favour. In the midst of his dance Nixon stopped short, his arms dropped to his side, his face had a look of fear, of horror.

There, before him, in his riding-cloak and boots, with his whip in his hand as he had come from his ride, stood Mr. Craig. His face was pallid, and his dark eyes were blazing with fierce light. As Nixon stopped, Craig stepped forward to him, and sweeping his eyes round upon the circle he said in tones intense with scorn—

‘You cowards! You get a man where he’s weak! Cowards! you’d damn his soul for his money!’

There was dead silence, and Craig, lifting his hat, said solemnly—

‘May God forgive you this night’s work!’

Then, turning to Nixon, and throwing his arm over his shoulder, he said in a voice broken and husky—

‘Come on, Nixon! we’ll go!’

Idaho made a motion as if to stop him, but Graeme stepped quickly foreword and said sharply, ‘Make way there, can’t you?’ and the crowd fell back and we four passed through, Nixon walking as in a dream, with Craig’s arm about him. Down the street we went in silence, and on to Craig’s shack, where we found old man Nelson, with the fire blazing, and strong coffee steaming on the stove. It was he that had told Craig, on his arrival from the Landing, of Nixon’s fall.

There was nothing of reproach, but only gentlest pity, in tone and touch as Craig placed the half-drunk, dazed man in his easy-chair, took off his boots, brought him his own slippers, and gave him coffee. Then, as his stupor began to overcome him, Craig put him in his own bed, and came forth with a face written over with grief.

‘Don’t mind, old chap,’ said Graeme kindly.

But Craig looked at him without a word, and, throwing himself into a chair, put his face in his hands. As we sat there in silence the door was suddenly pushed open and in walked Abe Baker with the words, ‘Where is Nixon?’ and we told him where he was. We were still talking when again a tap came to the door, and Shaw came in looking much disturbed.

‘Did you hear about Nixon?’ he asked. We told him what we knew.

‘But did you hear how they got him?’ he asked, excitedly.

As he told us the tale, the men stood listening, with faces growing hard.

It appeared that after the making of the League the Black Rock Hotel man had bet Idaho one hundred to fifty that Nixon could not be got to drink before Easter. All Idaho’s schemes had failed, and now he had only three days in which to win his money, and the ball was his last chance. Here again he was balked, for Nixon, resisting all entreaties, barred his shack door and went to bed before nightfall, according to his invariable custom on pay-days. At midnight some of Idaho’s men came battering at the door for admission, which Nixon reluctantly granted. For half an hour they used every art of persuasion to induce him to go down to the ball, the glorious success of which was glowingly depicted; but Nixon remained immovable, and they took their departure, baffled and cursing. In two hours they returned drunk enough to be dangerous, kicked at the door in vain, finally gained entrance through the window, hauled Nixon out of bed, and, holding a glass of whisky to his lips, bade him drink. But he knocked the glass sway, spilling the liquor over himself and the bed.

It was drink or fight, and Nixon was ready to fight; but after parley they had a drink all round, and fell to persuasion again. The night was cold, and poor Nixon sat shivering on the edge of his bed. If he would take one drink they would leave him alone. He need not show himself so stiff. The whisky fumes filled his nostrils. If one drink would get them off, surely that was better than fighting and killing some one or getting killed. He hesitated, yielded, drank his glass. They sat about him amiably drinking, and lauding him as a fine fellow after all. One more glass before they left. Then Nixon rose, dressed himself, drank all that was left of the bottle, put his money in his pocket, and came down to the dance, wild with his old-time madness, reckless of faith and pledge, forgetful of home, wife, babies, his whole being absorbed in one great passion—to drink and drink and drink till he could drink no more.

Before Shaw had finished his tale, Craig’s eyes were streaming with tears, and groans of rage and pity broke alternately from him. Abe remained speechless for a time, not trusting himself; but as he heard Craig groan, ‘Oh, the beasts! the fiends!’ he seemed encouraged to let himself loose, and he began swearing with the coolest and most blood-curdling deliberation. Craig listened with evident approval, apparently finding complete satisfaction in Abe’s performance, when suddenly he seemed to waken up, caught Abe by the arm, and said in a horror-stricken voice—

‘Stop! stop! God forgive us! we must not swear like this.’

Abe stopped at once, and in a surprised and slightly grieved voice said—

‘Why! what’s the matter with that? Ain’t that what you wanted?’

‘Yes! yes! God forgive me! I am afraid it was,’ he answered hurriedly; ‘but I must not.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ went on Abe cheerfully; ‘I’ll look after that part; and anyway, ain’t they the blankest blankety blank’— going off again into a roll of curses, till Craig, in an agony of entreaty, succeeded in arresting the flow of profanity possible to no one but a mountain stage-driver. Abe paused looking hurt, and asked if they did not deserve everything he was calling down upon them.

‘Yes, yes,’ urged Craig; ‘but that is not our business.’

‘Well! so I reckoned,’ replied Abe, recognising the limitations of the cloth; ‘you ain’t used to it, and you can’t be expected to do it; but it just makes me feel good—let out o’ school like—to properly do ‘em up, the blank, blank,’ and off he went again. It was only under the pressure of Mr. Craig’s prayers and commands that he finally agreed ‘to hold in, though it was tough.’

‘What’s to be done?’ asked Shaw.

‘Nothing,’ answered Craig bitterly. He was exhausted with his long ride from the Landing, and broken with bitter disappointment over the ruin of all that he had laboured so long to accomplish.

‘Nonsense,’ said Graeme; ‘there’s a good deal to do.’

It was agreed that Craig should remain with Nixon while the others of us should gather up what fragments we could find of the broken League. We had just opened the door, when we met a man striding up at a great pace. It was Geordie Crawford.

‘Hae ye seen the lad?’ was his salutation. No one replied. So I told Geordie of my last sight of Billy in the orchestra.

‘An’ did ye no’ gang aifter him?’ he asked in indignant surprise, adding with some contempt, ‘Man! but ye’re a feckless buddie.’

‘Billy gone too!’ said Shaw. ‘They might have let Billy alone.’

Poor Craig stood in a dumb agony. Billy’s fall seemed more than he could bear. We went out, leaving him heart-broken amid the ruins of his League.