The World for Sale, Complete

by Gilbert Parker

  CHAPTER X. FOR LUCK

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

  "I've got him. I've got him--like that!" he said transferring thecigarette to his mouth, and clenching his right hand as though it couldnot be loosed by an earthquake. "For sure, it's a thing finished as thesolder of a pannikin--like that."

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

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

  He looked reflectively at the leaden pot and said in reply: "I'd neverbelieve in anything where that Ingolby is concerned till I had it inthe palm of my hand. He's as deep as a well, and when he's quietest it'sgood to look out. He takes a lot of skinning, that badger."

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

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

  "The crowd have gone the rounds," he continued. "They started atBarbazon's and they're winding up at Barbazon's. They're drunk enoughto-night to want to do anything, and to-morrow when they've got soreheads they'll do anything. They'll make that funeral look like asqueezed orange; they'll show Lebanon and Master Ingolby that we're tobe bosses of our own show. The strike'll be on after the funeral, andafter 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 warninggesture, for Barbazon, the landlord, had entered behind the bar.

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

  Barbazon had an evil face. There were rumours that he had been in gaolin Quebec for robbery, and that after he had served his time he haddug up the money he had stolen and come West. He had started the firstsaloon 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 beadyeyes that looked out of a stolid face where long hours, greed and vicesother than drink had left their mark. He never drank spirits, and wastherefore ready to take advantage of those who did drink. More than onehorse and canoe and cow and ox, and acre of land, in the days when landwas 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 wifewho had left him twice because of his misdemeanours, but had returnedand straightened out his house and affairs once again; and even whenshe went off with Lick Baldwin, a cattle-dealer, she was welcomed backwithout reproaches by Barbazon, chiefly because he had no morals, andher 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 spentto-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 strikethe 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 lowforehead seemed to disappear almost, as he drew the grizzled shock ofhair down, by wrinkling his forehead with a heavy frown.

  "It's no damn good, m'sieu'," he growled. "Am I a fool? They'll spendmoney 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'llbe good for me? Nom de Dieu, there's nothing you're doing, or mean todo, but'll hurt me and everybody."

  "That's your view, is it, Barbazon?" exclaimed Marchand loudly, for thecrowd 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 tookit into their heads to wreck the place?"

  Barbazon's muddy face got paler, but his eyes sharpened, and he leanedover the bar-counter, and said with a snarl: "Go to hell, and say whatyou 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 anddisappeared into the office behind the bar.

  "I won't steal anything, Barbazon," he said over his shoulder as heclosed 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 andracially bitter type. They were not many, but in one sense they were thebackbone and force of the crowd, probably the less intelligent but themore tenacious and consistent. They were black spots of gathering stormin an electric atmosphere.

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

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

  The greater number of the crowd were, however, excitable, good-naturedmen, who were by instinct friendly, save when their prejudices wereexcited; and their oaths and exclamations were marvels of drollingenuity. Most of them were still too good-humoured with drink to bedangerous, but all hoped for trouble at the Orange funeral on principle,and the anticipated strike had elements of "thrill." They were of aclass, however, who would swing from what was good-humour to deadlyanger in a minute, and turn a wind of mere prejudice into a hurricane oflife and death with the tick of a clock. They would all probably go tothe Orange funeral to-morrow in a savage spirit. Some of them were loudin denunciation of Ingolby and "the Lebanon gang"; they joked coarselyover the dead Orangeman, but their cheerful violence had not yet theappe
arance of reality.

  One man suddenly changed all that. He was a river-driver of stalwartproportions, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and with loosecorded trousers tucked into his boots. He had a face of natural uglinessmade almost repulsive by marks of smallpox. Red, flabby lips and anoverhanging brow made him a figure which men would avoid on a darknight.

  "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 theriver. He's the curse of this city. Holy, once Manitou was a place tolive in, now it's a place to die in! The factories, the mills, they'refull of Protes'ants and atheists and shysters; the railway office isgone to Lebanon. Ingolby took it there. Manitou was the best town in theWest; it's no good now. Who's the cause? Ingolby's the cause. Name ofGod, 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 roundthe room. "He's going to lock us out if we strike," he added. "He'sgoing to take the bread out of our mouths; he's going to put his heel onManitou, and grind her down till he makes her knuckle to Lebanon--to alot of infidels, Protes'ants, and thieves. Who's going to stand it? Isay-bagosh, I say, who's going to stand it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The big river-driver turned on the grizzled old man beside thebar-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. "Italways is so. This isn't the first time I've been to Manitou. You're ariver-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 forten years. I belong--bagosh, what do you want to ask? Hurry up. We'vegot 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 hesits studyin' how he'll cut Lebanon's throat. He's home, all right. He'sin Lebanon anyhow, and we'll find him."

  "Well, but wait a minute--be quiet a bit," said the old man, his eyesblinking 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 thatIngolby a chance to tell you what his plans were? Did you ever get closeto him and try to figure what he was driving at? There's no chance ofgetting at the truth if you don't let a man state his case--but no. Ifhe 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 knowall right what Ingolby's after."

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

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

  The other stroked his beard with hands which, somehow, gave littleindication of age, and then, with a sudden jerk forward of his head, hesaid: "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'strue. If I said it, it's true. All of us in this room say it, and it'strue. Young Marchand says what Manitou says."

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

  "M. Marchand said it first, and you all say it afterwards--ah, bah! Butlisten to me; I know Max Ingolby that you think is such a villain; Iknow 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 roarof laughter.

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

  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 worldexactly thirty-three years. He never willingly did anybody harm--never.Since he came West, since he came to the Sagalac, he's brought workto Lebanon and to Manitou. There are hundreds more workmen in both thetowns than there were when he came. It was he made others come with muchmoney and build the factories and the mills. Work means money, moneymeans bread, bread means life--so."

  The big river-driver, seeing the effect of the old man's words upon thecrowd, 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 warbetween the two towns--there's hell to pay now on both sides of theSagalac. He took away the railway offices from here, and threw men outof 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 bentshoulders seemed to suggest driving power rather than the weight ofyears. He suddenly stretched out a hand in command as it were.

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

  "Monopoly," growled a voice from the crowd. "Not monopoly," the old manreplied with a ring to his voice, which made it younger, fresher. "Notmonopoly, but better management of the railways, with more wages, moremoney to spend on things to eat and drink and wear, more dollars in thepocket of everybody that works in Manitou and Lebanon. Ingolby works, hedoesn'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 shouldersforward, it was like a machine g
athering energy and power.

  "I'll tell you, friends, what Ingolby is trying to do," he said in a lowvoice 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 thingsin the world because there is the big thing to do--for sure. Withoutsuch men the big things are never done, and other men have less workto do, and less money and poorer homes. They discover and construct anddesign and invent and organize and give opportunities. I am a workingman, but I know what Ingolby thinks. I know what men think who try to dothe big things. I have tried to do them."

  The crowd were absolutely still now, but the big river-driver shookhimself 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, oldskeesicks. I bet you never earned a hundred dollars in your life." Heturned to the crowd with fierce gestures. "Let's go to Lebanon and makethe 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 tobe bossed. He's for Lebanon and we're for Manitou. Lebanon means to bossus, Lebanon wants to sit on us because we're Catholics, because we'reFrench, because we're honest."

  Again a wave of revolution swept through the crowd. The big river-driverrepresented their natural instincts, their native fanaticism, theirprejudices. 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 richalone. 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 bigriver-driver. "Take his dollars out of your pocket and put them on thebar, the dollars Ingolby gives you to say all this. Put them dollars ofIngolby's up for drinks, or we'll give you a jar that'll shake you, oldwart-hog."

  At that instant a figure forced itself through the crowd, and broke intothe 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 andbeard 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 hischances. He was among enemies. He had meant only to move among thecrowd to discover their attitude, to find things out for himself. Hehad succeeded, and his belief that Manitou could be swayed in the rightdirection if properly handled, was correct. Beneath the fanaticism andthe racial spirit was human nature; and until Jethro Fawe had appeared,he had hoped to prevent violence and the collision at to-morrow'sfuneral.

  Now the situation was all changed. It was hard to tell what sharp turnthings might take. He was about to speak, but suddenly from the crowdthere 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, andthe raillery of his eyes was more friendly than any appeal.

  "Spy, if you like, my friends," he said firmly and clearly. "Moses sentspies down into the Land of Promise, and they brought back big bunchesof grapes. Well, I've come down into a land of promise. I wanted to knowjust how you all feel without being told it by some one else. I knew ifI came here as Max Ingolby I shouldn't hear the whole truth; I wouldn'tsee exactly how you see, so I came as one of you, and you must admit, myFrench 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 myfavour. If I know the French language as I do, and can talk to you inFrench 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 Westthat can talk your language. I learned it when I was a boy, so that Imight know my French fellow-countrymen under the same flag, with thesame King and the same national hope. As for your religion, God knows, Iwish I was as good a Protestant as lots of you are good Catholics. AndI tell you this, I'd be glad to have a minister that I could follow andrespect and love as I respect and love Monseigneur Lourde of Manitou. Iwant to bring these two towns together, to make them a sign of whatthis country is, and what it can do; to make hundreds like ourselves inManitou and Lebanon work together towards health, wealth, comfort andhappiness. Can't you see, my friends, what I'm driving at? I'm for peaceand work and wealth and power--not power for myself alone, but powerthat belongs to all of us. If I can show I'm a good man at my job, maybebetter than others, then I have a right to ask you to follow me. If Ican't, then throw me out. I tell you I'm your friend--Max Ingolby isyour friend."

  "Spy! Spy! Spy!" cried a new voice.

  It came from behind the bar. An instant after, the owner of the voiceleaped up on the counter. It was Felix Marchand. He had entered by thedoor 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 ofManitou--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 thecrowd towards where Ingolby was. They were Jowett and Osterhaut. Ingolbysaw them coming.

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

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

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

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

  Barbazon and Jowett lifted the motionless figure in their arms, andcarried 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.