Part 10 (1/2)

”Hoh!” cried John McIntyre derisively, ”what is the use telling that to a man who knows the world? That's a tale for children and old women!

What do you know about the Almighty's care?” His eyes ran fiercely over his visitor. ”You! Because you are well fed and well clothed, and prosperous, you think that all the world is the same, and that your G.o.d is a miracle of kindness. He may be to you. But there is another side. Your G.o.d causes the wicked to prosper, and sees the innocent trampled upon, and never puts forth a hand to help. And you call Him the Almighty! If there is an Almighty, then He takes pleasure in the pain of His creatures. He gives them the good things of this life only that He may take them away and enjoy their suffering. And because your turn hasn't come yet you would make me believe that every one is as well off as yourself. Hoh! Lies! Old women's lies!”

The minister stepped back in shocked amazement. He had lived his life among a prosperous, G.o.d-fearing people, where such blasphemous words, if ever uttered, were never allowed to reach his ears. Nothing aroused his righteous indignation like a slighting reference to the Master whom he served, and in his quick resentment he forgot the suffering written on John McIntyre's face.

”How dare you speak so of your Master?” he demanded hotly.

The man laughed again, and the minister broke forth in stern rebuke.

People said that when Mr. Scott denounced sin there was something of the fearless candor of the ancient prophets about him. But in this instance he forgot that the greatest Prophet was always gentle and tender in the presence of pain. He denounced John McIntyre roundly for his irreverence, showed him plainly the appalling evil of his ways, and quoted Scripture to prove that he was hastening to everlasting perdition.

At the mention of his inevitable destiny John McIntyre interrupted.

”h.e.l.l!” he shouted. ”I've been there for months already!” As he spoke he turned swiftly and caught up an old spade lying by the doorstep.

”Get out of my sight!” he hissed fiercely, holding the weapon aloft.

”Leave me, or I'll send you where I'm going! Go!” His voice was almost beseeching. ”Go, before I do you harm!”

The Rev. James Scott was afraid of no living man, but there was a terrible gleam in John McIntyre's eyes that hinted of insanity. He looked at him a moment and then, with a motion as though was.h.i.+ng his hands of him, he turned away. The rest of the company had fallen back from the doorway, and now followed the minister in speechless concern.

They tramped along the old gra.s.sy road, followed by the call of the whip-poor-will from the darkening hillside above, and the lonely cry of the loon floating across the Drowned Lands. Uncle Hughie was the first to break the dismayed silence.

”Well! well! well! well! Ech! hech! Hoots! toots!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed incoherently, quite unable to express his feelings.

”Man, ain't he a caution?” whispered Jake Sawyer fearfully.

”Gos.h.!.+ now there's some truth in what he says,” remarked the melancholy blacksmith in an undertone.

”D'ye think he would be right in his mind, poor body?” asked Uncle Hughie, searching for some palliation of John McIntyre's outrageous conduct.

”Mebby he's had notions about the earth spinnin' 'round like a top, an'

they've drove him loony,” suggested Spectacle John. ”That often happens, they say.”

But Silas Long was too deeply concerned over the tramp's wickedness to pay any heed to this frivolous remark.

The minister was walking ahead, in gloomy silence. His heart was still full of hot indignation, but it was mingled with regret and deep disappointment. He had wanted to do this lonely, sad man good, and in his haste, he feared, he had done him only harm.

But there was one pair of eyes that had regarded John McIntyre's action with perfect approval. Those eyes were now looking up at Jake Sawyer, alight with unholy joy. ”Say,” whispered the eldest orphan, jerking his foster-father's coat, ”I like that man. He's awful bad, an' I think he's just bully.”

The next day the tale of the tramp's outrageous treatment of the minister flew through Elmbrook like the news of a fire in the mill.

Sandy McQuarry had been away in Lakeview all day, and did not hear it until he was seated with his family and the mill-hands at the supper table.

Miss Euphemia, his sister, who had been his housekeeper since Sandy's wife, as folks said, worked herself to death, was the first who dared to broach the subject, any reference to Mr. Scott being rather hazardous.

”Yon's a fearfu' buddy ye've got in yer shanty doon yonder, Sandy,” she began solemnly. ”Ah'd no let him sleep there anither nicht.”

Her brother was busy distributing the fried pork around the table, a performance at which he was an adept. In spite of a keen desire for money-making, Sandy was a generous man at his own table, and he had a way of serving his family that was the admiration of the whole mill staff. If a man but held up his plate as a slight indication that he was ready for more, the host could flip him a slice of beef or pork with the dexterity of a sleight-of-hand magician. At his signals, ”Here, Bob, mon!” ”Hi, Peter, lad!” ”Look oot, Sam!” away flew each man's portion, hitting his plate with unerring precision. He had never been known to miss anybody in his life, not even Miss Euphemia, away at the other end of the table.

He paused now, his fork suspended, and looked at his sister from under his bristling brows. ”What's he been doin'?” he demanded.