Part 13 (1/2)

Then he proceeded to a graphic account of the second ruffian smelling the palms of his hands and squinting through his fingers, praying for grace with his lips and for a club with his heart.

”I don't know what Dr. Jebb will say,” she remarked at last, ”but it seems to me we must judge by results in this case.”

Hypocrite that she was! Had she not that very week denounced the opportunist doctrine that the end justifies the means? But in her delighted eyes and glowing interest Jim found a vast reward.

Dr. Jebb was human and discreet. He smiled and said little about the energetic methods of his a.s.sistant; and when next Sunday Charlie Bylow and his wife appeared in church and later joined the group on the anxious seat, he felt that the matter was happily ended as it had oddly begun.

Exactly four weeks after the strenuous prayer meeting word reached the Preacher in a rather pointed way that a keg of the ”pizen juice” had arrived on the evening train and was to be carried at once to Pat Bylow's. Hartigan mounted his racer and sped thitherward at nightfall. A half mile from Pat's house was Charlie's, and at the door was the owner, apparently expecting to see him--though this circ.u.mstance did not impress Hartigan.

”Can I do anything to help?” he asked.

Hartigan shook his head, laughed lightly, and rode on. At Pat's shanty he tied his horse to the fence, stepped to the door, knocked, and, without waiting, went in. A woman's voice shrilled:

”Pat, here's that ---- preacher again.”

There were other voices, male and female, in the lean-to kitchen. Pat came in and glared at the intruder. There was a rising fury in his manner, but no evidence of drink.

”What do you want?” he asked.

”Well, to be frank with you,” said Hartigan, ”I have reason for suspecting an unhelpful indulgence is planned here for to-night, and I was hoping that I might persuade you to reconsider it beforehand. And sure we don't want to get agitated, and I don't want to use language that might sound like disapproval.”

He glanced around. There was no sight of any spree in prospect. A glimpse of the kitchen showed only the preparations for an ordinary meal, and Hartigan wondered whether or not there had been a mistake.

Could it be that he was the b.u.t.t of a practical joke?

Pat was sulkily waiting, not knowing just what to say, when voices were heard outside and heavy steps; then the door opened and in came three men, the first carrying under his arm a barrel-shaped bundle. The presence of the Preacher was obviously disconcerting to the new-comers.

”Gimme that,” growled Pat. He seized the keg and was marching off with it when Hartigan strode over in front of him.

”Hold on, Pat, let me see that.”

Bylow exploded into a torrent of abusive profanity. Some of those present had been witnesses of the previous affair, and realizing what the pastoral visit might mean, they added their voices to the uproar.

The language was emphatic rather than concise. The women, too, gave free rein to their tongues, but their observations reflected on their male escorts more harshly than they did on any one or anything else.

However puzzled Hartigan might be by the complexities of the female mind, the mental processes of the unlettered male were quite familiar to him and he showed his comprehension by a simple challenge.

”Now, boys, I don't want to seem thoughtless or indelicate, but I want you to know that I can lick the whole bunch of you with one hand tied behind my back and the other in a sling. Not that I have any intention of doing it, and I apologize to the ladies for mention of the subject, but it may help us to an understanding. If you have not yet gathered my meaning, I will put it simpler. I am here to stop this spree before it begins.”

At this moment there was a light shuffling step outside and the door swung back revealing the small, familiar figure of Jack Lowe. A quick, meaning look and some sort of indistinguishable signal pa.s.sed between Lowe and Pat, whereupon the latter at once placed the keg on the table.

”How do you do, Mr. Hartigan?” said Lowe. ”I think we are here for the same purpose.”

”Maybe so,” said Jim dryly, ”I don't know. I'm here to remove temptation from our friends, and before I leave I mean to spill that cursed stuff on the floor.”

”You are right,” said Lowe, ”absolutely right. Pat, let me have that keg,” and the schoolteacher proceeded to hammer around the bung, in the way of the orthodox bung-starter. There were murmurs and strong words, but he went on while Hartigan stood guard. The bung came loose, he lifted it out, and put his nostrils to the hole.

”That's the real stuff, just as it dropped from the quill. Smell that, Mr. Hartigan. Ain't that the real magollyon? But all the same here she goes.” He tipped the keg a little and some liquor spilled out.