To Him That Hath

R >> Ralph Connor >> To Him That Hath


McNish stood silently searching his face with steady eyes.

"You are a new man here, and I find you are a good workman," continued
Mr. Maitland. "I don't know you nor your aims and purposes in this
Grievance Committee business of yours. If you want a steady job with a
chance to get on, you will get both; if you want trouble, you can get
that too, but not for long, here."

Still the Scot held him with grave steady gaze, but speaking no word.

"You understand me, McNish?" said Maitland, nettled at the man's
silence.

"Aye, A've got a heid," he said in an impassive voice.

"Well, then, I hope you will govern yourself accordingly. Good-day,"
said Maitland, closing the interview.

McNish still stood immovable.

"That's all I have to say," said Maitland, glancing impatiently at the
man.

"But it's no all A have to say, if ye will pairmit me," answered McNish
in a voice quiet and respectful and apparently, except for its Doric
flavour, quite untouched by emotion of any kind soever.

"Go on," said Maitland shortly, as the Scot stood waiting.

"Maister Maitland," said McNish, rolling out a deeper Doric, "ye have
made a promise and a threat. Yere threat is naething tae me. As tae yere
job, A want it and A want tae get on, but A'm a free man the noo an' a
free man A shall ever be. Good-day tae ye." He bowed respectfully to his
employer and strode from the room.

Mr. Maitland sat looking at the closed door.

"He is a man, that chap, at any rate," he said to himself, "but what's
his game, I wonder. He will bear watching."

The very next day Maitland made a close inspection of his plant,
beginning with the sawmill. He found McNish running one of the larger
circular saws, and none too deftly. He stood observing the man for some
moments in silence. Then stepping to the workman's side he said,

"You will save time, I think, if you do it this way." He seized the
levers and, eliminating an unnecessary movement, ran the log. McNish
stood calmly observing.

"Aye, yere r-right," he said. "Ye'll have done yon before."

"You just bet I have," said Maitland, not a little pleased with himself.

"A'm no saw man," said McNish, a little sullenly. "A dinna ken--I don't
know saws of this sort. I'm a joiner. He put me off the bench."

"Who?" said Maitland quickly.

"Yon manny," replied McNish with unmistakable disgust.

"You were on the bench, eh? What sort of work were you on?"

"A was daein' a bit counter work. A wasna fast enough for him."

Mr. Maitland called the head sawyer.

"Put a man on here for a while, Powell, will you? You come with me,
McNish."

Together they went into the planing mill. Asking for the foreman he
found that he was nowhere to be seen, that indeed he had not been in the
mill that morning.

"Show me your work, McNish," he said.

McNish led him to a corner of the mill where some fine counter work was
in process.

"That's my work," he said, pointing to a piece of oak railing.

Maitland, turning the work over in his hands, ran his finger along a
joint somewhat clumsily fitted.

"Not that," said McNish hastily. "Ma work stops here."

Again Maitland examined the rail. His experienced eye detected easily
the difference in the workmanship.

"Is there anything else of yours about here?" he asked. McNish went to
a pile of finished work and from it selected a small swing door
beautifully panelled. Maitland's eye gleamed.

"Ah, that's better," he said. "Yes, that's better."

He turned to one of the workmen at the bench near by.

"What job is this, Gibbon?" he asked.

"It's the Bank job, I think," said Gibbon.

"What? The Merchants' Bank job? Surely that can't be. That job was
due two weeks ago." Maitland turned impatiently toward an older man.
"Ellis," he said sharply, "do you know what job this is?"

Ellis came and turned over the different parts of the work.

"That's the Merchants' Bank job, sir," he said.

"Then what is holding this up?" enquired Maitland wrathfully.

"It's the turned work, I think, sir. I am not sure, but I think I heard
Mr. Perrotte asking about that two or three days ago." Mr. Maitland's
lips met in a thin straight line.

"You can go back to your saw, McNish," he said shortly.

"Ay, sir," said McNish, his tone indicating quiet satisfaction. At
Gibbon's bench he paused. "Ye'll no pit onything past him, a doot," he
said, with a grim smile, and passed out.

In every part of the shop Mr. Maitland found similar examples of
mismanagement and lack of co-ordination in the various departments of
the work. It needed no more than a cursory inspection to convince him
that a change of foreman was a simple necessity. Everywhere he found not
only evidence of waste of time but also of waste of material. It cut him
to the heart to see beautiful wood mangled and ruined. All his life he
had worked with woods of different kinds. He knew them standing in all
their matchless grandeur, in the primeval forest and had followed them
step by step all the way to the finished product. Never without a heart
pang did he witness a noble white pine, God's handiwork of centuries,
come crashing to earth through the meaner growth beneath the chopper's
axe. The only thing that redeemed such a deed from sacrilege, in his
mind, was to see the tree fittingly transformed into articles of beauty
and worth suitable for man's use. Hence, when he saw lying here and
there deformed and disfigured fragments of the exquisitely grained white
spruce, which during the war, he had with such care selected for his
aeroplane parts, his very heart rose in indignant wrath. And filled with
this wrath he made his way to the office and straightway summoned Wickes
and his son Jack to conference.

"Tony will never make a worker in wood. He cares nothing for it," he
said bitterly.

"Nor in anything else, Dad," said Jack, with a little laugh.

"You laugh, but it is no laughing matter," said his father
reproachfully.

"I am sorry, Father, but you know I always thought it was a mistake to
put Tony in charge of anything. Why, he might have had his commission
if he were not such an irresponsible, downwright lazy beggar. What he
needs, as my Colonel used to profanely say, is 'a good old-fashioned
Sergeant-Major to knock hell out of him'. And, believe me, Tony was a
rattling fine soldier if his officer would regularly, systematically and
effectively expel his own special devil from his system. He needs that
still."

"What can we do with him? I simply can't and won't dismiss him, as that
infernally efficient and coolheaded Scot demands. You heard about the
Grievance Committee?"

"Oh, the town has the story with embellishments. Rupert Stillwell took
care to give me a picturesque account. But I would not hesitate, Dad.
Kick Tony a good swift kick once a week or so, or, if that is beneath
your dignity, fire him."

"But, Jack, lad, we can't do that," said his father, greatly distressed,
"after what--"

"Why not? He carried me out of that hell all right, and while I live I
shall remember that. But he is a selfish beggar. He hasn't the instinct
for team play. He hasn't the idea of responsibility for the team. He
gets so that he can not make himself do what he just doesn't feel like
doing. He doesn't care a tinker's curse for the other fellows in the
game with him."

"The man that doesn't care for other fellows will never make a foreman,"
said Mr. Maitland decisively. "But can't something be done with him?"

"There's only one way to handle Tony," said Jack. "I learned that
long ago in school. He was a prince of half-backs, you know, but I had
regularly to kick him about before every big match. Oh, Tony is a fine
sort but he nearly broke my heart till I nearly broke his back."

"That does not help much, Jack." For the first time in his life Grant
Maitland was at a loss as to how he should handle one of his men. Were
it not for the letter in the desk at his hand he would have made short
work of Tony Perrotte. But there the letter lay and in his heart the
inerasible picture it set forth.

"What is the special form that Tony's devilment has taken, may I ask?"
enquired Jack.

"Well, I may say to you, what Wickes knows and has known and has tried
for three months to hide from me and from himself, Tony has made about
as complete a mess of the organization under his care in the planing
mill as can be imagined. The mill is strewn with the wreckage of
unfulfilled orders. He has no sense of time value. To-morrow is as good
as to-day, next week as this week. A foreman without a sense of time
value is no good. And he does not value material. Waste to him is
nothing. Another fatal defect. The man to whom minutes are not potential
gold and material potential product can never hope to be a manufacturer.
If only I had not been away from home! But the thing is, what is to be
done?"

"In the words of a famous statesman much abused indeed, I suggest, 'Wait
and see.' Meantime, find some way of kicking him into his job."

This proved to be in the present situation a policy of wisdom. It was
Tony himself who furnished the solution. From the men supposed to be
working under his orders he learned the day following Maitland's visit
of inspection something of the details of that visit. He quickly made
up his mind that the day of reckoning could not long be postponed. None
knew better than Tony himself that he was no foreman; none so well that
he loathed the job which had been thrust upon him by the father of
the man whom he had carried out from the very mouth of hell. It was
something to his credit that he loathed himself for accepting the
position. Yet, with irresponsible procrastination, he put off the day of
reckoning. But, some ten days later, and after a night with some kindred
spirits of his own Battalion, a night prolonged into the early hours of
the working day, Tony presented himself at the office, gay, reckless,
desperate, but quite compos mentis and quite master of his means of
locomotion.

He appeared in the outer office, still in his evening garb.

"Mr. Wickes," he said in solemn gravity, "please have your stenographer
take this letter."

Mr. Wickes, aghast, strove to hush his vibrant tones, indicating in
excited pantomime the presence of the chief in the inner office. He
might as effectively have striven to stay the East wind at that time
sweeping up the valley.

"Are you ready, my dear?" said Tony, smiling pleasantly at the girl.
"All right, proceed. 'Dear Mr. Maitland:' Got that? 'Conscious of my
unfitness for the position of foreman in--'"

"Hush, hush, Tony," implored Mr. Wickes.

Tony waved him aside.

"What have you got, eh?"

At that point the door opened and Grant Maitland stepped into the
office. Tony rose to his feet and, bowing with elaborate grace and
dignity, he addressed his chief.

"Good morning, sir. I am glad to see you, in fact, I wanted to see
you but wishing to save your time I was in the very act of dictating a
communication to you."

"Indeed, Tony?" said Mr. Maitland gravely.

"Yes, sir, I was on the point of dictating my resignation of my position
of foreman."

"Step in to the office, Tony," said Mr. Maitland kindly and sadly.

"I don't wish to take your time, sir," said Tony, sobered and quieted by
Mr. Maitland's manner, "but my mind is quite made up. I--"

"Come in," said Mr. Maitland, in a voice of quiet command, throwing open
his office door. "I wish to speak to you."

"Oh, certainly, sir," answered Tony, pulling himself together with an
all too obvious effort.

In half an hour Tony came forth, a sober and subdued man.

"Good-bye, Wickes," he said, "I'm off."

"Where are you going, Tony?" enquired Wickes, startled at the look on
Tony's face.

"To hell," he snapped, "where such fools as me belong," and, jamming his
hat hard down on his head, he went forth.

In another minute Mr. Maitland appeared at the office door.

"Wickes," he said sharply, "put on your hat and get Jack for me. Bring
him, no matter what he's at. That young fool who has just gone out must
be looked after. The boot-leggers have been taking him in tow. If I had
only known sooner. Did you know, Wickes, how he has been going on? Why
didn't you report to me?"

"I hesitated to do that, sir," putting his desk in order. "I always
expected as how he would pull up. It's his company, sir. He is not so
much to blame."

"Well, he would not take anything I had to offer. He is wild to get
away. And unfortunately he has some money with him, too. But get Jack
for me. He can handle him if anybody can."

Sorely perplexed Mr. Maitland returned to his office. His business sense
pointed the line of action with sunlight clearness. His sense of justice
to the business for which he was responsible as well as to the men
in his employ no less clearly indicated the action demanded. His sane
judgment concurred in the demand of his men for the dismissal of his
foreman. Dismissal had been rendered unnecessary by Tony's unshakable
resolve to resign his position which he declared he loathed and which
he should never have accepted. His perplexity arose from the confusion
within himself. What should he do with Tony? He had no position in his
works or in the office for which he was fit. None knew this better than
Tony himself.

"It's a joke, Mr. Maitland," he had declared, "a ghastly joke. Everybody
knows it's a joke, that I should be in command of any man when I can't
command myself. Besides, I can't stick it." In this resolve he had
persisted in spite of Mr. Maitland's entreaties that he should give the
thing another try, promising him all possible guidance and backing. But
entreaties and offers of assistance had been in vain. Tony was wild
to get away from the mill. He hated the grind. He wanted his freedom.
Vainly Mr. Maitland had offered to find another position for him
somewhere, somehow.

"We'll find a place in the office for you," he had pleaded. "I want to
see you get on, Tony. I want to see you make good."

But Tony was beyond all persuasion.

"It isn't in me," he had declared. "Not if you gave me the whole works
could I stick it."

"Take a few days to think it over," Mr. Maitland had pleaded.

"I know myself--only too well. Ask Jack, he knows," was Tony's bitter
answer. "And that's final."

"No, Tony, it is not final," had been Mr. Maitland's last word, as Tony
had left him.

But after the young man had left him there still remained the unsolved
question, What was he to do with Tony? In Mr. Maitland's heart was the
firm resolve that he would not allow Tony to go his own way. The letter
in the desk at his hand forbade that.

At his wits' end he had sent for Jack. Jack had made a football
half-back and a hockey forward out of Tony when everyone else had
failed. If anyone could divert him from that desperate downward course
to which he seemed headlong bent, it was Jack.

In a few minutes Wickes returned with the report that on receiving an
account of what had happened Jack had gone to look up Tony.

Mr. Maitland drew a breath of relief.

"Tony is all right for to-day," he said, turning to his work and leaving
the problem for the meantime to Jack.

In an hour Jack reported that he had been to the Perrotte home and had
interviewed Tony's mother. From her he had learned that Tony had left
the town, barely catching the train to Toronto. He might not return for
a week or ten days. He could set no time for it. He was his own master
as to time. He had got to the stage where he could go and come pretty
much as he pleased. The mother was not at all concerned as to these
goings and comings of her son. He had an assured position, all cause for
anxiety in regard to him was at an end. Tony's mother was obviously not
a little uplifted that her son should be of sufficient importance to be
entrusted with business in Toronto in connection with the mill.

All of which tended little toward relieving the anxiety of Mr. Maitland.

"Let him take his swing, Dad, for a bit," was Jack's advice. "He will
come back when he is ready, and until then wild horses won't bring him
nor hold him. He is no good for his old job, and you have no other ready
that he will stick at. He has no Sergeant-Major now to knock him about
and make him keep step, more's the pity."

"Life will be his Sergeant-Major, I fear," said his father, "and a
Sergeant-Major that will exact the utmost limit of obedience or make him
pay the price. All the same, we won't let him go. I can't Jack, anyway."

"Oh, Tony will turn up, never fear, Dad," said Jack easily.

With this assurance his father had to content himself. In a fortnight's
time a letter came from Tony to his sister, rosy with the brilliance of
the prospects opening up before him. There was the usual irresponsible
indefiniteness in detail. What he was doing and how he was living Tony
did not deign to indicate. Ten days later Annette had another letter.
The former prospects had not been realised, but he had a much better
thing in view, something more suitable to him, and offering larger
possibilities of position and standing in the community. So much Annette
confided to her mother who passed on the great news with elaborations
and annotations to Captain Jack. To Captain Jack himself Annette gave
little actual information. Indeed, shorn of its element of prophecy,
there was little in Tony's letter that could be passed on. Nor did
Annette drop any hint but that all was quite well with her brother, much
less that he had suggested a temporary loan of fifty dollars but only
of course if she could spare the amount with perfect convenience. After
this letter there was silence as far as Tony was concerned and for
Annette anxiety that deepened into agony as the silence remained
unbroken with the passing weeks.

With the anxiety there mingled in Annette's heart anger at the
Maitlands, for she blamed them for Tony's dismissal from his position.
This, it is fair to say, was a reflection from her mother's wrath, whose
mind had been filled up with rumours from the mills to the effect that
her son had been "fired." Annette was wise enough and knew her brother
well enough to discredit much that rumour brought to her ears, but she
could not rid herself of the thought that a way might have been found to
hold Tony about the mills.

"He fired the boy, did the ould carmudgeon," said Madame Perrotte in one
of her rages, "and druv him off from the town."

"Nonsense, Mother," Annette had replied, "you know well enough Tony
left of his own accord. Why should you shame him so? He went because he
wanted to go."

This was a new light upon the subject for her mother.

"Thrue for you, Annette, gurl," she said, "an' ye said it that time. But
why for did he not induce the bye to remain? It would be little enough
if he had made him the Manager of the hull works. That same would never
pay back what he did for his son."

"Hush, Mother," said Annette, in a shocked and angry voice, "let no one
hear you speak like that. Pay back! You know, Mother, nothing could ever
pay back a thing like that." The anger in her daughter's voice startled
the mother.

"Oui! by gar!" said Perrotte, who had overheard, with quick wrath.
"Dat's foolish talk for sure! Dere's no man can spik lak dat to me, or I
choke him on his fool t'roat, me."

"Right you are, mon pere!" said Annette appeasing her father. "Mother
did not think what she was saying."

"Dat's no bon," replied Perrotte, refusing to be appeased. "Sacre
tonnerre! Dat's one--what you call?--damfool speech. Dat boy Tony he's
carry (h)on hees back his friend, le Capitaine Jack, an' le Capitaine,
he's go five mile for fin' Tony on' de shell hole an' fetch heem to le
docteur and stay wit' him till he's fix (h)up. Nom de Dieu! You pay for
dat! Mama! You mak' shame for me on my heart!" cried the old Frenchman,
beating his breast, while sobs shook his voice.



CHAPTER VIII

FREE SPEECH


Fifty years ago Blackwater town was a sawmill village on the Blackwater
River which furnished the power for the first little sawmill set up by
Grant Maitland's father.

Down the river came the sawlogs in the early spring when the water was
high, to be caught and held by a "boom" in a pond from which they were
hauled up a tramway to the saw. A quarter of a mile up stream a mill
race, tapping the river, led the water to an "overshot wheel" in the
early days, later to a turbine, thus creating the power necessary to
drive the mill machinery. When the saw was still the water overflowed
the "stop-logs" by the "spillway" into the pond below.

But that mill race furnished more than power to the mill. It furnished
besides much colourful romance to the life of the village youth of those
early days. For down the mill race they ran their racing craft, jostling
and screaming, urging with long poles their laggard flotillas to
victory. The pond by the mill was to the boys "swimming hole" and
fishing pool, where, during the long summer evenings and through the
sunny summer days, they spent amphibious hours in high and serene
content. But in springtime when the pond was black with floating logs
it became the scene of thrilling deeds of daring. For thither came the
lumber-jacks, fresh from "the shanties," in their dashing, multi-colored
garb, to "show off" before admiring friends and sweethearts their skill
in "log-running" and "log-rolling" contests which as the spirit of
venture grew would end like as not in the icy waters of the pond.

Here, too, on brilliant winter days the life of the village found its
centre of vivid interest and activity. For then the pond would be a
black and glittering surface whereon wheeled and curved the ringing,
gleaming blades of "fancy" skaters or whereon in sterner hours opposing
"shinny" teams sought glory in Homeric and often gory contest.

But those days and those scenes were now long since gone. The old mill
stood a picturesque ruin, the water wheel had given place to the
steam engine, the pond had shrunk to an insignificant pool where only
pollywogs and minnows passed unadventurous lives, the mill race had
dwindled to a trickling stream grown thick with watercress and yellow
lilies, and what had once been the centre of vigorous and romantic life
was now a back water eddy devoid alike of movement and of colour.

A single bit of life remained--the little log cottage, once the
Manager's house a quarter of a century ago, still stood away up among
the pines behind the old mill ruin and remote from the streets and homes
of the present town. At the end of a little grassy lane it stood, solid
and square, resisting with its well hewn pinelogs the gnawing tooth of
time. Abandoned by the growing town, forgotten by the mill owner, it was
re-discovered by Malcolm McNish, or rather by his keen eyed old mother
on their arrival from the old land six months ago. For a song McNish
bought the solid little cottage, he might have had it as a gift but that
he would not, restored its roof, cleared out its stone chimney which,
more than anything else, had caught the mother's eye, re-set the window
panes, added a wee cunning porch, gave its facings a coat of paint,
enclosed its bit of flower garden in front and its "kale yaird" in the
rear with a rustic paling, and made it, when the Summer had done its
work, a bonnie homelike spot which caught the eye and held the heart of
the passer-by.

The interior more than fulfilled the promise of the exterior. The big
living room with its great stone fireplace welcomed you on opening the
porch door. From the living room on the right led two doors, each giving
entrance to a tiny bedroom and flanking a larger room known as "the
Room."

Within the living room were gathered the household treasures, the Lares
and Penates of the little stone rose-covered cottage "at hame awa' ayont
the sea." On the mantel a solid hewn log of oak, a miracle of broad-axe
work, were "bits o' chiny" rarely valuable as antiques to the knowing
connoisseur but beyond price to the old white-haired lady who daily
dusted them with reverent care as having been borne by her mother from
the Highland home in the far north country when as a bride she came by
the "cadger's cairt" to her new home in the lonely city of Glasgow. Of
that Glasgow home and of her own home later the walls of the log cottage
were eloquent.

The character giving bit of furniture, however, in the living room was
a book-case that stood in a corner. Its beautiful inlaid cabinet work
would in itself have attracted attention, but not the case but the books
were its distinction. The great English poets were represented there
in serviceable bindings showing signs of use, Shakespeare, Wordsworth,
Coleridge, Browning, Keats, and with them in various editions, Burns.
Beside the poets Robert Louis had a place, and Sir Walter, as well as
Kipling and Meredith and other moderns. But on the shelf that showed
most wear were to be found the standard works of economists of different
schools from the great Adam Smith to Marx and the lot of his imitators
and disciples. This was Malcolm's book-case. There was in another corner
near the fire-place a little table and above it hung a couple of shelves
for books of another sort, the Bible and The Westminster Confession,
Bunyan and Baxter and Fox's Book of Martyrs, Rutherford and McCheyne and
Law, The Ten Years' Conflict, Spurgeon's Sermons and Smith's Isaiah, and
a well worn copy of the immortal Robbie. This was the mother's corner,
a cosy spot where she nourished her soul by converse with the great
masters of thought and of conscience.