The Promise
Page 13
CHAPTER XII
THE TEST
With only one-half of his journey behind him and the chill night-windwhipping through the unchinked crevices of the deserted shack; with theprospect of an unsavory supper of soggy sock-eye and a lump of frozenbread, Bill Carmody fervently wished himself elsewhere.
His mind lingered upon the long row of squat, fat-footed shoe-packswhich the old man had indicated with his gnarled crutch. How good theywould feel after the grinding newness of his boots! And coffee--hecould see the row of tin pots hanging from their wires, and the long,flat slabs of bacon suspended from the roof-logs of the store.
He found himself, for the first time in his life, absolutely dependentupon his own resources. He cut the top from a can of salmon and thawedout his bread on the top of the dirty stove. He had no cup, so he usedthe salmon-can, limping in stockinged feet to the spring near the door,whose black waters splashed coldly in a tiny rivulet that found its wayunder the frozen surface of a small creek. The water was clear andcold, but tasted disgustingly fishy from its contact with the can.
As he entered the shack and closed the sagging door, his glance wasarrested by an object half concealed in the cobwebbed niche between thelintel and the sloping roof-logs--an object that gleamed shiny andblack in the dull play of the firelight. He reached up and withdrewfrom its hiding-place a round quart bottle, across whose top was pasteda familiar green stamp which proclaimed that the contents had beenbottled in bond.
He carried it to the fire and with the sleeve of his mackinaw removedthe accumulated dust from the label. "Old Morden Rye," he read aloud,holding it close to the firelight. And as he read his thoughts flewbackward to past delights. Here was an old friend come to cheer him inthe wilderness.
He was no longer cold nor hungry, and before his eyes danced thebright, white lights of the man-made night of Broadway. His shouldersstraightened and the sparkle came into his eyes. Forgotten was hisdetermination to make good, and the future was a remote thing of nopresent moment nor concern. Once again he was Broadway Bill, the sport!
Carefully and deliberately he broke the seal and removed thecork-rimmed glass stopper, which he flung to a far corner of theroom--for that was Bill's way--to throw away the cork. There wasnothing small in his make-up; and for why is whisky, but to drink whileit lasts? And one cannot drink through a cork-rimmed stopper. So hethrew it away.
Only that day as he had laboriously stepped off the long miles he hadthought with virtuous complacence of the completeness of hisreformation.
He thought how he had refused to drink with Daddy Dunnigan from thesmeared and cloudy glass half-filled with the raw, rank liquor, acrossthe surface of which had trailed the tobacco-stained mustaches of thehalf-dozen unkempt men.
A week before he had refused to drink good whisky with Appleton--butthat was amid surroundings against which he had fortified himself;surroundings made familiar by a little veneered table in the corner ofthe tile-floored bar of a well-known hotel, and while the spirit of hisdetermination to quit was strong upon him. Besides, it was good policy.
Therefore, he ordered ginger ale; but Appleton drank whisky and notedthat the other eyed the liquor as the little beads rose to the top, andthat as he looked he unconsciously moistened his lips with histongue--just that little thing--as he looked at the whisky inAppleton's glass. By that swift movement Appleton understood, for heknew men--it was his business to know men--and then and there hedecided to send Bill to Moncrossen's camp, where it was whisperedwhisky flowed freely.
Appleton had no son, and he felt strangely drawn toward the young manwhose eyes had held him from the time of their first meeting. But hemust prove his worth, and the test should be hard--and very thorough.
Appleton realized that to place him in any one of the other camps,where the ban was on whisky, and where each smuggled bottle wasferreted out and smashed, would be no test. It is no credit to a man torefrain from whisky where no whisky is.
But place a man who has created an appetite for whisky among men whodrink daily and openly, and enjoy it; who urge and encourage him to dolikewise; where whisky is continually before his eyes, and the richbouquet of it in his nostrils, and that _is_ a test.
Appleton knew this, and knowing, he sent Bill to Moncrossen, and smiledas he bet with himself on the outcome. But there is one other test--thesupreme test of all, of which even Appleton did not know.
Place this same man alone, tired out, hungry, thirsty, and cold, withevery muscle of his body crying its protest of aches against theoverstrain of a long day's work; surround him with every attribute ofphysical discomfort; with the future stretching away in a dull grayvista of uncertainty, and the memory strong upon him that the girl--theone girl in all the world--has ceased to believe in him--has ceased tocare; add to this the recollection of good times gone--times when goodliquor flowed freely among good fellows, and at this particularpsychological moment let him come suddenly and unexpectedly upon abottle of whisky--good whisky, of a brand of which he has alwaysapproved--_that_ is the acid test--and in writing this I know whereof Iwrite.
And that is why Bill Carmody carefully and deliberately broke the sealand threw the cork away, and shook the bottle gently, and breathed deepof its fragrance, and smiled in anticipation as the little beads flewupward.
The fire had died down, and he set the bottle on the floor beside himand reached for the firewood. As he did so a long, sealed envelope, tothe outside of which was tightly bound a photograph, fell to the floorfrom the inner pocket of his mackinaw.
As he stooped to recover it his eyes encountered those of the picturegazing upward through the half-light. A flickering tongue of flameflared brightly for a moment and illumined the features, bringing outtheir expression with startling distinctness.
It was the face of the girl. The flame died out, leaving the picturedlikeness half concealed in the soft semi-darkness of the dying embers.
It seemed hours that the man sat motionless, staring into the upturnedeyes--those eyes into which he had so often gazed, but which were nowlost to him forever. And as he looked, other thoughts crowded hisbrain; thoughts of his father, and the scorn of their parting; thoughtsof the girl, of her words, and of his own boast: "_I_ can beat thegame! And I will beat it--now!... And some day you will know."
His anger rose against the man whose own flesh and blood he was, whohad driven him from home with words of bitter sarcasm, and against thegirl and her sneering repudiation of him. He leaped to his feet andshook a clenched fist to the southward:
"I told you I would make good!" he roared, "and, by God, I will! I am aMcKim--do you hear? I am a McKim--and I shall make good!"
He reached for the bottle and placed it beside him on the pine table.He did not pour out the whisky, for he did not fear it--only if hedrank it need he fear.
Just one little drink, and he was lost--and he knew this. And now heknew that he would never take that drink--and he looked at the bottleand laughed--laughed as the girl had laughed when she sent him from herforever.
"It's no go, old boy," he smiled, apostrophizing John Barleycorn. "Iserved you long--and well. But I quit. You would not believe that Iquit, and came out here to get me. And you almost got me. Almost, butnot quite, John, for I have quit for good and all. We can still befriends, only now I am the master and you are the servant, and to startout with, I am going to pour half of you over my blistered feet."
He recovered the packet from the floor and looked long at the picture."And some day you will know," he repeated, as he returned it to hispocket.
Thus did the lonely girl in a far distant city unconsciously win asilent victory for the man she loved--and who loved her.