Higgins Part 5

The grinding continued.

"I say," Higgins proceeded, his voice rising a little, "that a good many of the boys have asked me to preach a little sermon to them; but I can't preach while one of the boys grinds his axe."

No impression was made.

"Now, boys," Higgins went on, "most of you want to hear me preach, and _I'm going to preach_, all right; but I cant preach if anybody grinds an axe."

The Frenchman whistled a tune.

"Friend, back there!" Higgins called out, "can't you oblige the boys by grinding that axe another time?"

There was some t.i.ttering in the bunk-house--and the grinding went on--and the tune came saucily up from the door where the Frenchman stood. Higgins walked slowly back; having come near, he paused--then put his hand on the Frenchman's shoulder in a way not easily misunderstood.

"Friend," he began, softly, "if you--"

The Frenchman struck at him.

"Keep back, boys!" an old Irishman yelled, catching up a peavy-pole.

"Give the Pilot a show! Keep out o' this or I'll brain ye!"

The Sky Pilot caught the Frenchman about the waist--flung him against a door--caught him again on the rebound--put him head foremost in a barrel of water--and absent-mindedly held him there until the old Irishman asked, softly, "Say, Pilot, ye ain't goin' t' _drown_ him, are ye?" It was all over in a flash: Higgins is wisely no man for half-way measures in an emergency; in a moment the Frenchman lay cast, dripping and gasping, on the floor, and the bunk-house was in a tumult of jeering. Then Higgins proceeded with the sermon; and--strangely--he is of an earnestness and frankly mild and loving disposition so impressive that this pa.s.sionate incident had doubtless no destructive effect upon the solemn service following. It is easy to fancy him pa.s.sing unruffled to the upturned cask which served him for a pulpit, readjusting the blanket which was his altar-cloth, raising his dog-eared little hymn-book to the smoky light of the lantern overhead, and beginning, feelingly: "Boys, let's sing Number Fifty-six: '_Jesus, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly._' You know the tune, boys; everybody sing--'_While the nearer waters roll and the tempest still is high._' All ready, now!" A fight in a church would be a seriously disturbing commotion; but a fight in a bunk-house--well, that is commonplace. There is more interest in singing _Jesus, Lover of My Soul_, than in dwelling upon the affair afterward. And the boys sang heartily, I am sure, as they always do, the Frenchman quite forgotten.

Next day Higgins was roused by the selfsame man; and he jumped out of his bunk in a hurry (says he), like a man called to fire or battle.

"Well," he thought, as he sighed, "if I am ever to preach in these camps again, I suppose, this man must be satisfactorily thrashed; but"--more cheerfully--"he needs a good thrashing, anyhow."

"Pilot," said the Frenchman, "I'm sorry about last night."

Higgins shook hands with him.

XII

MAKING THE GRADE

Fully to describe Higgins's altercations with lumber-jacks and tin-horn gamblers and the like in pursuit of clean opportunity for other men would be to pain him. It is a phase of ministry he would conceal. Perhaps he fears that unknowing folk might mistake him for a quarrelsome fellow. He is nothing of the sort, however; he is a wise and efficient minister of the gospel--but fights well, upon good occasion, notwithstanding his forty-odd years. In the Minnesota woods fighting is as necessary as praying--just as tender a profession of Christ. Higgins regrets that he knows little enough of boxing; he shamefacedly feels that his preparation for the ministry has in this respect been inadequate. Once, when they examined him before the Presbytery for ordination, a new-made seminary graduate from the East, rising, quizzed thus: "Will the candidate not tell us who was Caesar of Rome when Paul preached?" It stumped Higgins; but--he told us on the road from Six to Four--"I was confused, you see. The only Caesar I could think of was Julius, and I knew that _that_ wasn't right. If he'd only said _Emperor_ of Rome, I could have told him, of _course!_ Anyhow, it didn't matter much." Boxing, according to the experience of Higgins, was an imperative preparation for preaching in his field; a little haziness concerning an Emperor of Rome really didn't matter so very much. At any rate, the boys wouldn't care.

Higgins's ministry, however, knows a gentler service than that which a strong arm can accomplish in a bar-room. When Alex McKenzie lay dying in the hospital at Bemidji--a screen around his cot in the ward--the Pilot sat with him, as he sits with all dying lumber-jacks. It was the Pilot who told him that the end was near.

"Nearing the landing, Pilot?"

"Almost there, Alex."

"I've a heavy load, Pilot--a heavy load!"

McKenzie was a four-horse teamster, used to hauling logs from the woods to the landing at the lake--forty thousand pounds of new-cut timber to be humored over the logging-roads.

"Pilot," he asked, presently, "do you think I can make the grade?"

"With help, Alex."

McKenzie said nothing for a moment. Then he looked up. "You mean,"

said he, "that I need another team of leaders?"

"The Great Leader, Alex."

"Oh, I know what you mean," said McKenzie: "you mean that I need the help of Jesus Christ."

No need to tell what Higgins said then--what he repeated about repentance and faith and the infinite love of G.o.d and the power of Christ for salvation. Alex McKenzie had heard it all before--long before, being Scottish born, and a Highlander--and had not utterly forgotten, prodigal though he was. It was all recalled to him, now, by a man whose life and love and uplifted heart were well known to him--his minister.

"Pray for me," said he, like a child.

McKenzie died that night. He had said never a word in the long interval; but just before his last breath was drawn--while the Pilot still held his hand and the Sister of Charity numbered her beads near by--he whispered in the Pilot's ear:

"Tell the boys I made the grade!"

Pat, the old road-monkey--now come to the end of a long career of furious living--being about to die, sent for Higgins. He was desperately anxious concerning the soul that was about to depart from his ill-kept and degraded body; and he was in pain, and turning very weak.

Higgins waited.

"Pilot," Pat whispered, with a knowing little wink, "I want you to fix it for me."

"To fix it, Pat?"

"Sure, you know what I mean, Pilot," Pat replied. "I want you to fix it for me."

"Pat," said Higgins, "I _can't_ fix it for you."

"Then," said the dying man, in amazement, "what the h.e.l.l did you come here for?"

"To show you," Higgins answered, gently, "how _you_ can fix it."

"_Me_ fix it?"

Higgins explained, then, the scheme of redemption, according to his creed--the atonement and salvation by faith. The man listened--and nodded comprehendingly--and listened, still with amazement--all the time nodding his understanding. "Uh-_huh!_" he muttered, when the preacher had done, as one who says, I _see!_ He said no other word before he died.

Just, "Uh-_huh!_"--to express enlightenment. And when, later, it came time for him to die, he still held tight to Higgins's finger, muttering, now and again, "Uh-_huh!_ Uh-_huh!_"--like a man to whom has come some great astounding revelation.

XIII

STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER