Felix Marchand was in the highest spirits. His clean-shaven face was wrinkled with smiles and sneers. His black hair was flung in waves of triumph over his heavily-lined forehead; one hand was on his hip with brave satisfaction, the other with lighted cigarette was tossed upwards in exultation.

“I’ve got him. I’ve got him—like that!” he said transferring the cigarette to his mouth, and clenching his right hand as though it could not be loosed by an earthquake. “For sure, it’s a thing finished as the solder of a pannikin—like that.”

He caught up a tin quart-pot from the bar-counter and showed the soldered bottom of it.

He was alone in the bar of Barbazon’s Hotel except for one person—the youngest of the officials who had been retired from the offices of the railways when Ingolby had merged them. This was a man who had got his position originally by nepotism, and represented the worst elements of a national life where the spoils system is rooted in the popular mind. He had, however, a little residue of that discipline which, working in a great industrial organization, begets qualms as to extreme courses.

He looked reflectively at the leaden pot and said in reply: “I’d never believe in anything where that Ingolby is concerned till I had it in the palm of my hand. He’s as deep as a well, and when he’s quietest it’s good to look out. He takes a lot of skinning, that badger.”

“He’s skinned this time all right,” was Marchand’s reply. “To-morrow’ll be the biggest day Manitou’s had since the Indian lifted his wigwam and the white man put down his store. Listen—hear them! They’re coming!”

He raised a hand for silence, and a rumbling, ragged roar of voices could be heard without.

“The crowd have gone the rounds,” he continued. “They started at Barbazon’s and they’re winding up at Barbazon’s. They’re drunk enough to-night to want to do anything, and to-morrow when they’ve got sore heads they’ll do anything. They’ll make that funeral look like a squeezed orange; they’ll show Lebanon and Master Ingolby that we’re to be bosses of our own show. The strike’ll be on after the funeral, and after the strike’s begun there’ll be—eh, bien sur!”

He paused sharply, as though he had gone too far. “There’ll be what?” whispered the other; but Marchand made no reply, save to make a warning gesture, for Barbazon, the landlord, had entered behind the bar.

“They’re coming back, Barbazon,” Marchand said to the landlord, jerking his head towards the front door. The noise of the crowd was increasing, the raucous shouts were so loud that the three had to raise their voices. “You’ll do a land-office business to-night,” he declared.

Barbazon had an evil face. There were rumours that he had been in gaol in Quebec for robbery, and that after he had served his time he had dug up the money he had stolen and come West. He had started the first saloon at Manitou, and had grown with the place in more senses than one. He was heavy and thick-set, with huge shoulders, big hands, and beady eyes that looked out of a stolid face where long hours, greed and vices other than drink had left their mark. He never drank spirits, and was therefore ready to take advantage of those who did drink. More than one horse and canoe and cow and ox, and acre of land, in the days when land was cheap, had come to him across the bar-counter. He could be bought, could Barbazon, and he sold more than wine and spirits. He had a wife who had left him twice because of his misdemeanours, but had returned and straightened out his house and affairs once again; and even when she went off with Lick Baldwin, a cattle-dealer, she was welcomed back without reproaches by Barbazon, chiefly because he had no morals, and her abilities were of more value to him than her virtue. On the whole, Gros Barbazon was a bad lot.

At Marchand’s words Barbazon shrugged his shoulders. “The more spent to-night, the less to spend to-morrow,” he growled.

“But there’s going to be spending for a long time,” Marchand answered. “There’s going to be a riot to-morrow, and there’s going to be a strike the next day, and after that there’s going to be something else.”

“What else?” Barbazon asked, his beady eyes fastened on Marchand’s face.

“Something worth while-better than all the rest.” Barbazon’s low forehead seemed to disappear almost, as he drew the grizzled shock of hair down, by wrinkling his forehead with a heavy frown.

“It’s no damn good, m’sieu’,” he growled. “Am I a fool? They’ll spend money to-night, and tomorrow, and the next day, and when the row is on; and the more they spend then, the less they’ll have to spend by-and-by. It’s no good. The steady trade for me—all the time. That is my idee. And the something else—what? You think there’s something else that’ll be good for me? Nom de Dieu, there’s nothing you’re doing, or mean to do, but’ll hurt me and everybody.”

“That’s your view, is it, Barbazon?” exclaimed Marchand loudly, for the crowd was now almost at the door. “You’re a nice Frenchman and patriot. That crowd’ll be glad to hear you think they’re fools. Suppose they took it into their heads to wreck the place?”

Barbazon’s muddy face got paler, but his eyes sharpened, and he leaned over the bar-counter, and said with a snarl: “Go to hell, and say what you like; and then I’ll have something to say about something else, m’sieu’.”

Marchand was about to reply angrily, but he instantly changed his mind, and before Barbazon could stop him, he sprang over the counter and disappeared into the office behind the bar.

“I won’t steal anything, Barbazon,” he said over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him.

“I’ll see to that,” Barbazon muttered stolidly, but with malicious eyes.

The front door was flung open now, and the crowd poured into the room, boisterous, reckless, though some were only sullen, watchful and angry. These last were mostly men above middle age, and of a fanatical and racially bitter type. They were not many, but in one sense they were the backbone and force of the crowd, probably the less intelligent but the more tenacious and consistent. They were black spots of gathering storm in an electric atmosphere.

All converged upon the bar. Two assistants rushed the drinks along the counter with flourishes, while Barbazon took in the cash and sharply checked the rougher element, who were inclined to treat the bar as a place for looting. Most of them, however, had a wholesome fear of Barbazon, and also most of them wished to stand well with him—credit was a good thing, even in a saloon.

For a little time the room was packed, then some of the more restless spirits, their thirst assuaged, sallied forth to taste the lager and old rye elsewhere, and “raise Cain” in the streets. When they went, it became possible to move about more freely in the big bar-room, at the end of which was a billiard-table. It was notable, however, that the more sullen elements stayed. Some of them were strangers to each other. Manitou was a distributing point for all radiations of the compass, and men were thrown together in its streets who only saw one another once or twice a year-when they went to the woods in the Fall or worked the rivers in the Summer. Some were Mennonites, Doukhobors and Finlanders, some Swedes, Norwegians and Icelanders. Others again were birds of passage who would probably never see Manitou in the future, but they were mostly French, and mostly Catholic, and enemies of the Orange Lodges wherever they were, east or west or north or south. They all had a common ground of unity—half-savage coureurs-de-bois, river-drivers, railway-men, factory hands, cattlemen, farmers, labourers; they had a gift for prejudice, and taking sides on something or other was as the breath of the nostrils to them.

The greater number of the crowd were, however, excitable, good-natured men, who were by instinct friendly, save when their prejudices were excited; and their oaths and exclamations were marvels of droll ingenuity. Most of them were still too good-humoured with drink to be dangerous, but all hoped for trouble at the Orange funeral on principle, and the anticipated strike had elements of “thrill.” They were of a class, however, who would swing from what was good-humour to deadly anger in a minute, and turn a wind of mere prejudice into a hurricane of life and death with the tick of a clock. They would all probably go to the Orange funeral to-morrow in a savage spirit. Some of them were loud in denunciation of Ingolby and “the Lebanon gang”; they joked coarsely over the dead Orangeman, but their cheerful violence had not yet the appearance of reality.

One man suddenly changed all that. He was a river-driver of stalwart proportions, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and with loose corded trousers tucked into his boots. He had a face of natural ugliness made almost repulsive by marks of smallpox. Red, flabby lips and an overhanging brow made him a figure which men would avoid on a dark night.

“Let’s go over to Lebanon to-night and have it out,” he said in French. “That Ingolby—let’s go break his windows and give him a dip in the river. He’s the curse of this city. Holy, once Manitou was a place to live in, now it’s a place to die in! The factories, the mills, they’re full of Protes’ants and atheists and shysters; the railway office is gone to Lebanon. Ingolby took it there. Manitou was the best town in the West; it’s no good now. Who’s the cause? Ingolby’s the cause. Name of God, if he was here I’d get him by the throat as quick as winkin’.”

He opened and shut his fingers with spasmodic malice, and glared round the room. “He’s going to lock us out if we strike,” he added. “He’s going to take the bread out of our mouths; he’s going to put his heel on Manitou, and grind her down till he makes her knuckle to Lebanon—to a lot of infidels, Protes’ants, and thieves. Who’s going to stand it? I say-bagosh, I say, who’s going to stand it!”

“He’s a friend of the Monseigneur,” ventured a factory-hand, who had a wife and children to support, and however partisan, was little ready for that which would stop his supplies.

“Sacre bapteme! That’s part of his game,” roared the big river-driver in reply. “I’ll take the word of Felix Marchand about that. Look at him! That Felix Marchand doesn’t try to take the bread out of people’s mouths. He gives money here, he gives it there. He wants the old town to stay as it is and not be swallowed up.”

“Three cheers for Felix Marchand!” cried some one in the throng. All cheered loudly save one old man with grizzled hair and beard, who leaned against the wall half-way down the room smoking a corncob pipe. He was a French Canadian in dress and appearance, and he spat on the floor like a navvy—he had filled his pipe with the strongest tobacco that one man ever offered to another. As the crowd cheered for Felix Marchand, he made his way up towards the bar slowly. He must have been tall when he was young; now he was stooped, yet there was still something very sinewy about him.

“Who’s for Lebanon?” cried the big river-driver with an oath. “Who’s for giving Lebanon hell, and ducking Ingolby in the river?”

“I am—I am—I am—all of us!” shouted the crowd. “It’s no good waiting for to-morrow. Let’s get the Lebs by the scruff to-night. Let’s break Ingolby’s windows and soak him in the Sagalac. Allons—allons gai!”

Uproar and broken sentences, threats, oaths, and objurgations sounded through the room. There was a sudden movement towards the door, but the exit of the crowd was stopped by a slow but clear voice speaking in French.

“Wait a minute, my friends!” it cried. “Wait a minute. Let’s ask a few questions first.”

“Who’s he?” asked a dozen voices. “What’s he going to say?” The mob moved again towards the bar.

The big river-driver turned on the grizzled old man beside the bar-counter with bent shoulders and lazy, drawling speech.

“What’ve you got to say about it, son?” he asked threateningly.

“Well, to ask a few questions first—that’s all,” the old man replied.

“You don’t belong here, old cock,” the other said roughly.

“A good many of us don’t belong here,” the old man replied quietly. “It always is so. This isn’t the first time I’ve been to Manitou. You’re a river-driver, and you don’t live here either,” he continued.

“What’ve you got to say about it? I’ve been coming and going here for ten years. I belong—bagosh, what do you want to ask? Hurry up. We’ve got work to do. We’re going to raise hell in Lebanon.”

“And give hell to Ingolby,” shouted some one in the crowd.

“Suppose Ingolby isn’t there?” questioned the old man.

“Oh, that’s one of your questions, is it?” sneered the big river-driver. “Well, if you knew him as we do, you’d know that it’s at night-time he sits studyin’ how he’ll cut Lebanon’s throat. He’s home, all right. He’s in Lebanon anyhow, and we’ll find him.”

“Well, but wait a minute—be quiet a bit,” said the old man, his eyes blinking slowly at the big riverdriver. “I’ve been ‘round a good deal, and I’ve had some experience in the world. Did you ever give that Ingolby a chance to tell you what his plans were? Did you ever get close to him and try to figure what he was driving at? There’s no chance of getting at the truth if you don’t let a man state his case—but no. If he can’t make you see his case then is the time to jib, not before.”

“Oh, get out!” cried a rowdy English road-maker in the crowd. “We know all right what Ingolby’s after.”

“Eh, well, what is he after?” asked the old man looking the other in the eye.

“What’s he after? Oof-oof-oof, that’s what he’s after. He’s for his own pocket, he’s for being boss of all the woolly West. He’s after keeping us poor and making himself rich. He’s after getting the cinch on two towns and three railways, and doing what he likes with it all; and we’re after not having him do it, you bet. That’s how it is, old hoss.”

The other stroked his beard with hands which, somehow, gave little indication of age, and then, with a sudden jerk forward of his head, he said: “Oh, it’s like that, eh? Is that what M’sieu’ Marchand told you? That’s what he said, is it?”

The big river-driver, eager to maintain his supreme place as leader, lunged forward a step, and growled a challenge.

“Who said it? What does it matter if M’sieu’ Marchand said it—it’s true. If I said it, it’s true. All of us in this room say it, and it’s true. Young Marchand says what Manitou says.”

The old man’s eyes grew brighter—they were exceedingly sharp for one so old, and he said quite gently now:

“M. Marchand said it first, and you all say it afterwards—ah, bah! But listen to me; I know Max Ingolby that you think is such a villain; I know him well. I knew him when he was a little boy and—”

“You was his nurse, I suppose!” cried the Englishman’s voice amid a roar of laughter.

“Taught him his A-B-C-was his dear, kind teacher, eh?” hilariously cried another.

The old man appeared not to hear. “I have known him all the years since. He has only been in the West a few years, but he has lived in the world exactly thirty-three years. He never willingly did anybody harm—never. Since he came West, since he came to the Sagalac, he’s brought work to Lebanon and to Manitou. There are hundreds more workmen in both the towns than there were when he came. It was he made others come with much money and build the factories and the mills. Work means money, money means bread, bread means life—so.”

The big river-driver, seeing the effect of the old man’s words upon the crowd, turned to them with an angry gesture and a sneer.

“I s’pose Ingolby has paid this old skeesicks for talking this swash. We know all right what Ingolby is, and what he’s done. He’s made war between the two towns—there’s hell to pay now on both sides of the Sagalac. He took away the railway offices from here, and threw men out of work. He’s done harm to Manitou—he’s against Manitou every time.”

Murmurs of approval ran through the crowd, though some were silent, looking curiously at the forceful and confident old man. Even his bent shoulders seemed to suggest driving power rather than the weight of years. He suddenly stretched out a hand in command as it were.

“Comrades, comrades,” he said, “every man makes mistakes. Even if it was a mistake for Ingolby to take away the offices from Manitou, he’s done a big thing for both cities by combining the three railways.”

“Monopoly,” growled a voice from the crowd. “Not monopoly,” the old man replied with a ring to his voice, which made it younger, fresher. “Not monopoly, but better management of the railways, with more wages, more money to spend on things to eat and drink and wear, more dollars in the pocket of everybody that works in Manitou and Lebanon. Ingolby works, he doesn’t loaf.”

“Oh, gosh all hell, he’s a dynamo,” shouted a voice from the crowd. “He’s a dynamo running the whole show-eh!”

The old man seemed to grow shorter, but as he thrust his shoulders forward, it was like a machine gathering energy and power.

“I’ll tell you, friends, what Ingolby is trying to do,” he said in a low voice vibrating with that force which belongs neither to age nor youth, but is the permanent activity uniting all ages of a man. “Of course, Ingolby is ambitious and he wants power. He tries to do the big things in the world because there is the big thing to do—for sure. Without such men the big things are never done, and other men have less work to do, and less money and poorer homes. They discover and construct and design and invent and organize and give opportunities. I am a working man, but I know what Ingolby thinks. I know what men think who try to do the big things. I have tried to do them.”

The crowd were absolutely still now, but the big river-driver shook himself free of the eloquence, which somehow swayed them all, and said:

“You—you look as if you’d tried to do big things, you do, old skeesicks. I bet you never earned a hundred dollars in your life.” He turned to the crowd with fierce gestures. “Let’s go to Lebanon and make the place sing,” he roared. “Let’s get Ingolby out to talk for himself, if he wants to talk. We know what we want to do, and we’re not going to be bossed. He’s for Lebanon and we’re for Manitou. Lebanon means to boss us, Lebanon wants to sit on us because we’re Catholics, because we’re French, because we’re honest.”

Again a wave of revolution swept through the crowd. The big river-driver represented their natural instincts, their native fanaticism, their prejudices. But the old man spoke once more.

“Ingolby wants Lebanon and Manitou to come together, not to fall apart,” he declared. “He wants peace. If he gets rich here he won’t get rich alone. He’s working for both towns. If he brings money from outside, that’s good for both towns. If he—”

“Shut your mouth, let Ingolby speak for himself,” snarled the big river-driver. “Take his dollars out of your pocket and put them on the bar, the dollars Ingolby gives you to say all this. Put them dollars of Ingolby’s up for drinks, or we’ll give you a jar that’ll shake you, old wart-hog.”

At that instant a figure forced itself through the crowd, and broke into the packed circle which was drawing closer upon the old man.

It was Jethro Fawe. He flung a hand out towards the old man.

“You want Ingolby—well, that’s Ingolby,” he shouted.

Like lightning the old man straightened himself, snatched the wig and beard away from his head and face, and with quiet fearlessness said:

“Yes, I am Ingolby.”

For an instant there was absolute silence, in which Ingolby weighed his chances. He was among enemies. He had meant only to move among the crowd to discover their attitude, to find things out for himself. He had succeeded, and his belief that Manitou could be swayed in the right direction if properly handled, was correct. Beneath the fanaticism and the racial spirit was human nature; and until Jethro Fawe had appeared, he had hoped to prevent violence and the collision at to-morrow’s funeral.

Now the situation was all changed. It was hard to tell what sharp turn things might take. He was about to speak, but suddenly from the crowd there was spat out at him the words, “Spy! Sneak! Spy!”

Instantly the wave of feeling ran against him. He smiled frankly, however, with that droll twist of his mouth which had won so many, and the raillery of his eyes was more friendly than any appeal.

“Spy, if you like, my friends,” he said firmly and clearly. “Moses sent spies down into the Land of Promise, and they brought back big bunches of grapes. Well, I’ve come down into a land of promise. I wanted to know just how you all feel without being told it by some one else. I knew if I came here as Max Ingolby I shouldn’t hear the whole truth; I wouldn’t see exactly how you see, so I came as one of you, and you must admit, my French is as good as yours almost.”

He laughed and nodded at them.

“There wasn’t one of you that knew I wasn’t a Frenchman. That’s in my favour. If I know the French language as I do, and can talk to you in French as I’ve done, do you think I don’t understand the French people, and what you want and how you feel? I’m one of the few men in the West that can talk your language. I learned it when I was a boy, so that I might know my French fellow-countrymen under the same flag, with the same King and the same national hope. As for your religion, God knows, I wish I was as good a Protestant as lots of you are good Catholics. And I tell you this, I’d be glad to have a minister that I could follow and respect and love as I respect and love Monseigneur Lourde of Manitou. I want to bring these two towns together, to make them a sign of what this country is, and what it can do; to make hundreds like ourselves in Manitou and Lebanon work together towards health, wealth, comfort and happiness. Can’t you see, my friends, what I’m driving at? I’m for peace and work and wealth and power—not power for myself alone, but power that belongs to all of us. If I can show I’m a good man at my job, maybe better than others, then I have a right to ask you to follow me. If I can’t, then throw me out. I tell you I’m your friend—Max Ingolby is your friend.”

“Spy! Spy! Spy!” cried a new voice.

It came from behind the bar. An instant after, the owner of the voice leaped up on the counter. It was Felix Marchand. He had entered by the door behind the bar into Barbazon’s office.

“When I was in India,” Marchand cried, “I found a snake in the bed. I killed it before it stung me. There’s a snake in the bed of Manitou—what are you going to do with it?”

The men swayed, murmured, and shrill shouts of “Marchand! Marchand! Marchand!” went up. The crowd heaved upon Ingolby. “One minute!” he called with outstretched arm and commanding voice. They paused. Something in him made him master of them even then.

At that moment two men were fiercely fighting their way through the crowd towards where Ingolby was. They were Jowett and Osterhaut. Ingolby saw them coming.

“Go back—go back!” he called to them.

Suddenly a drunken navvy standing on a table in front of and to the left of Ingolby seized a horseshoe hanging on the wall, and flung it with an oath.

It caught Ingolby in the forehead, and he fell to the floor without a sound.

A minute afterwards the bar was empty, save for Osterhaut, Jowett, old Barbazon, and his assistants.

Barbazon and Jowett lifted the motionless figure in their arms, and carried it into a little room.

Then Osterhaut picked up the horseshoe tied with its gay blue ribbons, now stained with blood, and put it in his pocket.

“For luck,” he said.