touched the cold steel in his pocket. Of course there was always the gun, but what was one gun against three?
V
The whistle of the Cannery at Sabbath Valley blew a relief blast five minutes ahead of midnight in deference to the church chimes, and the night shift which had been working overtime on account of a consignment of tomatoes that would not keep till Monday, poured joyously out into the road and scattered to their various homes.
The outmost of these homegoers, Tom McMertrie and Jim Rafferty, who lived at the other extreme of the village, came upon a crippled car, coughing and crawling toward them in front of the Graveyard. Its driver, much sobered by lack of stimulant, and frequent necessity for getting out and pushing his car over hard bits of road, called to them noisily.
The two workmen, pleasant of mood, ready for a joke, not altogether averse to helping if this proved to be “the right guy,” halted and stepped into the road just to look the poor noble car over. It was the lure of the fine machine.
“Met with an accident?” Jim remarked affably, as if it were something to enjoy.
“Had toire thrubble?” added Tom, punching the collapsed tires.
The questions seemed to anger the driver, who demanded loftily:
“Where's your garage?”
“Garage? Oh, we haven't any garage,” said Jim pleasantly, with a mute twinkle in his Irish eye.
“No garage? Haven't any garage! What town is this,—if you call it a town?”
“Why, mon, this is Sawbeth Volley! Shorely ye've heard of Sawbeth Volley!”
“No, I never heard of it!” said the stranger contemptuously, “but from what I've seen of it so far I should say it ought to be called Hell's Pit! Well, what do you do when you want your car fixed?”
“Well, we don't hoppen to hove a cyar,” said Tom with a meditative air, stooping to examine the spokes of a wheel, “Boot, ef we hod mon, I'm thenkin' we'd fix it!”
Jim gave a flicker of a chuckle in his throat, but kept his outward gravity. The stranger eyed the two malevolently, helplessly, and began once more, holding his rage with a cold voice.
“Well, how much do you want to fix my car?” he asked, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing out an affluent wallet.
The men straightened up and eyed him coldly. Jim turned indifferently away and stepped back to the sidewalk. Tom lifted his chin and replied kindly:
“Why, Mon, it's the Sawbeth, didn't ye know? I'm s'proised at ye! It's the Sawbeth, an' this is Sawbeth Volley! We don't wurruk on the Sawbeth day in Sawbeth Volley. Whist! Hear thot, mon?”
He lifted his hand and from the stone belfry near-by came the solemn tone of the chime, pealing out a full round of melody, and then tolling solemnly twelve slow strokes. There was something almost uncanny about it that held the stranger still, as if an unseen presence with a convincing voice had been invoked. The young man sat under the spell till the full complement of the ringing was finished, the workman with his hand up holding attention, and Jim Rafferty quietly enjoying it all from the curb stone.
When the last sweet resonance had died out, the Scotchman's hand went slowly down, and the stranger burst forth with an oath:
“Well, can you tell me where I can go to get fixed up? I've wasted enough time already.”
“I should say from whut I've seen of ye, mon, that yer roight in thot statement, and if I was to advoise I'd say go right up to the parson, His loight's still burnin' in the windo next beyant the tchurtch, so ye'll not be disturbin' him. Not that he'd moind. He'll fix ye up ef anybody cun; though I'm doubtin' yer in a bad wy, only wy ye tak it. Good-night to ye, the winda wi' the leight, mon, roight next beyant the tchurtch!”
The car began its coughing and spluttering, and slowly jerked itself into motion, its driver going angrily on his unthankful way. The two workmen watching him with amused expressions, waited in the shadow of a tree till the car came to a stop again in front of the parsonage, and a tall young fellow got out and looked toward the lighted window.
“Oh, boy! He's going in!” gasped Jim, slapping his companion silently on the back. “Whatt'll Mr. Severn think, Tommy?”
“It'll do the fresh laddie gude,” quoth Tom, a trifle abashed but ready to stand by his guns, “I'm thenkin' he's one of them what feels they owns the airth, an' is bound to step on all worms of the dust whut comes in thur wy. But Jim, mon, we better be steppin' on, fer tomorra's the Sawbeth ya ken, an' it wuddent be gude for our souls if the parson shud cum out to investigate.” Chuckling away into the silent street they disappeared, while Laurence Shafton stalked angrily up the little path and pounded loudly on the quaint knocker of the parsonage.
* * * * *
The minister was on his knees beside his desk, praying for the soul of the wandering lad who had been dear to him for years. He had finished his preparation for the coming day, and his heart was full of a great longing. As he poured out his desire he forgot the hour and his need for rest. It was often in such companionship he forgot all else. He was that kind of a man.
But he came to his feet on the instant with the knock, and was ready to go out on any errand of mercy that was needing him. It was not an unusual thing for a knock to come interrupting his midnight devotions. Sometimes the call would be to go far out on the mountain to some one who was in distress, or dying.
The minister swung the door wide and peered into the night pleasantly almost as if to welcome an unexpected guest. In the sudden flood of the porch light his face was illumined, and behind him the pretty living room gave a sweet homely setting. The stranger stood for an instant blinking, half astonished; then the memory of his rendezvous at break of day brought back his irritation at the delay.
“Are you Parsons?” he demanded, just as if “Parsons” were at fault that he had not been on hand before.
“Parsons?” said Mr. Severn reflectively. “I don't recall anyone of that name hereabouts. Perhaps you are on the wrong road. There is a Parsons at Monopoly.”
“Parsons is the name. Aren't you Parsons? A couple of men down the road said you were, and that you could fix me up. They said right next the church and that your light was still burning.” The visitor's tone was belligerent.
Severn's face cleared with a smile.
“Oh, they must have said 'Parson,' they often call me that. Come in. What can I do for you?”
The young man eyed him coldly and made no move to enter.
“Parson or Parsons, it makes no difference does it? Mr. Parson, if you're so particular then, come out and look at my car. It seems to be in bad shape, and be quick about it. I've got over two hundred miles to make before daybreak, so get a hustle on. I'll pay you well if you don't waste any time.”
A queer look descended upon the minister in twinkles of amusement around his eyes and lips much like the smile that Tom MacMertrie had worn, only there was not a rag of hurt pride about
