Chapter XIII: Straight From the Shoulder

In the bunk-house, after supper, Higgins preaches. It is a solemn service: no minister of them all so punctilious as Higgins in respect to reverent conduct. The preacher is in earnest and single of purpose. The congregation is compelled to reverence. "Boys," says he, in cunning appeal, "this bunk-house is our church--the only church we've got." No need to say more! And a queer church: a low, long hut, stifling and ill-smelling and unclean and infested, a row of double-decker bunks on either side, a great glowing stove in the middle, socks and Mackinaws steaming on the racks, boots put out to dry, and all dim-lit with lanterns. Half-clad, hairy men, and boys with young beards, lounge everywhere--stretched out on the benches, peering from the shadows of the bunks, squatted on the fire-wood, cross-legged on the floor near the preacher. Higgins rolls out a cask for a pulpit and covers it with a blanket. Then he takes off his coat and mops his brow.

Presently, hymn-book or Testament in hand, he is sitting on the pulpit.

"Not much light here," says he, "so I won't read to-night; but I'll _say_ the First Psalm. Are you all ready?"

Everybody is ready.

"All right. '_Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,_' boys, '_nor standeth in the way of sinners._'"

The door opens and a man awkwardly enters.

"Got any room back there for Bill, boys?" the preacher calls.

There seems to be room.

"I want to see you after service, Bill. You'll find a seat back there with the boys. '_For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous; but the way of the ungodly,_' gentlemen, '_shall perish._'"

There is a prayer, restrained, in the way of the preacher's church--a petition terrible with earnestness. One wonders how a feeling God could turn a deaf ear to the beseeching eloquence of it! And the boys sing--lustily, too--led by the stentorian preacher. An amazing incongruity: these seared, blasphemous barbarians bawling, _What a Friend I Have in Jesus!_

Enjoy it?

"Pilot," said one of them, in open meeting, once, with no irreverence whatsoever, "that's a damned fine toon! Why the hell don't they have toons like that in the shows? Let's sing her again!"

"Sure!" said the preacher, not at all shocked; "let's sing her again!"

There is a sermon--composed on the forest roads from camp to camp: for on those long, white, cold, blustering roads Higgins either whistles his blithe way (like a boy) or fashions his preaching. It is a searching, eloquent sermon: none other so exactly suited to environment and congregation--none other so simple and appealing and comprehensible. There isn't a word of cant in it; there isn't a suggestion of the familiar evangelistic rant. Higgins has no time for cant (he says)--nor any faith in ranting. The sermon is all orthodox and significant and reasonable; it has tender wisdom, and it is sometimes terrible with naked truth. The phrasing? It is as homely and brutal as the language of the woods. It has no affectation of slang. The preacher's message is addressed with wondrous cunning to men in their own tongue: wherefore it could not be repeated before a polite congregation. Were the preacher to ejaculate an oath (which he never would do)--were he to exclaim, "By God! boys, this is the only way of salvation!"--the solemnity of the occasion would not be disturbed by a single ripple.

"And what did the young man do?" he asked, concerning the Prodigal; "why, he packed his turkey and went off to blow his stake--_just like you!_" Afterward, when the poor Prodigal was penniless: "What about him _then_, boys? _You_ know. _I_ don't need to tell you. You learned all about it at Deer River. It was the husks and the hogs for him--_just like it is for you!_ It's up the river for you--and it's back to the woods for you--when they've cleaned you out at Deer River!" Once he said, in a great passion of pity: "Boys, you're out here, floundering to your waists, picking diamonds from the snow of these forests, to glitter, not in pure places, but on the necks of the saloon-keepers' wives in Deer River!" There is applause when the Pilot strikes home. "That's damned true!" they shout. And there is many a tear shed (as I saw) by the young men in the shadows when, having spoken long and graciously of home, he asks: "When did you write to your mother last? You, back there--and you! Ah, boys, don't forget her!"

There was pause while the preacher leaned earnestly over the blanketed barrel.

"Write home to-night," he besought them. "_She's--waiting--for--that--letter!_"

They listened.