**** was discouraged and, a rare thing with him, his face showed his discouragement. In the war against the saloon and vice in its various forms he felt that he stood almost alone.
At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, hailed him. He hesitated a moment, then entered. A newspaper office was familiar territory to him, as was also that back country that stretches to the horizon from the back door of every printing office. The Clarion was the organ of the political Outs as The Pioneer was that of the Ins. Politics in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage of development wherein parties differentiate themselves from each other upon great principles.
The Ins were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly on that ground.
"Well," said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, "how did the meeting go last night?"
"I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you there. It didn't go at all."
"Yes," replied Daggett, "your men are all right in their opinions, but they never allow their opinions to interfere with business. I could have told you every last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, couldn't stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion mustn't interfere with sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay cash; therefore, quit your nonsense and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and perfumes to the 'red lights' than to all the rest of the town and country put together. Goring's chief won't stand any monkeying with politics. Leave things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to imperil their husbands' business."
**** swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he was not yet completely out. Only too well he knew the truth of Daggett's review of the situation.
"There is something in what you say," he conceded, "but--"
"Oh, come now," interrupted Daggett, "you know better than that.
This town and this country is run by the whiskey ring. Why, there's Hickey, he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates whiskey and the whole outfit worse than poison. Why doesn't he? The Honourable McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint.
Hickey is told to mind his own business and leave the saloon and the 'red lights' alone, and so poor Hickey is sitting down trying to discover what his business is ever since. The safe thing is to do nothing."
"You seem to know all about it," said ****. "What's the good of your paper? Why don't you get after these men?"
"My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is quite true that The Clarion is the champion of liberty, the great moulder of public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, not being an endowed institution, it is forced to consider advertising space. Advertising, circulation, subscriptions, these are the considerations that determine newspaper policy."
**** gazed ruefully out of the window. "It's true. It's terribly true," he said. "The people don't want anything better than they have. The saloon must continue to be the dominant influence here for a time. But you hear me, Daggett, a better day is coming, and if you want an opportunity to do, not the heroic thing only, but the wise thing, jump into a campaign for reform. Do you think Canadians are going to stand this long? This is a Christian country, I tell you. The Church will take a hand."
Daggett smiled a superior smile. "Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime The Pioneer spells Church with a small c, and even the Almighty's name with a small g."
"I tell you, Daggett," said **** hotly, "The Pioneer's day is past.
I see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm that will sweep it, and you, too, unless you change, out of existence."
"Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat distant. I, too, see signs, but the time is not yet. By the way, where is your brother?"
"I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with his sick and running this library and clubroom business."
"Yes," replied Daggett thoughtfully, "I hear of him often. The railroad men and the lumbermen grovel to him. Look here, would he run in this constituency?"
**** laughed at him. "Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You couldn't buy him. Oh, I know the game."
Daggett was silenced for some moments.
"Hello!" said Daggett, looking out of the window, "here is our coming Member." He opened the door. "Mr. Hull, let me introduce you to the Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer.
Mr. Boyle--Mr. Hull, the coming Member for this constituency."
"I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present incumbent," said **** a little gruffly, for he had little respect for either of the political parties or their representatives. "I must get along. But, Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with this beastly gambling-hell business." With this he closed the door.
"Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon," said Hull, "but a little unpractical, eh?"
"Yes," agreed Daggett, "he is somewhat visionary. But I begin to think he is on the right track."
"How? What do you mean?"
"I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this country was getting civilized. That fool editor of The Pioneer thinks that because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he can keep back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough to last him over night. Boyle says he sees the signs of a coming storm. I believe I see them, too."
"Signs?" inquired Hull.
"Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being held responsible for their men, their health, and their morals.
'Mexico,' too, has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this Boyle's brother is taking a hand, I believe."
"The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him."
"Do you know him?"
"Not well."
"You get next him quick. He's the coming man in this country, don't forget it."
Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of considerable wealth. He was an old timer and cherished the old timer's contempt for the tenderfoot.
