Philip Barton's secret

Front matter

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Chapter I Two Roads

HTHE great machine-shop at Ridley blew the 1 whistle for noon. Tired workers drew a long breath of relief. That sharp, piercing sound was music to them. It meant an hour’s freedom for dinner and rest. The whirr of the huge machinery gradually ceased. Crowds of grimy-faced men and youths emerged from the shop-doors.

“1 say, Fred, did you know Phil Barton got religion last night? True as preachin’.”

Fred Lewis whistled. He was one of the best young workmen in the shop. He was tall and fine-looking, in spite of the grime now on hands and face.

His companion, Ned Brown, continued:

“They got hold of him down at the new 7 mission. He ’s been goin’ there fur quite a spell. Last night they hauled him in.”

“How do you know?”

“Jake Richey was with him. Says he mos’ felt like givin’ in, too. Good preacher they got down there. I ’d go myself, only I ’m half afeared.”

Fred laughed quite boisterously.

“Catch you givin’ in, Ned Brown. The old fellow ’s got too tight a grip on you to let you go in a hurry. Might as well talk o’ me gettin’ good.”

“That ’s a fac’,” responded Ned, quite pleased. “We do n’t b’long to the soft-hearted set, do we?”

“Neither does Phil,” responded the other, sharply. “He ’s a reg’lar bulldog. Do n’t see how they managed to get hold of him. Hope he won’t turn to a milksop. I like Phil.”

“Hush! here he comes. ’Pears to be in a mighty hurry.”

A young man of about twenty-three years of age, in workman’s blouse, and with the

TWO ROADS grime of the machine-shop still upon him, hurried past. His face was manly and rather handsome. Something in the massive squareness of forehead and chin made one think Fred’s comparison was apt.

He nodded pleasantly, but did not pause.

“Wonder what ’s his hurry. Alius had time fur a friendly word afore,” muttered Brown.

He was soon enlightened.

The young man disappeared in a doorway, marked “Mission Chapel.” The sound of music floated out on the air.

“Whew! That’s a new dodge. Meetin’s at noon. Supose we turn in, Fred? What ’s good for Phil ’ll be good for us,” and he grinned.

“Hush! You ’re a reg’lar magpie. I wish Phil had n’t taken up with this foolishness. But ’t won’t last.”

“I do n’t know. What Phil once begins, he mos’ generally sticks to. But he ’s the las’ man in the shop I ’d ’a’ thought o’ turnin’

IO pious. Wonder if he ’ll throw us over, now he ’s took up wi’ this new notion?”

Six months passed. Work continued as usual in the great shop.

A few minutes after the six o’clock evening whistle had blown, one drizzling day in early September, Ned Brown and Fred Lewis came out of the shop-door. They worked side by side, and while they were not especially congenial, this fact threw them much together. They both lived on the same street, and usually walked home in company.

“What a nasty day! I want something to wake me up. Let ’s go ’round to Brady’s, and play a game, after supper?”

It was Ned who spoke.

“All right. Here comes Phil. Perhaps he ’ll go with us. He plays a good hand, you know.”

“Not he. He ’s got too good since he joined the Church, to be seen goin’ ’round wi’

TWO TOADS

II us. No use askin’ him.” There was a sneer on Ned’s lip as he spoke.

“You do ’nt know what you ’re sayin’,” Lewis angrily replied. “Phil ’s no more uppish than I be. And I ’m goin’ to ask him. I like Phil.”

“All right. I ’ll go on. I can’t stop,” said Brown. He did not care to be with Fred when the latter was in an ill-humor.

“I ’ll call for you after supper,” he added, as he turned away.

“Very well. I ’ll be ready.”

When invited to join them, young Barton declined.

“Have n’t time,” was his excuse.

“What are you up to, anyway, old fellow?” said Lewis. “I never see you at any of the loafing-places any more.”

“Come with me to-night, and I will show you. I wish you would come, Lewis,” and Phil laid his hand on Fred’s shoulder.

Lewis shook his head.

“You ’re going down hill, Fred. That ’s not safe. Mend your grammar a bit, and brush up, and I ’ll take you where you ’ll have a pleasant evening.”

Fred laughed.

“I can have a nice time without changing my grammar or my clothes, either. What has come over you, anyway, Phil? You are so different.”

It was noticeable that Fred’s speech changed with his companions. He came from a higher class than Ned Brown, and at home his associations were not devoid of refinement.

“Why, God has made a new man out of me, Fred,” responded Phil, smiling. “And he stands by me all the time, and keeps me straight. I ’m just the happiest fellow on the globe, these days.”

Fred said nothing, but looked intently into his companion’s face.

“Do n’t go with Brown so much, Fred,” urged Phil, after a moment’s silence. “He ’s bad. Mr. Weston does n’t half trust him.

TWO HOADS

And do n’t go to Brady’s. You know the firm’s rule.”

The firm of Weston & Company, while not a religious one, made it one of their rules that no workman in their employ should frequent saloons or gambling-houses.

“But they ’ll never know,” responded Fred. “And a glass, now and then, and a jolly game, can’t hurt.”

“Yes, but they will know. And you are breaking rules too often. Mr. Weston would dismiss you to-morrow if he knew you frequented that place,” urged Phil.

“You are a pretty one to preach. The first time I ever went there, you took me.”

“I know it, and I would give a year’s wages to have that wiped out. Give up Ned and Brady, Fred, and come with me.”

“No. I ’ll go my way, and you can go yours,” he said, sulkily, and walked away.

Philip stood for a moment and looked after him. There was a troubled look in his frank blue eyes.

H

“If one could only recall the past,” he thought bitterly. “Fred is going to ruin about as fast as possible. I was the first one who turned him in that direction. That ’ s not a pleasant thought to go to sleep on.”

Chapter II

“IOOK! there they come. And Carl’s boat is ahead.” Mr. Bachman, as he spoke, laid his hand upon his young friend’s shoulder. His strong face looked exultant, and Ralph Weston smiled as he said:

“No wonder you are pleased. He handles his oars marvelously well. My father wrote me he was a fine fellow. I see he was right.”

People about them began to cheer, and enthusiastic cries of “Bachman! Bachman!” came from a body of youths who were pressing close to the spot where stood Mr. Bachman and his friend.

“They are his classmates,” the elder man explained, in answer to an inquiring glance from the other.

The two contesting boats were now near the bridge, upon which were grouped the spec- 15 tators. As they shot into the little cove, which ended the race, Carl Bachman’s skiff was its full-length in advance of his rival’s.

Very modestly the young oarsman received the congratulations of his friends. His classmates gathered about him, laughing and exuberant, some fanning his flushed face with their straw hats, and others jestingly offering to take off their coats and loan to him, if he felt chilly.

It was only when his eye caught his father’s smiling face that he seemed really moved.

“Why, father! I did not think you cared enough for such things to come out this hot morning,” he said, with a happy light mantling his face.

“If it was not too hot for you to row, it was not too hot for me to watch you,” Mr. Bachman replied. Then, placing one hand upon his boy’s shoulder, and the other upon the arm of his friend, he said:

“Carl, this is Mr. Ralph Weston, the son of my dear old friend and classmate, John

Weston, whom you know. He is just back from a three years’ trip abroad. He ended with Cuba, and has stopped to see us on his way north.”

With boyish pleasure Carl gazed into the handsome face of the young man before him. This pleasure was not diminished when Ralph Weston said, in response to the young oarsman’s cordial greeting:

“I consider myself fortunate in having reached your city in season to witness your feat in rowing. I never saw anything handsomer. Your rival did well; but he was no match against your skill and endurance.”

These words, spoken in all sincerity, together with the young man’s prepossessing face and manners, instantly won Carl’s heart. From that moment he became a loyal and admiring friend of the young Northerner.

John Bachman was a man of wealth and influence in the city of Nashville, Tennessee. He was the head of a large manufacturing firm, in which he fondly hoped to see Carl, who was his only child, his successor. The boy was between seventeen and eighteen years of age. His mother often said of him:

“He is all that I could possibly desire a son to be.”

The boy’s feat in rowing was the result of a boat-race gotten up by the students of two rival schools. Each had a favorite “man” to put forward, and both sides felt sure their especial champion would win the honors of the day.

It was early in September, and the colleges would open the following week. The race had been arranged for this date, rather than later, because the parents of one of the competitors were not willing that their boy should spend time and strength upon a contest of this kind during school-term.

The trial of the skill and muscle of the two chosen oarsmen had attracted sufficient local attention to bring half a hundred spectators, besides those students who were residents of the city, to the river front, to witness the race.

That night, while Carl and his mother were enjoying their usual twilight talk, seated upon the piazza of their elegant suburban home, Ralph Weston joined them, followed by Mr. Bachman. Conversation naturally turned upon young Weston’s trip abroad; and as his host and hostess had spent some time in travel early in their wedded life, question and counter-question, interspersed with pleasing reminiscences, filled the hour with keen interest to each one in the little group.

“Naturally, Germany was my favorite camping-ground,” Mr. Bachman at last said. “Had my wife consented, I should have been glad to have spent a year or two there in study.”

A quick glance towards Mrs. Bachman from their guest’s questioning eyes, caused her husband to say, with a light laugh :

“My German ancestry has always, been a grief to Mrs. Bachman, for with it she insists I inherited certain views which she considers dangerous.”

Under the bright electric-light, young Weston instantly caught an expression upon the sweet and refined face of his hostess which told him that the subject just broached was no laughing matter with her. He turned the conversation by asking Carl “what he intended to do with his life.”

The boy hesitated before replying, and the young man said:

“Perhaps you have not yet given the subject serious thought. At your age I am sure my mind had never traveled beyond the pleasure of the present time. But something in your face made me think that your nature was less volatile than mine.”

“I hope to preach the gospel/’ Carl said at last, in a low but clear voice.

Ralph Weston was too much surprised by this answer to utter a word in response. He was a gay worldling; nay, worse: he had imbibed from a skeptical father the seeds of unbelief towards all Biblical religion.

“Is it possible, Carl, that you still hold to that nonsense?” Mr. Bachman asked, with surprise and displeasure in both face and tone. “I thought that your boating exploits and your feats in the gymnasium had driven all such foolishness out of your head.”

Before Carl could reply, his father arose and abruptly left the piazza. An awkward silence fell upon the little group, and young Weston soon bade mother and son good-night, saying it was time he was at his hotel.

As their visitor passed out of sight, Carl slipped his hand into his mother’s. Mrs. Bachman pressed it gently, and said, as she looked into his face, which wore an expression of keen distress:

‘‘Do n’t mind it, dear. There may be a struggle, but God will stand by you if you are true. Remember his words to Joshua: ‘I will be with thee; I will not fail thee nor forsake thee. Be strong and of good courage.’ ”

“But did you notice how angrily he looked at us both?” the boy whispered. “I never saw him show so much feeling before. I am afraid he will never consent to my becoming a minister.”

“If God has sealed you for this high and holy calling, as you believe, he will sweep all obstacles from your path,” his mother responded. “The hearts of kings are as wax in his hands. He can melt and change your father in one short hour, so that he will not only consent, but will consider it a sweet privilege to give his son to tell of Christ to a perishing world. Put your trust unwaveringly in God, my son, and all will be well.”