The Crimson West

“My son arrested in a low gambling den!” the father said bitterly. “Donald, you have disgraced the family name. Your drinking carousals and gambling can have but one end. I have been too easy with you. For your own good I’m going to turn you loose. Until such time as you can return to me rid of your bad habits, and have proven yourself a man, you are not a son of mine. I—I’m done with you.”

Donald’s father turned abruptly on his heel and strode swiftly down the passage. It had been a tremendous test of his will power to make this short speech, and to resist the almost overmastering desire to take his boy in his arms.

The young man stood with mouth agape, a stupefied look in his eyes, and stared after the retreating form of his parent. The sheriff broke the silence. “We’ll go upstairs, Don!”

On the upper floor the desk sergeant handed the released prisoner his watch and money, taken from him, as is the custom, the night before. The sheriff motioned to a seat.

“Sit down. I want to talk with you.”

Donald listlessly obeyed.

“Sorry, boy, but I had to do it,” the sheriff said in a kindly voice.

“It’s all right, Jim. There’s no hard feelings.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Donald admitted dully.

“How much money have you got?”

Donald stood up and drew from his pocket a few crumpled bills and some loose change, then threw out his arms in an eloquent gesture. As he stood with the slanting rays of a late December sun shining on his black hair, he presented a wonderful specimen of man. Six feet in height, of a deceptive slenderness, his rather tight-fitting grey suit set off the graceful lines of a supple body. His shoulders were wide, with the gentle slope that denotes agility as well as strength. His fine white skin and long black lashes would have given his features an effeminate touch but for the manly mould of his face, with its square jaw, broad forehead, and deep, wide-set eyes.

The sheriff’s appraising eyes glowed with admiration as they rested on the young man. To the casual eye Donald appeared of slight build, but his old friend knew of the steel-like muscles of those arms and the strength of the long, straight legs.

The mind of the older man flashed back to a football game in Donald’s High School days, with the State championship at stake. Donald had been sent into the game at the eleventh hour, and with defeat staring the home team in the face he had torn through the opposing lines like a madman for agonizing gains until his dark head flashed across the line to victory.

Donald came embarrassedly to his feet.

“Well, I guess I’ll be moving.”

“Here, boy, take this,” the sheriff said awkwardly, thrusting a roll of bills into Donald’s hand.

The young man’s face flushed. “It’s awfully good of you, Jim, but I——”

“It’s all right, Don,” interrupted the older man, summoning a smile. “I’m just giving you a loan.”

Donald looked at him soberly. “I’ll pay you back when—I—I—earn it.”

His face very serious, the sheriff placed a hand on Donald’s shoulder.

“Now, listen, Don. Your father and I talked here in the office for an hour before he bailed you out, and we agreed that the best thing was to let you go on your own. No, I am not going to give you a lecture, for you are not wholly to blame. Having a rich father is not the best thing for a young fellow, but because you got fired out of college should not make a husky boy like you lose his grip. You just step out and buck the line like you do in football and you’ll sure make a touchdown.” He gripped Donald’s hand. “Good-bye and good luck, Donnie!” he added feelingly.

Donald crossed the street to the Hancock House and sank moodily to a chair in the corner of the lobby. His confinement in the jail and the preceding festivities had robbed him of a night’s rest, and he suddenly realized that he was very tired and sleepy. Forgetting the change in his circumstances, he engaged an expensive room on the first floor and immediately went to bed.

Upon awakening Donald switched on the light and lay for awhile trying to adjust himself to this new situation. Serious meditation, however, brought him no nearer a solution of his problem. A cold bath, followed by a brisk rub down and clean linen, removed all the remaining traces of his night of wild revelry.

The news of John McLean’s break with his son spread rapidly through the small New England city. On his way to the desk to order his baggage to be sent to the dock Donald was beset by several friends who were loud in voicing their sympathy. Extricating himself as quickly as possible, he made his way to the elevator. Quick steps sounded behind him, and, turning, he looked into the smiling face of his boxing instructor, Spike Ryan.

“Hello, Kid, how they comin’?” grinned Spike.

“Come upstairs with me, Spike.”

Once inside the room, Donald turned to his visitor. “If you start any of this sympathy stuff I’ll hand you that famous ‘one-two’ punch you taught me.”

“Sympathy be damned,” chuckled Spike. “Dis is your lucky day. I come here to congratulate you, to give you de glad hand.”

“Why all the joy? Most of my friends seem to think it is my funeral.”

“Say, Donnie,” Spike said earnestly, “I bin watchin’ ya pretty close for de past year, an’ ya sure bin ridin’ for a fall. Another year of de way ya bin hittin’ her up an’ y’d have taken de count of ten an’ be sittin’ wid de stew-bums. Ya bin fightin’ an exhibition wid life wid soft twelve-ounce gloves, an’ de both of ya fightin’ under wraps an’ pullin’ y’r punches. From now on de fight will be on de square an’ to a finish wid bare knuckles. De guy in de other corner will hand ya some awful jolts, an’ y’ll have to do some pretty fast work wid y’r dukes an’ pins to keep away from de slumber swat. But, Donnie, ya got de goods in ya. Nearly four years in an engineerin’ course in de college gives ya a better start than most of us guys. I’m backin’ ya to win.”

He seized Donald’s hand, and his battered face filled with tenderness as he looked up at his friend. “Good luck, boy. Keep a stiff upper lip, an’ don’t forget that old John Barleycorn’s a bum second.” At the door he turned: “How ya fixed for kale, Donnie?”

“You get out!” smiled Donald.

Spike grinned as though pleased at the rebuff, and closed the door.

For some time after Spike’s departure Donald sat lost in meditation. The philosophy of the ex-pugilist, presented in the vernacular of the prize-ring, had affected him deeply. “Ya bin fightin’ an exhibition wid life, but from now on de fight is on de square,” Spike had said. True enough, he thought, life had been soft and easy with him. But now it was going to be “on de square.” His strong mouth set in a straight line, and involuntarily he squared his shoulders.

Donald left the hotel by the side door to avoid meeting several friends who had gathered in the lobby. He had an hour to wait for the sailing of the boat for Bangor. Unconsciously he walked towards the hill. An overwhelming sense of loneliness swept over him as he stood before his home, looming huge and white in the bright starlight of the winter night.

At the first sound of his master’s step on the pavement a big collie dog rushed forth and flung itself bodily on the young man, whimpering in sheer joy. Standing on hindlegs with paws on his chest, he tried to lick Donald’s face. The noise was apparently heard within the house, for a shade was raised and Donald’s mother peered out into the night. Silencing the dog’s joyous whines as best he could, Donald crouched low behind the hedge until the blind was lowered.

“Good-bye, old pal,” Donald whispered, his arms about the collie’s shaggy neck. The dog turned slowly and unwillingly toward the house.

In the meantime, within the house, John McLean and his wife were discussing the possible result of the father’s seeming severity.

“Donald is a great trial to us now, John,” said the mother, “but we must not forget the happiness he has brought us in the past.” She gazed long and lovingly at a photograph of her son as a child; then, with head bowed, her lips moved in silent prayer.