The Project Gutenberg eBook, Every Man for Himself, by Hopkins Moorhouse

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Title: Every Man for Himself

Author: Hopkins Moorhouse

Release Date: May 30, 2007 [eBook #21644]

Language: English

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF***

E-text prepared by Al Haines

EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF

by

HOPKINS MOORHOUSE

Author of "Deep Furrows"

Toronto
The Musson Book Company Limited

Copyright, Canada, 1920 by Hopkins Moorehouse

The Musson Book Co., Limited
Publishers . . . Toronto

To My Mother

FOREWORD

Although prefaces are not the fashion in these accelerated times, some word of warning is due those who had the patience to read "Deep Furrows." It seems but fair to point out that whereas "Deep Furrows" was historical and its "characters" actual people taking prominent part in current events, the present pages are purely fictitious and the characters therein not even composite portraits of living personages.

Similarly the story events are pure invention and as fittingly might have been staged in any other of the nine provinces. The author humbly craves indulgence if he has in any way exceeded the license allowed him in spinning the incidents necessary for a novel of this type while seeking verisimilitude in settings with which he is familiar.

—H. M.

Winnipeg, February, 1920.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I FOG II BLIND MAN'S BUFF III "NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS" IV THE LISTENING STENOGRAPHER V THE TAN SATCHEL VI AGAIN THE TAN SATCHEL VII CROSS CURRENTS VIII ABOARD THE PRIVATE CAR, "OBASKA" IX CONSPIRING EVENTS X THE STENOGRAPHER STILL LISTENING XI GROWING ANXIETY XII KENDRICK MAKES A TOUCHDOWN XIII AND CONVERTS A GOAL XIV WHAT HAPPENED ON THE WINNIPEG EXPRESS XV RAPPROCHEMENT XVI THE TAN SATCHEL ONCE MORE XVII DISTURBING NEWS XVIII MCCORQUODALE EXPLAINS XIX FURTHER STRANGE PROCEEDINGS XX A MAN OF MONEY XXI DOUBLE TROUBLE XXII LOWERING CLOUDS XXIII THE FIGHT XXIV THE RACE BEGINS XXV EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF XXVI NIP AND TUCK XXVII CLOSE QUARTERS XXVIII SOUVENIRS

Every Man For Himself

CHAPTER I

FOG

Except for the lone policeman who paused beneath the arc light at the Front Street intersection to make an entry in his patrol book, Bay Street was deserted. The fog which had come crawling in from the lake had filled the lower streets and was feeling its way steadily through the sleeping city, blurring the street lights. Its clammy touch darkened the stone facades of tall, silent buildings and left tiny wet beads on iron railing and grill work. Down towards the waterfront a yard-engine coughed and clanked about in the mist somewhere, noisily kicking together a string of box-cars, while at regular intervals the fog-horn over at the Eastern Gap bellowed mournfully into the night.

After tucking away his book and rebuttoning his tunic the policeman lingered on the corner for a moment in the manner of one who has nothing to do and no place to go. He was preparing to saunter on when footfalls began to echo in the emptiness of the street and presently the figure of a young man grew out of the gray vapor—a young man who was swinging down towards the docks with the easy stride of an athlete. As he came within the restricted range of the arc light it was to be seen that his panama hat was tilted to the back of his head and that he was holding a silk handkerchief to one eye as if a cinder had blown into it.

"Good-night, Officer," he nodded as he passed without halting his stride. "Some fog, eh?"

"'Mornin', sir," returned the dim sentinel of the Law with a respectful salute as he grinned recognition. "Faith, an' 't is, sir."

High up in the City Hall tower at the head of the street Big Ben boomed two ponderous notes which flung eerily across the city.

Already the young man had faded into the thickening fog. He was in no mood to talk to inquisitive policemen, no matter how friendly or lonesome. It was his own business entirely if concealed beneath the silk handkerchief was the most elaborate black eye which had come into his possession since Varsity won the rugby championship some months before. If his face ached and his knuckles smarted where the skin had been knocked off, that was his own business also. And when the judgment of calmer moments has convinced a respectable young gentleman of spirit that there is nobody but himself to blame for what has happened he is inclined to solitary communion while taking the measure of his self-dissatisfaction.

It was indeed the end of a very imperfect day for Mr. Philip Kendrick. As he descended the stairs to the Canoe Club his thoughts were troubled. At that hour there was nobody about, but he let himself in with a special key which he carried for such contingencies. He found the suitcase undisturbed where he had left it and soon had his canoe in the water. A moment later he was driving into the thick wall of fog with strong, practiced strokes, heading straight across the bay for Centre Island.

The fog gave him little concern. This land-locked Toronto Bay he knew like a well-marked passage in a favorite book and at two o'clock in the morning it was not necessary to nose along cautiously, listening for the approach of water craft. Away to the right the lights of the amusement park on Hanlan's Point had gone out long ago, before the fog settled down like a wet blanket. The ferries had stopped running for the night. Even the "belt line boat," Lulu,—last hope of bibulous or belated Islanders—was back in her slip, funnel cold, lights out. The whole deserted waterfront lay wrapped in the shroud of the fog, lulled by the lap of water against pilings and the faint creakings of small craft at their moorings.

As the solitary canoe poked out for the open bay these minor sounds fell behind and were replaced by the steady purl of water under the bow. It filled with pleasing monotone the interludes between the fussing of the yard-engine back on the railway trackage and the blatancy of the foghorn at the Eastern Gap, every half minute bawling its warning into the open lake beyond.

There was nobody over at the big summer residence on Centre Island except Mrs. Parlby, the housekeeper, and her husband who acted as gardener. The place belonged to Kendrick's uncle, the Honorable Milton Waring, and it was usual for them to open the big house about the end of May. This year, however, his aunt and uncle had chosen to spend the summer at Sparrow Lake and for the past week they had been up at a rented cottage in the woods, leaving Phil behind in charge of the Island residence.

In response to a wire from his uncle, requesting him to join them at once and bring