“Zaanan,” he said, shakily, “I’m a dum sight more ashamed ’n you be of me,” and he marched to make his deposit in Dolf’s basket.
It was a procession. Men formed in line behind Tom, and there were leathery faces that felt for the first time in many years the down-trickle of tears. Zaanan was wiping his eyes unashamed. Audible sobs descended from the gallery. The atmosphere was that of a revival—it was a revival, a moment of regeneration, a moment that would linger in the minds of those men as long as mind and body remained bound together. The line filed past Dolf and the men returned to their seats.
“I calc’late the business of this caucus is about over,” Zaanan said. “When what’s left to be done is over I wisht Parson Bloom ’u’d say a benediction. ’Tain’t usual at sich meetin’s, but ’twon’t do any harm.”
So it was done. Aged Parson Bloom mounted the platform, his silvery head bared, and held his arms extended over them. His words were few, simple:
“‘The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.’”
Then they passed out, leaving Zaanan alone on the platform, seated in a huge arm-chair, his head bent wearily, his face in his hands.
Jim, in what might be termed a ramshackle physical condition, drove to town the morning of the caucus. His left arm occupied a sling. He had not seen Marie. She would not have known him had he seen her, for she lay in the borderland, not delirious, not unconscious wholly, but strangely indifferent, still. He did not wish to see her.
He went directly to his office, nor did he leave it during the morning. The caucus was in progress. He had been vitally interested in it. But this morning nothing interested him; he was apathetic. Part of this was due to physical condition, more to mental stress.
Even when the Diversity Bank presented for payment his note for thirty thousand dollars he was not aroused. It would have been his nature to do something, anything, in an effort to avert calamity; but it was not Sudden Jim who sat before his desk. It was just Jim, shorn of the attribute which had earned him his name.
He had expected the note to be presented. Well, he could not pay. There was no way to pay. Somehow he had failed, and his father would think the family blood had grown thin in his veins. Even that mattered little. Moran had beaten him. The burning of Crab Creek Trestle was a decisive blow. Before it could be replaced the logs in his yard would be exhausted, the mills must shut down for lack of raw material. There was no use to try to sweep back the inevitable; it was attempting to stay the inflowing tide with a broom.