"Pilot," he asked, presently, "do you think I can make the grade?"
McKenzie said nothing for a moment. Then he looked up. "You mean," said he, "that I need another team of leaders?"
"Oh, I know what you mean," said McKenzie: "you mean that I need the help of Jesus Christ."
No need to tell what Higgins said then--what he repeated about repentance and faith and the infinite love of God and the power of Christ for salvation. Alex McKenzie had heard it all before--long before, being Scottish born, and a Highlander--and had not utterly forgotten, prodigal though he was. It was all recalled to him, now, by a man whose life and love and uplifted heart were well known to him--his minister.
McKenzie died that night. He had said never a word in the long interval; but just before his last breath was drawn--while the Pilot still held his hand and the Sister of Charity numbered her beads near by--he whispered in the Pilot's ear:
Pat, the old road-monkey--now come to the end of a long career of furious living--being about to die, sent for Higgins. He was desperately anxious concerning the soul that was about to depart from his ill-kept and degraded body; and he was in pain, and turning very weak.
"Pilot," Pat whispered, with a knowing little wink, "I want you to fix it for me."
"Sure, you know what I mean, Pilot," Pat replied. "I want you to fix it for me."
"Pat," said Higgins, "I _can't_ fix it for you."
"Then," said the dying man, in amazement, "what the hell did you come here for?"
"To show you," Higgins answered, gently, "how _you_ can fix it."
Higgins explained, then, the scheme of redemption, according to his creed--the atonement and salvation by faith. The man listened--and nodded comprehendingly--and listened, still with amazement--all the time nodding his understanding. "Uh-_huh!_" he muttered, when the preacher had done, as one who says, I _see!_ He said no other word before he died. Just, "Uh-_huh!_"--to express enlightenment. And when, later, it came time for him to die, he still held tight to Higgins's finger, muttering, now and again, "Uh-_huh!_ Uh-_huh!_"--like a man to whom has come some great astounding revelation.
In the bunk-house, after supper, Higgins preaches. It is a solemn service: no minister of them all so punctilious as Higgins in respect to reverent conduct. The preacher is in earnest and single of purpose. The congregation is compelled to reverence. "Boys," says he, in cunning appeal, "this bunk-house is our church--the only church we've got." No need to say more! And a queer church: a low, long hut, stifling and ill-smelling and unclean and infested, a row of double-decker bunks on either side, a great glowing stove in the middle, socks and Mackinaws steaming on the racks, boots put out to dry, and all dim-lit with lanterns. Half-clad, hairy men, and boys with young beards, lounge everywhere--stretched out on the benches, peering from the shadows of the bunks, squatted on the fire-wood, cross-legged on the floor near the preacher. Higgins rolls out a cask for a pulpit and covers it with a blanket. Then he takes off his coat and mops his brow.