Every Man for Himself   By: Herbert Joseph Moorhouse (1882-)

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.