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: "Tell the boys I made the grade!" * * * * * 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. Higgins waited. "Pilot," Pat whispered, with a knowing little wink, "I want you to fix it for me." "To fix it, Pat?" "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." "_Me_ 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. XIII STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER 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. Presently, hymn-book or Testament in hand, he is sitting on the pulpit. "Not much light here," says he, "so I won't read to-night; but I'll _say_ the First Psalm. Are you all ready?" Everybody is ready. "All right. '_Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,_' boys, '_nor standeth in the way of sinners._'" The door opens and a man awkwardly enters.