rare meekness, and why his Lord had said “Blessed are the meek.” Vicky liked to see Father Cooper standing kindly there among all sorts of people, talking to them; but she had such a poor opinion of meekness (so near it was to herself) that she did not listen to Father Cooper’s words, and her thoughts strayed to Mort Johnson who had gone off with Eddie Hansen (she supposed). She was a little afraid that Mort might get into some sort of trouble with Eddie who was acting pretty wild and was a big powerful man and drunk, and then oh poor Myrtle, wouldn’t she be upset at Morty; because Myrtle was so proud.
Benediction and the last hymn ended the short service. Vicky knew the hymn and joined in the singing with her voice of a small twittering bird, with the thin twittering voice of achickadee, perhaps, that whispers and whispers in the trees. Her thoughts left Myrtle and Mort and Eddie Hansen and came back to Father Cooper who stood now at the door of the church and shook hands with his people. Vicky liked Father Cooper to shake hands with her; nothing was demanded of her in return for this handshake. Her seclusion was warmed by it and not violated. She went out into the dark lighted street where wet pavements shone. The rain had for a moment ceased. I will get back home before the rain begins again, she thought, thinking of her veil, and she hurried along, her head poking forward, as if she had an immediate appointment.
A block or two along Cordova Street she saw, under the street lamp, a group of men standing, talking. Others joined this group. Men questioned each other. What is it? Vicky prepares to go around and so avoid the group. All the people are serious. What has happened? Something has happened. As Vicky skirts the group of people talking under the street lamp she hears a man say “Not Mort Johnson!”
Another man turns to him and says “Yes, the name was Mort Johnson.”
Vicky stands still and listens to the men talking and questioning together. She then learns that Mort Johnson is dead.
THIRTEEN
I n what good humour Morty made his way out to Burnaby to the nurseries to see if old Cameron had a job for him. This was the kind of job that he liked, something reg’lar but not too reg’lar. The one catch, he knew as he bounced along in the interurban railway, was that some years ago he had worked at these nurseries and had been fired by old Cameron for being lazy, negligent and incompetent; not grave faults perhaps, but faults which enrage a competent and industrious employer. Still and all, Morty questioned whether old Cameron would really remember him, as old Cameron had hardly seen Morty and had dealt with him through intermediaries. So all of this did not trouble Morty very much as he bounced along through the outskirts of the sprawling city of Vancouver and looked out of the car windows at the soft grey day, day soft and damp and enervating, air opaque and lethargic, holding promise of rain. The handsome mountains which line the northern sky of Vancouver receive the impact of bodies of air travelling across from the Pacific Ocean, down from the Queen Charlotte Islands, down from the Aleutians, and these bodies of air, striking the handsome mountains,grow heavy, and sullen with increase; they break, and the rain falls and falls, and newcomers from the bright prairies wonder if they won’t go back home if there’s one more day of this rain, but oldtimers of Vancouver, though a little weary of the rain, know always that when a glorious day breaks on the green ground and on the mountains, this rain will be forgotten in the brilliant air. Mort was nearly an oldtimer, and the rain coming soon didn’t bother him, and the thought of old Cameron didn’t bother him much, but the need of a job and some money in his pocket bothered him a little. He rather hoped to see out there a friend of Mrs. Emblem’s, by name Mr. Mottle, before he ever came up against old Cameron, because Mr. Mottle knew Mort under the
Benediction and the last hymn ended the short service. Vicky knew the hymn and joined in the singing with her voice of a small twittering bird, with the thin twittering voice of achickadee, perhaps, that whispers and whispers in the trees. Her thoughts left Myrtle and Mort and Eddie Hansen and came back to Father Cooper who stood now at the door of the church and shook hands with his people. Vicky liked Father Cooper to shake hands with her; nothing was demanded of her in return for this handshake. Her seclusion was warmed by it and not violated. She went out into the dark lighted street where wet pavements shone. The rain had for a moment ceased. I will get back home before the rain begins again, she thought, thinking of her veil, and she hurried along, her head poking forward, as if she had an immediate appointment.
A block or two along Cordova Street she saw, under the street lamp, a group of men standing, talking. Others joined this group. Men questioned each other. What is it? Vicky prepares to go around and so avoid the group. All the people are serious. What has happened? Something has happened. As Vicky skirts the group of people talking under the street lamp she hears a man say “Not Mort Johnson!”
Another man turns to him and says “Yes, the name was Mort Johnson.”
Vicky stands still and listens to the men talking and questioning together. She then learns that Mort Johnson is dead.
THIRTEEN
I n what good humour Morty made his way out to Burnaby to the nurseries to see if old Cameron had a job for him. This was the kind of job that he liked, something reg’lar but not too reg’lar. The one catch, he knew as he bounced along in the interurban railway, was that some years ago he had worked at these nurseries and had been fired by old Cameron for being lazy, negligent and incompetent; not grave faults perhaps, but faults which enrage a competent and industrious employer. Still and all, Morty questioned whether old Cameron would really remember him, as old Cameron had hardly seen Morty and had dealt with him through intermediaries. So all of this did not trouble Morty very much as he bounced along through the outskirts of the sprawling city of Vancouver and looked out of the car windows at the soft grey day, day soft and damp and enervating, air opaque and lethargic, holding promise of rain. The handsome mountains which line the northern sky of Vancouver receive the impact of bodies of air travelling across from the Pacific Ocean, down from the Queen Charlotte Islands, down from the Aleutians, and these bodies of air, striking the handsome mountains,grow heavy, and sullen with increase; they break, and the rain falls and falls, and newcomers from the bright prairies wonder if they won’t go back home if there’s one more day of this rain, but oldtimers of Vancouver, though a little weary of the rain, know always that when a glorious day breaks on the green ground and on the mountains, this rain will be forgotten in the brilliant air. Mort was nearly an oldtimer, and the rain coming soon didn’t bother him, and the thought of old Cameron didn’t bother him much, but the need of a job and some money in his pocket bothered him a little. He rather hoped to see out there a friend of Mrs. Emblem’s, by name Mr. Mottle, before he ever came up against old Cameron, because Mr. Mottle knew Mort under the
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