p. 10 | THE RIGHT KIND OF COURAGE by George Ethelbert Walsh

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jan 13, 1904

THE RIGHT KIND OF COURAGE.

By George Ethelbert Walsh

[George Ethelbert Walsh, in Christian Advocate.]

"THIS foolishness must stop!" exclaimed the foreman of the gang of riveters, as he stood on the bank below, and saw one of his workmen poised between heaven and earth on a huge iron beam that was being hoisted to its place five hundred feet above the river.

"We've had accidents enough," he continued, sharply. "The next man who goes up on a girder or beam will be discharged."

That night the order went forth. The more conservative of the men greeted it with wise and approving nods of the head. There were dangers and accidents enough in their business without inviting unnecessary ones. There was no earthly reason why any one should go up with a beam, sitting astride of it, or standing upright to show his comrades how cool he could be.

But not all of the younger men and apprentices viewed it in this light. "I guess no one will get hurt riding up on a beam," said Henry Cleveland, one of the most daring of the riveters' apprentices. "It's no worse than hanging on the beams to hold hot rivets, or walking the narrow girders. I guess the foreman has indigestion."

Several of the other apprentices and assistants applauded this sentiment; but Harry Motley, one of the youngest of the boys, shook his head doubtfully, and said:—

"I don't think we should take unnecessary risks, anyway."

There was a shout of derisive laughter at this sage remark.

"Say, Harry, you must have lost your nerve," one of the boys replied.

"Never had any," said Henry, with a grunt. "Did you ever see him walk a beam? He keeps as far away from the edge as possible, and looks at the sky instead of the water. I'll bet he couldn't walk this beam here and look down."

Henry indicated a narrow steel girder, which had just been placed in position. It extended across from one cable to another. In the wind it swayed a little, and it was certainly a precarious foothold for any one.

"Come now, dare you do it?"

"Yes, I dare do it, but I'm not going to," replied Harry, with a flush suffusing his face.

"A nice thing to say. Well, I'll show you how to do it."

In an instant Henry had climbed out to the beam and was walking across it, balancing himself deftly on the narrow surface, and calling back to his companions when he reached the other side.

"That's the way to do it," he shouted. "Now do you take the dare?"

Harry was strongly inclined to show his comrades that his nerves were as strong as their leader's. The dizzy height had no terror for him. He had time and again looked down from a high perch and knew that his head was perfectly level. He hesitated, thinking that he was foolish not to earn the good opinion of his comrades, and then a rush of thoughts overcame him. What right had he to imperil his life for nothing—simply for a dare? Did he not have a mother and tiny brother dependent upon his wages for their happiness?

"That was well done, Henry," he said, with a smile and laugh, "but you don't expect me to do it simply because you did."

"And why not? The other fellows will do it."

They were dominated by Henry, so that when he ordered them to walk the beam they did so without a word of expostulation. But there was one moment when all hearts suddenly stopped beating. Williston Young, a new worker on the bridge, hesitated an instant on the way back, swayed, and turned pale. For an instant it seemed as if he would fall to the river below. It was a case of sudden fright and fear that comes sometimes to almost all workers on high places.

The boys stood stock still, fear clutching them at the heart. Only Harry Motley grasped the situation and acted. Without apparent hurry or excitement he stepped toward the beam, and, pointing to the derrick above, said in his most natural voice:—

"See that gull on the top of the derrick, Williston. I believe it's a big Labrador gull. They do come down this river in summer. I saw one once stuffed in a museum."

The frightened, trembling boy on the beam looked up at the gull, his attention being so diverted from his perilous position that he forgot it temporarily. When he looked down again Harry was standing on a neighboring beam, frailer and narrower, but swung parallel to the first, with one hand touching Williston on the shoulder. It required all the strength and nerve of his body and mind to hold himself under control, but the danger in which Williston was placed gave him strength.

"We'll cross arms this way," Harry said, slowly, placing a hand on Williston's shoulder. The frightened boy saw the plan, and instantly extended an arm toward Harry. Thus locked together they formed a firm and steady support for each other. A dozen steps brought them safely to the platform.

Williston was so overcome with giddiness that he sat down and buried his pale face in his hands. Henry Cleveland had been a silent witness of the deed. He walked up to Harry Motley and said:—

"That was great—a brave deed. I couldn't do it myself. I was frightened to death when I saw your plan. You weren't a bit afraid, and as cool—"

Harry interrupted him with a nervous laugh. "No," he said, "I must confess it. I was frightened too—terribly."

And he shuddered at the remembrance, and buried his face in his hands. But his confession of fear brought no words of taunt from Henry. Instead he said: "I wish I could be frightened that way sometimes. When I'm frightened it controls me; but when you are frightened you seem to control yourself."