They can't help themselves, it seems. Not all of them, of course; but most.
A big, clean, rosy-cheeked man in a Mackinaw coat and rubber boots--hardly distinguishable from the lumber-jack crew except for his quick step and high glance and fine resolute way--went swiftly through a Deer River saloon toward the snake-room in search of a lad from Toronto who had in the camps besought to be preserved from the vicissitudes of the town.
"There goes the Pilot," said a lumber-jack at the bar. "Hello, Pilot!"
"Ain't ye goin' t' preach no more at Camp Six?"
"Week from Thursday, Tom," the vanishing man called back; "tell the boys I'm coming."
"Higgins's job," said he, earnestly, "is keepin' us boys out o' hell; an' he's the only man on the job."
"I want t' tell ye, friend," the lumber-jack added, with honest reverence, "that he's a damned good Christian, if ever there was one. Ain't that right, Billy?"
"Higgins," the bartender agreed, "is a square man."
The lumber-jack reverted to the previous interest. All at once he forgot about the Pilot.
"Hey, Billy!" he cried, severely, "where'd ye put that bottle?"
Higgins was then in the snake-room of the place--a foul compartment into which the stupefied and delirious are thrown when they are penniless--searching the pockets of the drunken boy from Toronto for some leavings of his wages. "Not a cent!" said he, bitterly. "They haven't left him a cent! They've got every penny of three months' wages! Don't blame the boy," he pursued, in pain and infinite sympathy, easing the lad's head on the floor; "it isn't all his fault. He came out of the camps without telling me--and some cursed tin-horn gambler met him, I suppose--and he's only a boy--and they didn't give him a show--and, oh, the pity of it! he's been here only two days!"
The boy was in a stupor of intoxication, but presently revived a little, and turned very sick.
The boy sighed and collapsed unconscious: Higgins remained in the weltering filth of the room to ease and care for him. "Don't wait for me, old man," said he, looking up from the task. "I'll be busy for a while."
Frank necessity invented the snake-room of the lumber-town saloon. There are times of gigantic debauchery--the seasons of paying off. A logger then once counted one hundred and fifty men drunk in a single hotel of a town of twelve hundred inhabitants where fourteen other bar-rooms heartily flourished. They overflowed the snake-rooms--they lay snoring on the bar-room floor--they littered the office--they were doubled up on the stair-landings and stretched out in the corridors. Drunken men stumbled over drunken men and fell helpless beside them; and still, in the bar-room (said he)--beyond the men who slept or writhed on the floor and had been kicked out of the way--the lumber-jacks were clamoring three deep for whiskey at the bar. Hence the snake-room: one may not eject drunken men into bitter weather and leave them to freeze. Bartenders and their helpers carry them off to the snake-room when they drop; others stagger in of their own notion and fall upon their reeking fellows. There is no arrangement of the bodies--but a squirming heap of them, from which legs and arms protrude, wherein open-mouthed bearded faces appear in a tangle of contorted limbs. Men moan and laugh and sob and snore; and some cough with early pneumonia, some curse, some sing, some horribly grunt; and some, delirious, pick at spiders in the air, and talk to monkeys, and scream out to be saved from dogs and snakes. Men reel in yelling groups from the bar to watch the spectacle of which they will themselves presently be a part.