Part 26

“Yes,” said Joe, grateful for hearing of no more horrible believers, “but what _is_ his will but believing on him? Don’t the Bible say that they that believe shall be saved?”

“Joseph,” said the Squire, “when you believed in my store, you put in your time and money there. When you believed in hoss-tradin’ you devoted yourself to practicing it. When you believed life insurance was a good thing, you took out policies and paid for them, though you _have_ complained of the Patagonian dividends. Now, if you do believe in God, what have you done to prove it?”

“I’ve paid over a hundred dollars a year church dues,” said Joe, wrathfully, “not counting subscriptions to a bell and a new organ.”

“That wasn’t for God, Joseph,” said the Squire; “’twas all for you. God never’ll thank you for running an asylum for paupers fit to work. You’ll find in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew a description of those that’s going into the kingdom of heaven—they’re the people that give food and clothing to the needy, and that visit the sick and prisoners, while those that don’t do these things _don’t_ go in, to put it mildly. He don’t say a word about belief there, Joseph; for He knows that giving away property don’t happen till a man’s belief is pretty strong.”

Joe felt troubled. Could it really be that his eternal insurance was going to cost more money? Joe thought enviously of Colonel Bung, President of the Bungfield Railroad Co.—the Colonel didn’t believe in anything; so he saved all his money, and Joe wished he had some of the Colonel’s courage.

Joe’s meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Sam Ottrey, a poor fellow who owed Joe some money. Joe had lent Sam a hundred dollars, discounted ten per cent. for ninety days, and secured by a chattel mortgage on Sam’s horse and wagon. But Sam had been sick during most of the ninety days, and when he went to Joe to beg a few days of grace, that exemplary business man insisted upon immediate payment.

It was easy to see by Sam’s hopeless eye and strained features that he had not come to pay—he was staring ruin in the face, and felt as uncomfortable as if the amount were millions instead of a horse and wagon, his only means of support. As for Joe, he had got that hundred dollars and horse and wagon mixed up in the oddest way with what he and his partner had been talking about. It was utterly unbusinesslike—he knew it—he tried to make business business, and religion religion, but, try as he might, he could not succeed. Joe thought briskly; he determined to try an experiment.

“Sam,” said he, “got the money?”

“No,” Sam replied; “luck’s agin me—I’ve got to stand it, I suppose.”

“Sam,” said Joe, “I’ll give you all the time you need, at legal interest.”

Sam was not such a young man as sentimental people would select to try good deeds upon. But he was human, and loved his wife and children, and the sudden relief he felt caused him to look at Joe in a manner which made Joe find a couple of entire strangers in his own eyes. He hurried into the little office, and when his partner looked up inquiringly, Joe replied:

“I’ve got a dividend, Squire—one of those we were talking about.”

“How’s that?” asked the old man, while Joe commenced writing rapidly.

“I’ll show you,” said Joe, handing the Squire the paper on which he has just put in writing his promise to Sam.

“Joseph,” said the Squire, after reading the paper several times, to assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, “it beats the widow’s mites; she gave the Lord all she had, but you’ve given Him more than you ever had in all your life until to-day.”

Joe handed Sam the paper, and it was to the teamster the strongest evidence of Christianity he had ever seen in Bungfield. He had known of some hard cases turning from the saloon and joining the church, but none of these things were so wonderful as this action of Joe Gatter’s. Sam told the story, in strict confidence, to each of his friends, and the good seed was thus sown in soil that it had never reached before.

It would be pleasant to relate that Joe forthwith ceased shaving notes and selling antiquated grease for butter, and that he devoted the rest of his days and money to good deeds, but it wouldn’t be true. Those of our readers who have always consistently acted according to their own light and knowledge are, of course, entitled to throw stones at Joe Gatter; but most of us know to our sorrow why he didn’t always act according to the good promptings he received. Our only remaining duty is to say that when, thereafter, Joe’s dividends came seldom, he knew who to blame.

THE TEMPERANCE MEETING AT BACKLEY.

LOUD and long rang the single church-bell at Backley, but its industry was entirely unnecessary, for the single church at Backley was already full from the altar to the doors, and the window-sills and altar-steps were crowded with children. The Backleyites had been before to the regular yearly temperance meetings, and knew too well the relative merits of sitting and standing to wait until called by the bell. Of course no one could afford to be absent, for entertainments were entirely infrequent at Backley; the populace was too small to support a course of lectures, and too moral to give any encouragement to circuses and minstrel troupes, but a temperance meeting was both moral and cheap, and the children might all be taken without extra cost.

For months all the young men and maidens at Backley had been practising the choruses of the songs which the Temperance Glee Club at a neighboring town was to sing at the meeting. For weeks had large posters, printed in the reddest of ink, announced to the surrounding country that the parent society would send to Backley, for this especial occasion, one of its most brilliant orators, and although the pastor made the statement (in the smallest possible type) that at the close of the entertainment a collection would be taken to defray expenses of the lecturer, the sorrowing ones took comfort in the fact that certain fractional currency represented but a small amount of money.

The bell ceased ringing, and the crowd at the door attempted to squeeze into the aisles; the Backley Cornet Quartette played a stirring air; Squire Breet called the meeting to order, and was himself elected permanent Chairman; the Reverend Mr. Genial prayed earnestly that intemperance might cease to reign; the Glee Club sang several songs, with rousing choruses; a pretended drunkard and a cold water advocate (both pupils of the Backley High School), delivered a dialogue in which the pretended drunkard was handled severely; a tableau of “The Drunkard’s Home” was given; and then the parent society’s brilliant orator took the platform.

The orator was certainly very well informed, logical and convincing, besides being quite witty. He proved to the satisfaction of all present that alcohol was not nutritious; that it awakened a general and unhealthy physical excitement; and that it hardened the tissues of the brain. He proved by reports of analyses, that adulteration, and with harmful materials, was largely practiced. He quoted from reports of police, prison and almshouse authorities, to prove his statement that alcohol made most of our criminals. He unrolled a formidable array of statistics, and showed how many loaves of bread could be bought with the money expended in the United States for intoxicating liquors; how many comfortable houses the same money would build; how many schools it would support; and how soon it would pay the National Debt.

Then he drew a moving picture of the sorrow of the drunkard’s family and the awfulness of the drunkard’s death, and sat down amid a perfect thunder of applause.

The faithful beamed upon each other with glowing and expressive countenances; the Cornet Quartette played “Don’t you go, Tommy”; the smallest young lady sang “Father, dear father, come Home with me Now”; and then Squire Breet, the Chairman, announced that the meeting was open for remarks.

A derisive laugh from some of the half-grown boys, and a titter from some of the misses, attracted the attention of the audience, and looking round they saw Joe Digg standing up in a pew near the door.

“Put him out!” “It’s a shame!” “Disgraceful!” were some of the cries which were heard in the room.

“Mr. Digg is a citizen of Backley,” said the Chairman, rapping vigorously to call the audience to order, “and though not a member of the Association, he is entitled to a hearing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Joe Digg, when quiet was restored; “your words are the first respectful ones I’ve ever heard in Backley, an’ I do assure you I appreciate ’em. But I want the audience to understand I ain’t drunk—I haven’t had a cent for two days, an’ nobody’s treated me.”

By this time the audience was very quiet, but in a delicious fever of excitement. A drunkard speaking right out in a temperance meeting!—they had never heard of such a thing in their lives. Verily, Backley was going to add one to the roll of modest villages made famous by unusual occurrences.

“I ’spose, Mr. Chairman,” continued Joe Digg, “that the pint of temp’rance meetin’s is to stop drunkenness, an’ as I’m about the only fully developed drunkard in town, I’m most likely to know what this meetin’s ’mounted to.”

Squire Breet inclined his head slightly, as if to admit the correctness of Joe Digg’s position.

“I believe ev’ry word the gentleman has said,” continued the drunkard, “and”—here he paused long enough to let an excitable member exclaim “Bless the Lord!” and burst into tears—“and he could have put it all a good deal stronger without stretchin’ the truth. An’ the sorrer of a drunkard’s home can be talked about ‘till the Dictionary runs dry, an’ then ye don’t know nothin’ ’bout it. But hain’t none of ye ever laughed ’bout lockin’ the stable door after the hoss is stolen? That’s just what this temp’rance meetin’ an’ all the others comes to.”

A general and rather indignant murmur of dissent ran through the audience.

“Ye don’t believe it,” continued Joe Digg, “but I’ve been a drunkard, an’ I’m one yet, an’ ye all got sense enough to understan’ that I ort to know best about it.”

“Will the gentleman have the kindness to explain?” asked the lecturer.

“I’m a comin’ to it, sir, ef my head ’ll see me through,” replied the drunkard. “You folks all b’leeve that its lovin’ liquor that makes men drink it; now, ’taint no sech thing. I never had a chance to taste fancy drinks, but I know that every kind of liquor _I_ ever got hold of was more like medicine than anything nice.”

“Then what _do_ they drink for?” demanded the excitable member.

“I’ll tell you,” said Joe, “if you’ll have a little patience. I have to do it in my own way, for I ain’t used to public speakin’. You all know who I am. My father was a church-member, an’ so was mother. Father done day’s work, fur a dollar’n a quarter a day. How much firewood an’ clothes an’ food d’ye suppose that money could pay for? We had to eat what come cheapest, an’ when some of the women here wuz a sittin’ comfortable o’ nights, a knittin’ an’ sewin’ an’ readin’, mother wuz hangin’ aroun’ the butchershop, tryin’ to beat the butcher down on the scraps that wasn’t good enough for you folks. Soon as we young ’uns was big enough to do anything we wuz put to work. I’ve worked for men in this room twelve an’ fourteen hours a day. I don’t blame ’em—they didn’t mean nothin’ out of the way—they worked just as long ’emselves, an’ so did their boys. But they allers had somethin’ inside to keep ’em up, an’ I didn’t. Does anybody wonder that when I harvested with some men that kep’ liquor in the field, an’ found how it helped me along, that I took it, an’ thought ’twas a reg’lar God’s-blessin’? An’ when I foun’ ’twas a-hurtin’ me, how was I to go to work an’ giv’ it up, when it stood me instead of the eatables I didn’t have, an’ never had, neither?”

“You should hev prayed,” cried old Deacon Towser, springing to his feet; “prayed long an’ earnest.”

“Deacon,” said Joe Digg, “I’ve heerd of your dyspepsy for nigh on to twenty year; did prayin’ ever comfort _your_ stomach?”

The whole audience indulged in a profane laugh, and the good deacon was suddenly hauled down by his wife. The drunkard continued:

“There’s lots of jest sech folks, here in Backley, an’ ev’ry where’s else—people that don’t get half fed, an’ do get worked half to death. Nobody _means_ to ’buse ’em, but they do hev a hard time of it, an’ whisky’s the best friend they’ve got.”

“I work my men from sunrise to sunset in summer, myself,” said Deacon Towser, jumping up again, “an’ I’m the first man in the field, an’ the last man to quit. But I don’t drink no liquor, an’ my boys don’t, neither.”

“But ye don’t start in the mornin’ with hungry little faces a hauntin’ ye—ye don’t take the dry crusts to the field for yer own dinner, an’ leave the meat an’ butter at home for the wife an’ young ’uns. An’ ye go home without bein’ afeard to see a half-fed wife draggin’ herself aroun’ among a lot of puny young ’uns that don’t know what’s the matter with ’em. Jesus Christ hissef broke down when it come to the cross, deac’n, an’ poor human bein’s sometimes reaches a pint where they can’t stan’ no more, an’ when its wife an’ children that brings it on, it gits a man awful.”

“The gentleman is right, I have no doubt,” said the Chairman, “so far as a limited class is concerned, but of course no such line of argument applies to the majority of cases. There are plenty of well-fed, healthy, and lazy young men hanging about the tavern in this very village.”

“I know it,” said Joe Digg, “an’ I want to talk about them too. I don’t want to take up all the time of this meetin’, but you’ll all ’low I know more ’bout that tavern than any body else does. Ther’ is lots of young men a hanging aroun’ it, an’ why—’cos it’s made pleasant for ’em an’ it’s the only place in town that is. I’ve been a faithful attendant at that tavern for nigh onto twenty year, an’ I never knowed a hanger-on there that had a comfortable home of his own. Some of them that don’t hev to go to bed hungry hev scoldin’ or squabblin’ parents, an’ they can’t go a visitin’, an’ hear fine music, an’ see nice things of every sort to take their minds off, as some young men in this meetin’ house can. But the tavern is allus comfortable, an’ ther’s generally somebody to sing a song and tell a joke, an’ they commence goin’ ther’ more fur a pleasant time than for a drink, at fust. Ther’s lots of likely boys goin’ there that I wish to God ’d stay away, an’ I’ve often felt like tellin’ ’em so, but what’s the use? Where are they to go to?”

“They ort to flee from even the appearance of evil,” said Deacon Towser.

“But where be they to flee _to_, Deac’n?” persisted Joe Digg; “would you like ’em to come a visitin’ to your house?”

“They can come to the church meetings,” replied the Deacon; “there’s two in the week, besides Sundays, an’ some of ’em’s precious seasons—_all_ of ’em’s an improvement on the wicked tavern.”

“’Ligion don’t taste no better’n whiskey, tell you get used to it,” said the drunkard, horrifying all the orthodox people at Backley, “an’ ’taint made half so invitin’. ’Taint long ago I heerd ye tellin’ another deacon that the church-members ort to be ’shamed of ’emselves, ’cos sca’cely any of ’em come to the week-evenin’ meetin’s, so ye can’t blame the boys at the tavern.”

“Does the gentleman mean to convey the idea that all drunkards become so from justifying causes?” asked the lecturer.

“No, sir,” replied Joe Digg, “but I do mean to say that after you leave out them that takes liquor to help ’em do a full day’s work, an’ them that commence drinkin’ ’cos they’re at the tavern, an’ ain’t got no where’s else to go, you’ve made a mighty big hole in the crowd of drinkin’-men—bigger’n temperance meetin’s ever begin to make yit.”

“But how are they to be ‘left out’?” asked the lecturer.

“By temp’rance folks doin’ somethin’ beside talkin’,” replied the drunkard. “For twenty year I’ve been lectured and scolded, an’ some good men’s come to me with tears in their eyes, and put their arms ‘roun’ my neck, an’ begged me to stop drinkin’. An’ I’ve wanted to, an’ tried to, but when all the encouragement a man gits is in words, an’ no matter how he commenced drinkin’, now ev’ry bone an’ muscle in him is a beggin’ fur drink ez soon as he leaves off, an’ his mind’s dull, an’ he ain’t fit fur much, an’ needs takin’ care of as p’tic’ler ez a mighty sick man, talk’s jist as good ez wasted. Ther’s been times when ef I’d been ahead on flour an’ meat an’ sich, I could a’ stopped drinkin’, but when a man’s hungry, an’ ragged, an’ weak, and half-crazy, knowin’ how his family’s fixed an he can’t do nothin’ fur ’em, an’ then don’t get nothin’ but words to reform on, he’ll go back to the tavern ev’ry time, an’ he’ll drink till he’s comfortable an’ till he forgits. I want the people here, one an’ all, to understand that though I’m past helpin’ now, ther’s been fifty times in the last twenty year when I might hed been stopped short, ef any body’d been sensible enough and good-hearted enough to give me a lift.”

Joe Digg sat down, and there was a long pause. The Chairman whispered to the leader of the Glee Club, and the club sang a song, but somehow it failed to awaken the usual enthusiasm. After the singing had ended, the Chairman himself took the floor and moved the appointment of a permanent committee to look after the intemperate, and to collect funds when the use of money seemed necessary, and the village doctor created a sensation by moving that Mr. Joe Digg should be a member of the committee. Deacon Towser, who was the richest man in the village, and who dreaded subscription papers, started an insidious opposition by eloquently vaunting the value of earnest prayer and of determined will, in such cases, but the new member of the committee (though manifestly out of order) outmanœuvred the Deacon by accepting both amendments, and remarking that in a hard fight folks would take all the help they could get.

Somehow, as soon as the new committee—determining to open a place of entertainment in opposition to the tavern, and furnish it pleasantly, and make it an attractive gathering-place for young men—asked for contributions to enable them to do it, the temperance excitement at Backley abated marvelously. But Squire Breet, and the doctor, and several other enterprising men, took the entire burden on their own shoulders—or pockets—and Joe Digg was as useful as a reformed thief to a police department. For the doctor, whose professional education had left him a large portion of his natural common sense in working order, took a practical interest in the old drunkard’s case, and others of the committee looked to the necessities of his family, and it came to pass that Joe was one of the earliest of the reformers. Men still go to the tavern at Backley, but as, even when the twelve spake with inspired tongues, some people remained impenitent, the temperance men at Backley feel that they have great cause for encouragement, and that they have, at least, accomplished more within a few months than did all the temperance meetings ever held in their village.

JUDE.

GOPHER HILL had determined that it could not endure Jude any longer.

The inhabitants of Gopher Hill possessed an unusual amount of kindness and long-suffering, as was proved by the fact that Chinamen were allowed to work all abandoned claims at the Hill. Had further proof been necessary, it would have been afforded by the existence of a church directly beside the saloon, although the frequenters of the sacred edifice had often, during week-evening meetings, annoyed convivial souls in the saloon by requesting them to be less noisy.

But Jude was too much for Gopher Hill. No one molested him when he first appeared, but each citizen entered a mental protest within his own individual consciousness; for Jude had a bad reputation in most of the settlements along Spanish Creek.

It was not that he had killed his man, and stolen several horses and mules, and got himself into a state of most disorderly inebriation, for, in the opinion of many Gopher Hillites, these actions _might_ have been the visible results of certain virtuous conditions of mind.

But Jude had, after killing a man, spent the victim’s money; he had stolen from men who had befriended him; he had jumped claims; he had denied his score at the storekeeper’s; he had lied on all possible occasions; and had gambled away money which had been confided to him in trust.

One mining camp after another had become too hot for him; but he never adopted a new set of principles when he staked a new claim, so his stay in new localities was never of sufficient length to establish the fact of legal residence. His name seemed to be a respectable cognomen of Scriptural extraction, but it was really a contraction of a name which, while equally Scriptural and far more famous, was decidedly unpopular—the name of Judas Iscariot.

The whole name had been originally bestowed upon Jude, in recognition of his success in swindling a mining partner; but, with an acuteness of perception worthy of emulation, the miners determined that the length of the appellation detracted from its force, so they shortened it to Jude.

As a few of the more enterprising citizens of Gopher Hill were one morning discussing the desirableness of getting rid of Jude, and wondering how best to effect such a result, they received important foreign aid.

A man rode up to the saloon, dismounted, and tacked on the wall a poster offering one thousand dollars reward for the apprehension of a certain person who had committed an atrocious murder a month before at Duck Run.

The names and _aliases_ of the guilty person were unfamiliar to those who gathered about the poster, but the description of the murderer’s appearance was so suggestive, that Squire Bogern, one of the bystanders, found Jude, and requested him to read the poster.

“Well, ’twasn’t _me_ done it,” sulkily growled the namesake of the apostolic treasurer.

“Ther’ hain’t nobody in Gopher that ’ud take a feller up fur a reward,” replied the squire, studiously oblivious of Jude’s denial; “but it’s a nice mornin’ fur a walk. Ye can’t miss the trail an’ git lost, ye know. An’, seein’ yer hevn’t staked any claim, an’ so hain’t got any to dispose of, mebbe yer could git, inside of five minutes.”

Jude was accustomed to “notices to quit,” and was able to extract their import from any verbiage whatever, so he drank by and to himself, and immediately sauntered out of town, with an air of bravado in his carriage, and a very lonesome look in his face.

Down the trail he tramped, past claims whose occupants knew him well enough, but who, just as he passed, found some excuse for looking the other way.

He passed through one camp after another, and discovered (for he stopped at each saloon) that the man on horseback had preceded him, and that there seemed a wonderful unanimity of opinion as to the identity of the man who was wanted.

Finally, after passing through several of the small camps, which were dotted along the trail, a mile or two apart, Jude flung himself on the ground under a clump of azaleas, with the air of a man whose temper had been somewhat ruffled.