Chapter I: KEEP a boarding-house (4)

“I don’t wish him any harm,” said a tall, good-natured fellow, who succeeded the judge; “but the feller’s looks is agin the reputation uv the place. In a camp like this here one, whar society’s first-class—no greasers nur pigtails nur loafers—it ain’t the thing to hev anybody around that looks like a corkscrew that’s been fed on green apples and watered with vinegar—it’s discouragin’ to gentlemen that might hev a notion of stakin’ a claim, fur the sake uv enjoyin’ our social advantages.”

“N-none uv yer hev got to the wust uv it yit,” remarked another. “The old cuss is too fond uv his dust. Billy Banks seen him a-buyin’ pork up to the store, an’ he handled his pouch ez ef ’twas eggs instid of gold-dust—poured it out as keerful ez yer please, an’ even scraped up a little bit he spilt. Now, when I wuz a little rat, an’ went to Sunday-school, they used to keep a-waggin’ at me ’bout evil communication a-corruptin’ o’ good manners. That’s what _he’ll_ do—fust thing yer know, _other_ fellers’ll begin to be stingy, an’ think gold-dust wuz made to save instid uv to buy drinks an’ play keards fur. _That’s_ what it’ll come to.”

“Beggin’ ev’rybody’s pardon,” interposed a deserter from the army, “but these here perceedin’s is irreg’lar. ’Tai’nt the square thing to take evidence till the pris’ner’s in court.”

Boston Ben immediately detailed a special officer to summon Old Scrabblegrab, declared a recess of five minutes, and invited the boys to drink with him.

Those who took sugar in theirs had the cup dashed from their lips just as they were draining the delicious dregs, for the officer and culprit appeared, and the chairman rapped the assembly to order.

Boston Ben had been an interested attendant at certain law-courts in the States, so in the calm consciousness of his acquaintance with legal procedure he rapidly arraigned Scrabblegrab.

“Scrabblegrab, you’re complained uv for goin’ back on bitters, coaxin’ Curly to give up keards, thus spoilin’ his fun, an’ knockin’ appreciatin’ observers out of their amusement; uv insultin’ the judge, uv not cussin’ when you stumble into the river, uv not havin’ any good p’ints, an’ not showin’ yer bad ones; uv bein’ a set-back on the tone uv the place—lookin’ like a green-apple-fed, vinegar-watered corkscrew, or words to that effect; an’, finally, in savin’ yer money. What hev you got to say agin’ sentence bein’ passed on yer?”

“I DON’T GENERALLY SHOOT TILL THE OTHER FELLER DRAWS.”
]

The old man flushed as the chairman proceeded, and when the indictment reached its end, he replied, in a tone which indicated anything but respect for the court:

“I’ve got just this to say, that I paid my way here, I’ve asked no odds of any man sence I’ve ben here, an’ that anybody that takes pains to meddle with my affairs is an impudent scoundrel!”

Saying which, the old man turned to go, while the court was paralyzed into silence.

But Tom Dosser, a new arrival, and a famous shot, now stepped in front of the old man.

“I ax yer parding,” said Tom, in the blandest of tones, “but, uv course, yer didn’t mean me when yer mentioned impudent scoundrels?”

“Yes, I did—I meant you, and ev’rybody like yer,” replied the old man.

Tom’s hand moved toward his pistol. The chairman expeditiously got out of range. Stumpy Flukes promptly retired to the extreme end of the bar, and groaned audibly.

The old man _was_ in the wrong; but, then, wasn’t it _too_ mean, when blood was so hard to get out, that these difficulties _always_ took place just after he’d got the floor clean?

“I don’t generally shoot till the other feller draws,” explained Tom Dosser, while each man in the room wept with emotion as they realized they had lived to see Tom’s skill displayed before their very eyes—“I don’t generally shoot till the other feller draws; but you’d better be spry. I usually make a little allowance for age, but——”

Tom’s further explanations were indefinitely delayed by an abnormal contraction of his trachea, the same being induced by the old man’s right hand, while his left seized the unhappy Thomas by his waist-belt, and a second later the dead shot of Blugsey’s was tossed into the middle of the floor, somewhat as a sheaf of oats is tossed by a practiced hand.

“Anybody else?” inquired the old man. “I’ll back Vermont bone an’ muscle agin’ the hull passel of ye, even if I _be_ a deacon. ‘The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him.’”

“The angel needn’t hurry hisself,” said Tom Dosser, picking himself up, one joint at a time. “Ef that’s the crowd yer travelin’ with, and they’ve got a grip anything like yourn, I don’t want nothin’ to do with ’em.”

Boston Ben looked excited, and roared:

“This court’s adjourned _sine die_.”

Then he rushed up to the newly announced deacon, caught him firmly by the right hand, slapped him heartily between the shoulders, and inquired, rather indignantly:

“Say, old Angelchum, why didn’t you ever let folks know yer style, instead uv trottin’ ‘round like a melancholy clam with his shells shut up tight? That’s what this crowd wants to know! Now yev opened down to bed-rock, we’ll git English Sam from Sonora, an’ git up the tallest kind uv a rasslin’ match.”

“Not unless English Sam meddles with my business, you won’t,” replied the deacon, quickly. “I’ve got enough to do fightin’ speretual foes.”

“Oh,” said Boston Ben, “we’ll manage it so the church folks needn’t think ’twas a set-up job. We’ll put Sam up to botherin’ yer, and yer can tackle him at sight. Then——”

“Excuse me, Boston,” interrupted Tom Dosser, “but yer don’t hit the mark. I’m from Vermont myself, an’ deacons there don’t fight for the fun of it, whatever they may do in the village _you_ hail from.” Then, turning to the old man, Tom asked: “What part uv the old State be ye from, deacon, an’ what fetched ye out?”

“From nigh Rutland,” replied the deacon, “I hed a nice little place thar, an’ wuz doin’ well. But the young one’s eyes is bad. None uv the doctors thereabouts could do anythin’ fur ’em. Took her to Boston; nobody thar could do anythin’—said some of the European doctors were the only ones that could do the job safely. Costs money goin’ to Europe an’ payin’ doctors—I couldn’t make it to hum in twenty year; so I come here.”

“Only child?” inquired Tom Dosser, while the boys crowded about the two Vermonters, and got up a low buzz of sympathetic conversation.

The old man heard it all, and to his lonesome and homesick soul it was so sweet and comforting, that it melted his natural reserve, and made him anxious to unbosom himself to some one. So he answered Tom:

“Only child of my only darter.”

“Father dead?” inquired Tom Dosser.

“Better be,” replied the deacon, bitterly. “He left her soon after they were married.”

“Mean skunk!” said Tom, sympathetically.

“I want to judge as I’d _be_ judged,” replied the deacon; “but I feel ez ef I couldn’t call that man bad enough names. Hesby was ez good a gal ez ever lived, but she went to visit some uv our folks at Burlington, an’ fust thing I know’d she writ me she’d met this chap, and they’d been married, an’ wanted us to forgive her; but he was so good, an’ she loved him so dearly.”

“Good for the gal,” said Tom, and a murmur of approbation ran through the crowd.

“Of course, we forgave her. We’d hev done it ef she married Satan himself,” continued the deacon. “But we begged her to bring her husband up home, an’ let us look at him. Whatever was good enough for _her_ to love was good enough for us, and we meant to try to love Hesby’s husband.”

“Done yer credit, deacon, too,” declared Tom, and again the crowd uttered a confirmatory murmur. “Ef some folks—deacons, too—wuz ez good—But go ahead, deac’n.”

“Next thing we heard from her, he had gone to the place he was raised in; but a friend of his, who went with him, came back, an’ let out he’d got tight, an’ been arrested. She writ him right off, beggin’ him to come home, and go with her up to our place, where he could be out of temptation an’ where she’d love him dearer than ever.”

“Pure gold, by thunder!” ejaculated Tom, while a low “You bet,” was heard all over the room.

Tom’s eyes were in such a condition that he thought the deacon’s were misty, and the deacon noticed the same peculiarities about Tom.

“She never got a word from him,” continued the deacon; “but one of her own came back, addressed in his writing.”

“The infernal scoundrel!” growled Tom, while from the rest of the boys escaped epithets which caused the deacon, indignant as he was, to shiver with horror.

“She was nearly crazy, an’ started to find him, but nobody knowed where he was. The postmaster said he’d come to the office ev’ry day for a fortnight, askin’ for a letter, so he must hev got hers.”

“Ef all women had such stuff in ’em,” sighed Tom, “there’ll be one fool less in California. ’Xcuse me, deac’n.”

“She never gev up hopin’ he’d come back,” said the deacon, in accents that seemed to indicate labored breath “an’ it sometimes seems ez ef such faith’d be rewarded by the Lord some time or other. She teaches Pet—that’s her child—to talk about her papa, an’ to kiss his pictur; an’ when she an’ Pet goes to sleep, his pictur’s on the pillar between ’em.”

“An’ the idee that any feller could be mean enough to go back on such a woman! Deacon, I’d track him right through the world, an’ just tell him what you’ve told us. Ef _that_ didn’t fetch him, I’d consider it a Christian duty an’ privilege to put a hole through him.”

“I couldn’t do that,” replied the deacon, “even ef I was a man uv blood; fur Hesby loves him, an’ he’s Pet’s dad; Besides, his pictur looks like a decent young chap—ain’t got no hair on his face, an’ looks more like an innercent boy than anythin’ else. Hesby thinks Pet looks like him, an’ I couldn’t touch nobody looking like Pet. Mebbe you’d like to see her pictur,” continued the deacon, drawing from his pocket an ambrotype, which he opened and handed Tom.

“Looks sweet ez a posy,” said Tom, regarding it tenderly. “Them little lips uv hern look jest like a rose when it don’t know whether to open a little further or not.”

The deacon looked pleased, and extracted another picture, and remarked, as he handed it to Tom:

“That’s Pet’s mother.”

THE DEACON LOOKED PLEASED, AND EXTRACTED ANOTHER
PICTURE, AND REMARKED, AS HE HANDED IT TO TOM, “THAT’S PET’S MOTHER.”
TOM TOOK IT, LOOKED AT IT, AND SCREAMED, “MY WIFE!”
]

Tom took it, looked at it, and screamed:

“_My wife!_”

He threw himself on the floor, and cried as only a big-hearted man _can_ cry.

The deacon gazed wildly about, and gasped:

“What’s his name?—tell me quick!”

“Tom Dosser!” answered a dozen or more.

“That’s him! Bless the Lord!” cried the deacon, and finding a seat, dropped into it, and buried his face in his hands.

For several moments there was a magnificent attempt at silence, but it utterly failed. The boys saw that the deacon and Tom were working a very large claim, and to the best of their ability they assisted.

Stumpy Flukes, under the friendly shelter of the bar, was able to fully express his feelings through his eyelids, but the remainder of the party, by taking turns at staring out the windows, and contemplating the bottles behind the bar, managed to delude themselves into the belief that their eyes were invisible. Finally, Tom arose. “Deacon—boys,” he said, “I never got that letter. I wus afeard she’d hear about my scrape, so I wrote her all about it, ez soon ez I got sober, an’ begged her to forgive me. An’ I waited an’ hoped an’ prayed for an answer, till I growed desperate, an’ came out here.”

“She never heerd from you, Thomas,” sighed the deacon.

“Deac’n,” said Tom, “do you s’pose I’d hev kerried this for years”—here he drew out a small miniature of his wife—“ef I hadn’t loved her? Yes, an’ this too,” continued Tom, producing a thin package, wrapped in oilskin. “There’s the only two letters I ever got from her, an’, just ’cos her hand writ ’em, I’ve had ’em just where I took ’em from for four years. I got ’em at Albany, fore I got on that cussed tare, an’ they was both so sweet an’ wifely, that I’ve never dared to read ’em since, fur fear that thinkin’ on what I’d lost would make me even wuss than I am. But I ain’t afeard now,” said Tom, eagerly tearing off the oilskin, and disclosing two envelopes.

He opened one, took out the letter, opened it with trembling hands, stared blankly at it, and handed it to the deacon.

“Thar’s my letter now—I got ’em in the wrong envelope!”

“Thomas,” said the deacon, “the best thing you can do is to deliver that letter yourself. An’ don’t let any grass grow under your feet, ef you ken help it.”

“I’m goin’ by the first hoss I ken steal,” said Tom.

“An’ tell her I’ll be along ez soon as I pan out enough,” continued the deacon.

“An’ tell her,” said Boston Ben, “that the gov’nor won’t be much behind you. Tell her that when the crowd found out how game the old man was, and what was on his mind, that the court was so ashamed of hisself that he passed around the hat for Pet’s benefit, and”—here Boston Ben thoughtfully weighed the hat in his hands—“and that the apology’s heavy enough to do Europe a dozen times; I know it, for I’ve had to travel myself occasionally.”

Here he deposited the venerable tile with its precious contents on the floor in front of the deacon. The old man looked at it, and his eyes filled afresh, as he exclaimed:

“God bless you! I wish I could do something for you in return.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Boston Ben, “unless—you—You _couldn’t_ make up your mind to a match with English Sam, could you?”

“Come, boys,” interrupted Stumpy Flukes; “it’s my treat—name your medicine—fill high—all charged?—now then—bottom up, to ‘The meanest man at Blugsey’s’!”

“That _did_ mean _you_, deacon!” exclaimed Tom; “but I claim it myself now, so—so I won’t drink it.”

The remainder of the crowd clashed glasses, while Tom and his father-in-law bowed profoundly. Then the whole crowd went out to steal horses for the two men, and had them on the trail within an hour. As they rode off, Stumpy Flukes remarked:

“There’s a splendid shot ruined for life.”

“Yes,” said Boston Ben, with a deep sigh struggling out of his manly bosom, “an’ a bully rassler, too. The Church has got a good deal to answer fur, fur sp’ilin’ that man’s chances.”

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DEACON BARKER’S CONVERSION.

OF the several pillars of the Church at Pawkin Centre, Deacon Barker was by all odds the strongest. His orthodoxy was the admiration of the entire congregation, and the terror of all the ministers within easy driving distance of the Deacon’s native village. He it was who had argued the late pastor of the Pawkin Centre Church into that state of disquietude which had carried him, through a few days of delirious fever, into the Church triumphant; and it was also Deacon Barker whose questions at the examination of seekers for the ex-pastor’s shoes had cast such consternation into divinity-schools, far and near, that soon it was very hard to find a candidate for ministerial honors at Pawkin Centre.

Nor was his faith made manifest by words alone. Be the weather what it might, the Deacon was always in his pew, both morning and evening, in time to join in the first hymn, and on every Thursday night, at a quarter past seven in winter, and a quarter before eight in summer, the good Deacon’s cane and shoes could be heard coming solemnly down the aisle, bringing to the prayer-meeting the champion of orthodoxy. Nor did the holy air of the prayer-meeting even one single evening fail to vibrate to the voice of the Deacon, as he made, in scriptural language, humble confessions and tearful pleadings before the throne, or—still strictly scriptural in expression—he warned and exhorted the impenitent. The contribution-box always received his sixpence as long as specie payment lasted, and the smallest fractional currency note thereafter; and to each of the regular annual offerings to the missionary cause, the Bible cause, and kindred Christian enterprises, the Deacon regularly contributed his dollar and his prayers.

The Deacon could quote scripture in a manner which put Biblical professors to the blush, and every principle of his creed so bristled with texts, confirmatory, sustentive and aggressive, that doubters were rebuked and free-thinkers were speedily reduced to speechless humility or rage. But the unregenerate, and even some who professed righteousness, declared that more fondly than to any other scriptural passage did the good Deacon cling to the injunction, “Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness.” Meekly insisting that he was only a steward of the Lord, he put out his Lord’s money that he might receive it again with usury, and so successful had he been that almost all mortgages held on property near Pawkin Centre were in the hands of the good Deacon, and few were the foreclosure sales in which he was not the seller.

The new pastor at Pawkin Centre, like good pastors everywhere, had tortured himself into many a headache over the perplexing question, “How are we to reach the impenitent in our midst!” The said impenitent were, with but few exceptions, industrious, honest, respectable, law-abiding people, and the worthy pastor, as fully impregnated with Yankee-thrift as with piety, shuddered to think of the waste of souls that was constantly threatening. At length, like many another pastor, he called a meeting of the brethren, to prayerfully consider this momentous question. The Deacon came, of course, and so did all the other pillars, and many of them presented their views. Brother Grave thought the final doom of the impenitent should be more forcibly presented; Deacon Struggs had an abiding conviction that it was the Man of Sin holding dominion in their hearts that kept these people away from the means of grace; Deacon Ponder mildly suggested that the object might perhaps be attained if those within the fold maintained a more godly walk and conversation, but he was promptly though covertly rebuked by the good Deacon Barker, who reminded the brethren that “it is the _Spirit_ that quickeneth”; Brother Flite, who hadn’t any money, thought the Church ought to build a “working-man’s chapel,” but this idea was promptly and vigorously combated by all men of property in the congregation. By this time the usual closing hour had arrived, and after a benediction the faithful dispersed, each with about the ideas he brought to the meeting.

Early next morning the good Deacon Barker, with his mind half full of the state of the unconverted, and half of his unfinished cow-shed, took his stick and hobbled about the village in search of a carpenter to finish the incomplete structure. There was Moggs, but Moggs had been busy all the season, and it would be just like him to want full price for a day’s work. Stubb was idle, but Stubb was slow. Augur—Augur used liquor, and the Deacon had long ago firmly resolved that not a cent of _his_ money, if he could help it, should ever go for the accursed stuff. But there was Hay—he hadn’t seen him at work for a long time—perhaps he would be anxious enough for work to do it cheaply.

The Deacon knocked at Hay’s door, and Hay himself shouted:

“Come in.”

“How are ye, George,” said the Deacon, looking hastily about the room, and delightfully determining, from the patient face of sad-eyed Mrs. Hay and the scanty furnishing of the yet uncleared breakfast-table, that he had been providentially guided to the right spot. “How’s times with ye?”

“Not very good, Deac’n,” replied Hay. “Nothin’ much doin’ in town.”

“Money’s awful sceerce,” groaned the Deacon.

“Dreadful,” responded George, devoutly thanking the Lord that he owed the Deacon nothing.

“Got much to do this winter?” asked the Deacon.

“Not by a d—day’s job—not a single day,” sorrowfully replied Hay.

The Deacon’s pious ear had been shocked by the young man’s imperfectly concealed profanity, and for an instant he thought of administering a rebuke, but the charms of prospective cheap labor lured the good man from the path of rectitude.

“I’m fixin’ my cow-shed—might p’raps give ye a job on’t. ‘Spose ye’d do it cheap, seein’ how dull ev’ry thin’ is?”

The sad eyes of Mrs. Hay grew bright in an instant. Her husband’s heart jumped up, but he knew to whom he was talking, so he said, as calmly as possible:

“Three dollars is reg’lar pay.”

The Deacon immediately straightened up as if to go.

“Too much,” said he; “I’d better hire a common lab’rer at a dollar ’n a half, an’ boss him myself. It’s only a cow-shed, ye know.”

“Guess, though, ye won’t want the nails druv no less p’ticler, will ye, Deac’n?” inquired Hay. “But I tell yer what I’ll do—I’ll throw off fifty cents a day.”

“Two dollars ort to be enough, George,” resumed the Deacon. “Carpenterin’s pooty work, an’ takes a sight of headpiece sometimes, but there’s no intellec’ required to work on a cow-shed. Say two dollars, an’ come along.”

The carpenter thought bitterly of what a little way the usual three dollars went, and of how much would have to be done with what he could get out of the cow-shed, but the idea of losing even that was too horrible to be endured, so he hastily replied:

“Two an’ a quarter, an’ I’m your man.”

“Well,” said the Deacon, “it’s a powerful price to pay for work on a cow-shed, but I s’pose I mus’ stan’ it. Hurry up; thar’s the mill-whistle blowin’ seven.”

Hay snatched his tools, kissed a couple of thankful tears out of his wife’s eyes, and was soon busy on the cow-shed, with the Deacon looking on.

“George,” said the Deacon suddenly, causing the carpenter to stop his hammer in mid-air, “think it over agen, an’ say two dollars.”

Hay gave the good Deacon a withering glance, and for a few moments the force of suppressed profanity caused his hammer to bang with unusual vigor, while the owner of the cow-shed rubbed his hands in ecstasy at the industry of his _employe_.

The air was bracing, the Winter sun shone brilliantly, the Deacon’s breakfast was digesting fairly, and his mind had not yet freed itself from the influences of the Sabbath. Besides, he had secured a good workman at a low price, and all these influences combined to put the Deacon in a pleasant frame of mind. He rambled through his mind for a text which would piously express his condition, and texts brought back Sunday, and Sunday reminded him of the meeting of the night before. And here was one of those very men before him—a good man in many respects, though he _was_ higher-priced than he should be. How was the cause of the Master to be prospered if His servants made no effort? Then there came to the Deacon’s mind the passage, “——he which converteth the sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins.” What particular sins of his own needed hiding the Deacon did not find it convenient to remember just then, but he meekly admitted to himself and the Lord that he had them, in a general way. Then, with that directness and grace which were characteristic of him, the Deacon solemnly said:

“George, what is to be the sinner’s doom?”

“I dunno,” replied George, his wrath still warm; “‘pears to me you’ve left that bizness till pretty late in life, Deac’n!”

“Don’t trifle with sacrid subjec’s, George,” said the Deacon, still very solemn, and with a suspicion of annoyance in his voice. “The wicked shall be cast into hell, with—”

“They can’t kerry their cow-sheds with ’em, neither,” interrupted George, consolingly.

“Come, George,” said the good Deacon, in an appealing tone, “remember the apostle says, ‘Suffer the word of exhortation.’”

“’Xcuse me, Deac’n, but one sufferin’ at a time; I ain’t through sufferin’ at bein’ beaten down yet. How about deac’ns not being ‘given to filthy lucre?’”

The good Deacon was pained, and he was almost out of patience with the apostle for writing things which came so handy to the lips of the unregenerate. He commenced an industrious search for a text which should completely annihilate the impious carpenter, when that individual interrupted him with:

“Out with it, Deac’n—ye had a meetin’ las’ night to see what was to be done with the impenitent. I was there—that is, I sot on a stool jest outside the door, an’ I heerd all ’twas said. Ye didn’t agree on nothin’—mebbe ye’v fixed it up sence. Any how, ye’v sot me down fur one of the impenitent, an’ yer goin’ fur me. Well——”

“Go on nailin’,” interrupted the economical Deacon, a little testily; “the noise don’t disturb me; I can hear ye.”

“Well, what way am I so much wickeder ’n you be—you an’ t’other folks at the meetin’-house?” asked Hay.

“George, I never saw ye in God’s house in my life,” replied the Deacon.

“Well, s’pose ye hevn’t—is God so small He can’t be nowheres ‘xcept in your little meetin’-house? How about His seein’ folks in their closets?”

“George,” said the Deacon, “ef yer a prayin’ man, why don’t ye jine yerself unto the Lord’s people?”

“Why? ’Cos the Lord’s people, as you call ’em, don’t want me. S’pose I was to come to the meetin’-house in these clothes—the only ones I’ve got—d’ye s’pose any of the Lord’s people ’d open a pew-door to me? An’ s’pose my wife an’ children, dressed no better ’n I be, but as good ’s I can afford, was with me, how d’ye s’pose I’d feel?”

“Pride goeth before a fall, an’ a haughty sperit before,” groaned the Deacon, when the carpenter again interrupted.

“I’d feel as ef the people of God was a gang of insultin’ hypocrites, an’ ez ef I didn’t ever want to see ’em again. Ef that kind o’ pride’s sinful, the devil’s a saint. Ef there’s anythin’ wrong about a man’s feelin’ so about himself and them God give him, God’s to blame for it himself; but seein’ it’s the same feelin’ that makes folks keep ’emselves strait in all other matters, I’ll keep on thinkin’ it’s right.”

“But the preveleges of the Gospel, George,” remonstrated the Deacon.

“Don’t you s’pose I know what they’re wuth?” continued the carpenter. “Haven’t I hung around in front of the meetin’-house Summer nights, when the winders was open, jest to listen to the singin’ and what else I could hear? Hezn’t my wife ben with me there many a time, and hevn’t both of us prayed an’ groaned an’ cried in our hearts, not only ’cos we couldn’t join in it all ourselves, but ’cos we couldn’t send the children either, without their learnin’ to hate religion ’fore they fairly know’d what ’twas? Haven’t I sneaked in to the vestibule Winter nights, an’ sot just where I did last night, an’ heard what I’d ’a liked my wife and children to hear, an’ prayed for the time to come when the self-app’inted elect shouldn’t offend the little ones? An’ after sittin’ there last night, an’ comin’ home and tellin’ my wife how folks was concerned about us, an’ our rejoicin’ together in the hope that some day our children could hev the chances we’re shut out of now, who should come along this mornin’ but one of those same holy people, and Jewed me down on pay that the Lord knows is hard enough to live on.”

The Deacon _had_ a heart, and he knew the nature of self-respect as well as men generally. His mind ran entirely outside of texts for a few minutes, and then, with a sigh for the probable expense, he remarked:

“Reckon Flite’s notion was right, after all—ther’ ort to be a workin’-man’s chapel.”

“Ort?” responded Hay; “who d’ye s’pose ’d go to it?

Nobody? Ye can rent us second-class houses, an’ sell us second-hand clothin’, and the cheapest cuts o’ meat, but when it comes to cheap religion—nobody knows its value better ’n we do. We don’t want to go into yer parlors on carpets and furniture we don’t know how to use, an’ we don’t expect to be asked into society where our talk an’ manners might make some better eddicated people laugh. But when it comes to religion—God knows nobody needs an’ deserves the very best article more ’n _we_ do.”

The Deacon was a reasonable man, and being old, was beginning to try to look fairly at matters upon which he expected soon to be very thoroughly examined. The indignant protest of the carpenter had, he feared, a great deal of reason, and yet—God’s people deserved to hold their position, if, as usual, the argument ended where it began. So he asked, rather triumphantly:

“What _is_ to be done, then?”

“Reform God’s people themselves,” replied the carpenter, to the horror of the pious old man. “When the right hand of fellowship is reached out to the front, instead of stuck behind the back when a poor man comes along, there’ll be plenty that’ll be glad to take it. Reform yer own people, Deac’n. ’Fore yer pick out of our eyes the motes we’ll be glad enough to get rid of, ye can get a fine lot of heavy lumber out of yer own.”

Soldiers of the Cross, no more than any other soldiers, should stand still and be peppered when unable to reply; at least so thought the Deacon, and he prudently withdrew.

Reform God’s people themselves! The Deacon was too old a boy to tell tales out of school, but he knew well enough there was room for reform. Of course there was—weren’t we all poor sinners?—when we would do good wasn’t evil ever present with us?—what business had other sinners to complain, when they wern’t, at least, any better? Besides, suppose he were to try to reform the ways of Brother Graves and Deacon Struggs and others he had in his mind—would they rest until they had attempted to reform _him_? And who was to know just what quantity and quality of reform was necessary? “Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines.” The matter was too great for his comprehension, so he obeyed the injunction, “Commit thy way unto the Lord.”

But the Lord relegated the entire matter to the Deacon. Hay did a full day’s work, the Deacon made a neat little sum by recovering on an old judgment he had bought for a mere song, and the Deacon’s red cow made an addition to the family in the calf-pen; yet the Deacon was far from comfortable. The idea that certain people must stay away from God’s house until God’s people were reformed, seemed to the Deacon’s really human heart something terrible. If they _would_ be so proud—and yet, people who would stand outside the meeting-house and listen, and pray and weep because their children were as badly off as they, could scarcely be very proud. He knew there couldn’t be many such, else this out-of-door congregation would be noticed—there certainly wasn’t a full congregation of modest mechanics in the vestibule of which Hay spoke, and yet, who could tell how many more were anxious and troubled on the subject of their eternal welfare.

What a pity it was that those working-men who wished to repair to the sanctuary could not have steady work and full pay! If he had only known all this early in the morning, he did not know but he might have hired him at three dollars; though, really, was a man to blame for doing his best in the labor market? “Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” Gracious! he could almost declare he heard the excited carpenter’s voice delivering that text. What _had_ brought that text into his head just now?—he had never thought of it before.

The Deacon rolled and tossed on his bed, and the subject of his conversation with the carpenter tormented him so he could not sleep. Of one thing he was certain, and that was that the reform of the Church at Pawkin Centre was not to be relied on in an extremity, and was not such hungering and thirsting after righteousness an extreme case?—had he ever really known many such! If Hay only had means, the problem would afford its own solution. The good Deacon solemnly declared to himself that if Hay could give good security, he (the Deacon) would try to lend him the money.

But even this (to the Deacon) extraordinary concession was unproductive of sleep. “He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.” There! he could hear that indignant carpenter again. What an unsatisfactory passage that was, to be sure! If it would only read the other way—it didn’t seem a bit business-like the way it stood. And yet, as the Deacon questioned himself there in the dark, he was forced to admit that he had a very small balance—even of loans—to his credit in the hands of the Lord. He had never lent to the Lord except in his usual business manner—as small a loan as would be accepted, on as extensive collaterals as he could exact. Oh, why did people ever forsake the simple raiment of their forefathers, and robe themselves in garments grievous in price, and stumbling-blocks in the path of their fellow-men?

But sleep failed even to follow this pious reflection. Suppose—only suppose, of course—that he were to give—lend, that is—lend Hay money enough to dress his family fit for church—think what a terrible lot of money it would take! A common neat suit for a man would cost at least thirty dollars, an overcoat nearly twice as much; a suit cloak, and other necessities for his wife would amount to as much more, and the children—oh, the thing couldn’t be done for less than two hundred and fifty dollars. Of course, it was entirely out of the question—he had only wondered what it _would_ cost—that was all.

Still no sleep. He wished he hadn’t spoken with Hay about his soul—next time he would mind his own business. He wished he hadn’t employed Hay. He wished the meeting for consideration of the needs of the impenitent had never taken place. “No man can come to me except the Father which sent me draw him”—he wished he had remembered that passage, and quoted it at the meeting—it was no light matter to interfere with the Almighty’s plans.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” Hah! _Could_ that carpenter be in the room, disarranging his train of thought with such—such—tantalizing texts! They had kept him awake, and at his time of life a restless night was a serious matter. Suppose——

Very early the next morning the village doctor, returning from a patient’s bedside, met the Deacon with a face which suggested to him (the doctor was pious and imaginative) “Abraham on Mount Moriah.” The village butcher, more practical, hailed the good man, and informed him he was in time for a fine steak, but the Deacon shook his head in agony, and passed on. He neared the carpenter’s house, stopped, tottered, and looked over his shoulder as if intending to run; at length he made his way behind the house, where Hay was chopping firewood. The carpenter saw him and turned pale—he feared the Deacon had found cheaper labor, and had come to give him warning.

“George,” said the Deacon, “I’ve been doin’ a heap of thinkin’ ’bout what we talked of yesterday. I’ve come to say that if you like I’ll lend you three hundred dollars fur as long as ye’v a mind to, without note, security or int’rest; you to spend as much of it ez ye need to dress you an’ yer hull fam’ly in Sunday clothes, and to put the balance in the Savin’s Bank, at interest, to go on doin’ the same with when necessary. An’ all of ye to go to church when ye feel so disposed. An’ ef nobody else’s pew-door opens, yer allus welcome to mine. And may the Lord” the Deacon finished the sentence to himself—“have mercy on my soul.” Then he said, aloud:

“That’s all.”

The carpenter, at the beginning of the Deacon’s speech, had dropped his axe, to the imminent danger of one of his feet. As the Deacon continued, the carpenter dropped his head to one side, raised one eye-brow inquiringly, and awaited the conditions. But when the Deacon said “That’s all,” George Hay seized the Deacon’s hard old hand, gave it a grasp which brought agonized tears to the eyes of its venerable owner, and exclaimed:

“Deacon, God’s people are reformin’!”

The Deacon staggered a little—he had not thought of it in that light before.

“Deacon, that money ’ll do more good than all the prayin’ ye ever done. ’Xcuse me—I must tell Mary,” and the carpenter dashed into the house. Had Mrs. Hay respected the dramatic proprieties, she would have made the Deacon a neat speech; but the truth is, she regarded him from behind the window-blind, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; seeing which the Deacon abruptly started for home, making less use of his cane than he had done in any day for years.

It is grievous to relate, but truth is mighty—that within a fortnight the good Deacon repented of his generous action at least fifty times. He would die in the poorhouse if he were so extravagant again. Three hundred dollars was more than the cow-shed—lumber, shingles, nails, labor and all—would cost. Suppose Hay should take the money and go West? Suppose he should take to drinking, and spend it all for liquor! One suspicion after another tortured the poor man until he grew thin and nervous. But on the second Sunday, having satisfied himself that Hay was in town, sober, the day before, that he had been to the city and brought back bundles, and that he (the Deacon) had seldom been in the street without meeting one of Hay’s children with a paper of hooks and eyes or a spool of thread, the Deacon stationed himself in one of his own front windows, and brought his spectacles to bear on Hay’s door, a little distance off. The first bell had rung, apparently, hours before, yet no one appeared—could it be that he had basely sneaked to the city at night and pawned everything? No—the door opened—there they came. It couldn’t be—yes, it was—well, he never imagined Hay and his wife were so fine a-looking couple. They came nearer, and the Deacon, forgetting his cane, hobbled hurriedly to church, entered his pew, and left the door wide open. He waited long, it seemed to him, but they did not come. He looked around impatiently, and there, O, joy and wonder!—the president of the Pawkin Savings’ Institution had invited the whole family into his pew! Just then the congregation rose to sing the hymn commencing:

“From all that dwell below the skies
Let the Creator’s praise arise”;

and the Deacon, in his excitement, distanced the choir, and the organ, and the congregation, and almost brought the entire musical service to a standstill.

The Deacon had intended to watch closely for Hays’ conversion, but something wonderful prevented—it was reported everywhere that the Deacon himself had been converted, and all who now saw the Deacon fully believed the report. He was even heard to say that as there seemed to be some doubt as to whether faith or works was the saving virtue, he intended thereafter to practice both. He no longer mentions the poorhouse as his prospective dwelling, but is heard to say that in his Father’s house there are many mansions, and that he is laying up his treasure in heaven as fast as possible, and hopes he may get it all on the way there before his heart is called for. At the post-office, the tin-shop and the rum-shop the Deacon’s conversion is constantly discussed, and men of all degrees now express a belief in the mighty power of the Spirit from on high. Other moneyed men have been smitten and changed, and the pastor of the Pawkin Centre Church daily thanks the Lord for such a revival as he never heard of before.

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JOE GATTER’S LIFE INSURANCE.

GOOD? He was the model boy of Bungfield. While his idle school-mates were flying kites and playing marbles, the prudent Joseph was trading Sunday-school tickets for strawberries and eggs, which he converted into currency of the republic. As he grew up, and his old school-mates purchased cravats and hair-oil at Squire Tackey’s store, it was the industrious Joseph who stood behind the counter, wrapped up their purchases, and took their money. When the same boys stood on the street-corners and cast sheep’s eyes at the girls, the business-like Joseph stood in the store-door and contemplated these same boys with eyes such as a hungry cat casts upon a brood of young birds who he expects to eat when they grow older. Joe never wasted any time at parties; he never wore fine clothing; he never drank nor smoked; in short, Joe was so industrious that by the time he reached his majority he had a thousand dollars in the bank, and not a solitary virtue in his heart.

For Joe’s money good Squire Tackey had an earnest longing, and soon had it to his own credit; while the sign over the store-door read “Tackey & Gatter.” Then the Squire wanted Joe’s soul, too, and so earnest was he that Joe soon found it necessary to remonstrate with his partner.

“’Twont do, Squire,” said he; “religion’s all very well in its place, but when a man loses the sale of a dozen eggs, profit seven cents, because his partner is talking religion with him so hard that a customer gets tired of waiting and goes somewhere else, then religion’s out of place.”

“The human soul’s of more cons’kence than many eggs, Joseph,” argued the Squire.

“That’s just it,” replied Joe; “money don’t hit the value of the soul any way, and there’s no use trying to mix ’em. And while we’re talking, don’t you think we might be mixing some of the settlings of the molasses barrel with the brown sugar?—’twill make it weigh better.”

The Squire sighed, but he could not help admitting that Joe was as good a partner as a man could want.

In one of Joe’s leisure moments it struck him that if he were to die, nobody would lose a cent by the operation. The idea was too exasperating, and soon the local agents of noted insurance companies ceased to enjoy that tranquility which is characteristic of business men in the country. Within a fortnight two of the agents were arraigned before their respective churches for profane brawling, while Joe had squeezed certain agents into dividing commissions to the lowest unit of divisibility, and had several policies in the safe at the store.

The Squire, his partner, was agent for the Pantagonian Mutual, and endured his full share of the general agony Joe had caused. But when he had handed Joe a policy and receipt, and taken the money, and counted it twice, and seen to it carefully that all the bills were good, the good Squire took his revenge.

“Joseph,” said he, “you ain’t through with insurance yet—you need to insure your soul against risk in the next world, and there’s only one Agent that does it.”

The junior partner stretched himself on the counter and groaned. He knew the Squire was right—he had heard that same story from every minister he had ever heard. Joe was so agitated that he charged at twelve and a half cents some calico he had sold at fifteen.

Only one Agent! But the shrewd Joseph rejoiced to think that those who represented the Great Agent differed greatly in the conditions of the insurance, and that some made more favorable terms than others, and that if he could get the ministers thoroughly interested in him, he would have a good opportunity for comparing rates. The good men all wanted Joe, for he was a rising young man, and could, if the Spirit moved him, make handsome subscriptions to good purposes. So, in their zeal, they soon regarded each other with jealous eyes, and reduced their respective creeds to gossamer thinness. They agreed about grace being free, and Joe accepted that much promptly, as he did _anything_ which could be had without price. But Joe was a practical man, and though he found fault with none of the doctrines talked at him, he yet hesitated to attach himself to any particular congregation. He finally ascertained that the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood’s church had no debt, and that its contributions to missions and other religious purposes were very small, so Joe allowed himself to be gathered into the fine assortment of crooked sticks which the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood was reserving unto the day of burning.

Great was the rejoicing of the congregation at Joe’s saving act, and sincere was the sorrow of the other churches, who knew their own creeds were less shaky. But in the saloon and on the street Joe’s religious act was discussed exclusively on its merits, and the results were such as only special spiritual labor would remove. For no special change was noticeable in Joe; on Sunday he abjured the world, but on Monday he made things uncomfortable for the Widow Macnilty, whose husband had died in the debt of Tackey & Gatter. A customer bought some gingham, on Joe’s assurance that the colors were fast, but the first wash-day failed to confirm Joe’s statement. The proprietor of the stage line between Bungfield and Cleopas Valley traded horses with Joe, and was afterward heard mentioning his new property in language far more scriptural than proper.

Still, Joe was a church-member, and that was a patent of respectability. And as he gained years, and building lots, and horses, and commenced discounting notes, his respectability grew and waxed great in the minds of the practical people of Bungfield. Even good women, real mothers in Israel, could not help thinking, as they sorrowed over the sand in the bottoms of their coffee-cups, and grew wrathful at “runney” flour bought for “A 1 Superfine” of Tackey & Gatter, that Joe would make a valuable husband. So thought some of the ladies of Bungfield, and as young ladies who can endure the idea of such a man for perpetual partner can also signify their opinions, Joe began to comprehend that he was in active demand. He regarded the matter as he would a sudden demand for any commodity of trade, and by skillfully manipulating the market he was soon enabled to choose from a full supply.

Thenceforward Joe was as happy as a man of his nature could be. All his investments were paying well: the store was prosperous, he was successful in all his trading enterprises, he had purchased, at fearful shaves, scores of perfectly good notes, he realized on loans interest which would cause a usury law to shrivel and crack, his insurance policies brought him fair dividends, and his wife kept house with economy and thrift. But the church—the church seemed an unmitigated drag. Joe attended all the church meetings—determined to get the worth of the money he was compelled to contribute to the current expenses—he had himself appointed treasurer, so he could get the use of the church money; but the interest, even at the rates Joe generally obtained, did not balance the amount of his contribution.

Joe worried over the matter until he became very peevish, yet he came no nearer a business-like adjustment of receipts and expenditures. One day when his venerable partner presented him a certificate of dividend from the Pantagonian Mutual, Joe remarked:

“Never got any dividends on that other insurance you put me up to taking, partner—that ’gainst fire risks in the next world, you know. ’Twill be tough if there’s any mistake—church does take a sight of money.”

JOE AND HIS VENERABLE PARTNER TALKING OVER INSURANCE MATTERS.
]

“Joseph,” said the Squire, in a sorrowful tone, “I’ve always been afeard they didn’t look enough into your evidences when they took you into that church. How can a man expect to escape on the day of wrath if he’s all the time grumbling at the cost of his salvation? Mistake? If you don’t know in your heart the truth of what you profess, there’s mighty little hope for you, church or no church.”

“Know in my heart!” cried Joe. “That’s a pretty kind of security. Is that what I’ve been paying church dues for? Better have known it in my heart in the first place, and saved the money. What’s the use of believing all these knotty points, if they don’t make a sure thing for a man?”

“If your belief don’t make you any better or happier, Joseph,” rejoined the Squire, “you’d better look again and see if you’ve got a good hold of it; those that’s got a clear title don’t find their investment as slow in making returns, while those that find fault are generally the ones that’s made a mistake.”

Poor Joe! He thought he had settled this whole matter; but now, if his partner was right, he was worse off than if he hadn’t begun. He believed in justification by faith; now, wasn’t his faith strong—first-class, he might say? To be sure of being safe, hadn’t he believed everything that _all_ the ministers had insisted upon as essential? And what _was_ faith, if it wasn’t believing? He would ask his partner; the old man had got him into this scrape—now he must see him through.

“Squire,” said he, “isn’t faith the same thing as believing?”

“Well,” said the Squire, adjusting his glasses, and taking from the desk the little Testament upon which he administered oaths, “that depends on how you believe. Here’s a verse on the subject: ‘Thou believest in God; thou doest well; the devils also believe, and tremble.’”

Ugh! Joe shivered. He wasn’t an aristocrat, but would _any_ one fancy such companionship as the Squire referred to?

“Here,” said the Squire, turning the leaves, “is another passage bearin’ on the subject. ‘O, generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bring forth, therefore, _fruits_ meet for repentance.’”

Vipers! Joe uncomfortably wondered who else the Squire was going to introduce into the brotherhood of the faith.

“Now, see what it says in another place,” continued the Squire, “Not every one that saith unto Me Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.”

“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.