Chapter IV (8)

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 unbusiness-like--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 wan't 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 meetins' 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) outmanoeuvred 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.

"I wonder," he remarked, after a discursive, fitful, but very spicy preface of ten minutes' duration, "why they couldn't find somethin' I _hed_ done, instead of tuckin' some other feller's job on me? I _hev_ had difficulties, but this here one's just one more than _I_ knows on. Like 'nuff some galoot'll be mean 'nuff to try to git that thousand. I'd try it myself, ef I wuz only somebody else. Wonder why I can't be decent, like other fellers. 'Twon't pay to waste time thinkin' 'bout that, though, fur I'll hev to make a livin' somehow."

Jude indulged in a long sigh, perhaps a penitential one, and drew from his pocket a well-filled flask, which he had purchased at the last saloon he had passed.

As he extracted it, there came also from his pocket a copy of the poster, which he had abstracted from a tree _en route_.

"Thar 'tis again!" he exclaimed, angrily. "Can't be satisfied showin' itself ev'rywhar, but must come out of my pocket without bein' axed. Let's see, p'r'aps it don't mean me, after all--'One eye gone, broken nose, scar on right cheek, powder-marks on left, stumpy beard, sallow complexion, hangdog look.' _I'd_ give a thousand ef I had it to git the feller that writ that; an' yit it means me, an' no dodgin'. Lord, Lord! what 'ud the old woman say ef she wuz to see me nowadays?"

He looked intently at the flask for a moment or two, as if expecting an answer therefrom, then he extracted the cork, and took a generous drink. But even the liquor failed to help him to a more cheerful view of the situation, for he continued:

"Nobody knows me--nobody sez, 'Hello!'--nobody axes me to name my bitters--nobody even cusses me. They let me stake a claim, but nobody offers to lend me a pick or a shovel, an' nobody ever comes to the shanty to spend the evenin', 'less it's a greenhorn. Curse 'em all! I'll make some of 'em bleed fur it. I'll git their dust, an' go back East; ther's plenty of folks _thar_ that'll be glad to see me, ef I've got the dust. An' mebbe 'twould comfort the old woman some, after all the trouble I've made her. Offer rewards fur me, do they? I'll give 'em some reason to do it. I hain't afeard of the hull State of Californy, an'--Good Lord! what's that?"

The gentleman who was not afraid of the whole State of California sprang hastily to his feet, turned very pale, and felt for his revolver, for he heard rapid footsteps approaching by a little path in the bushes.

But though the footsteps seemed to come nearer, and very rapidly, he slowly took his hand from his pistol, and changed his scared look for a puzzled one.

"Cryin'! Reckon I ain't in danger from anybody that's bellerin'; but it's the fust time I've heerd that kind of a noise in _these_ parts. Must be a woman. Sounds like what I used to hear to home when I got on a tear; _'tis_ a woman!"

As he concluded, there emerged from the path a woman, who was neither very young nor very pretty, but her face was full of pain, and her eyes full of tears, which signs of sorrow were augmented by a considerable scare, as she suddenly found herself face to face with the unhandsome Jude.

"Don't be afeard of me, marm," said Jude, as the woman retreated a step or two. "I'm durned sorry for yer, whatever's the matter. I've got a wife to home, an' it makes me so sorry to hear her cry, that I get blind drunk ez quick ez I ken."

This tender statement seemed to reassure the woman, for she looked inquiringly at Jude, and asked:

"Have ye seen a man and woman go 'long with a young one?

"Nary," replied Jude. "Young one lost?"

"Yes!" exclaimed the woman, commencing to cry again; "an' a husban', too. I don't care much for _him_, for he's a brute, but Johnny--blessed little Johnny--oh, oh!"

And the poor woman sobbed pitifully.

Jude looked uneasy, and remembering his antidote for domestic tears, extracted the bottle again. He slowly put it back untasted, however, and exclaimed:

"What does he look like, marm?--the husband I mean. I never wanted an excuse to put a hole through a feller ez bad ez I do this mornin'!"

"Don't--don't hurt him, for God's sake!" cried the woman. "He ain't a good husband--he's run off with another woman, but--but he's Johnny's father. Yet, if you could get Johnny back--he's the only comfort I ever had in the world, the dear little fellow--oh, dear me!"

And again she sobbed as if her heart was broken.

"Tell us 'bout 'em. Whar hev they gone to? what do they luk like? Mebbe I ken git him fur yer," said Jude, looking as if inclined to beat a retreat, or do anything to get away from the sound of the woman's crying.

"Get him--get Johnny?" cried the woman, falling on her knees, and seizing Jude's hand. "I can't give you anything for doin' it, but I'll pray for you, as long as I've got breath, that God may reward you!"

"I reckon," said Jude, as he awkwardly disengaged his hand, "that prayin' is what'll do me more good than anythin' else jest now. Big feller is yer husband? An' got any idee whar he is?"

"He _is_ a big man," replied the woman, "and he goes by the name of Marksey in these parts; and you'll find him at the Widow Beckel's, across the creek. Kill _her_ if you like--I hope _somebody_ will. But Johnny--Johnny has got the loveliest brown eyes, and the sweetest mouth that was ever made, and--"

"Reckon I'll judge fur myself," interrupted Jude, starting off toward the creek, and followed by the woman. "I know whar Wider Beckel's is, an'--an' I've done enough stealin', I guess, to be able to grab a little boy without gittin' ketched. Spanish Crick's purty deep along here, an' the current runs heavy, but--"

The remainder of Jude's sentence was left unspoken, for just then he stepped into the creek, and the chill of the snow-fed stream caused him to hold his breath.

"Remember you aint to hurt _him_!" screamed the woman; "nor her, neither--God forgive me. But bring Johnny--bring Johnny, and God be with you."

The woman stood with clasped hands watching Jude until he reached the opposite bank, shook himself, and disappeared, and then she leaned against a tree and trembled and cried until she was startled by hearing some one say:

"Beg pardon, madame, but have you seen any one pass?"

The woman raised her head, and saw a respectable, severe looking man, in clothing rather neater than was common along Spanish Creek.

"Only one," she replied, "and he's the best man livin'. He's gone to get Johnny--he won't be gone long."

"Your husband, ma'am?"

"'Oh, no, sir; I never saw him before."

"One eye gone; broken nose; scar on right cheek; powder-marks on left--"

"Yes, sir, that's the man," said the wondering woman.

"Perhaps you may not have seen this?" said the man handing her one of the posters describing Jude.

Then he uttered a shrill whistle.

The woman read the paper through, and cried:

"It's somebody else--it _must_ be--no murderer would be so kind to a poor, friendless woman. Oh, God, have I betrayed him? _Don't_ take him, sir--it must be somebody else. I wish I had money--I would pay you more than the reward, just to go away and let him alone."

"Madame," replied the man, beckoning to two men who were approaching, "I could not accept it; nor will I accept the reward. It is the price of blood. But I am a minister of the gospel, ma'am, and in this godless generation it is my duty to see that the outraged dignity of the law is vindicated. My associates, I regret to say, are actuated by different motives."

"You just bet high on that!" exclaimed one of the two men who had approached, a low-browed, bestial ruffian. "Half a' thousan' 's more'n I could pan out in a fortnight, no matter how good luck I had. Parson he is a fool, but _we_, hain't no right to grumble 'bout it, seein' we git his share--hey, Parleyvoo?"

"You speak truly, Mike," replied his companion, a rather handsome looking Frenchman, of middle age. "And yet Jean Glorieaux likes not the labor. Were it not that he had lost his last ounce at monte, and had the fever for play still in his blood, not one sou would he earn in such ungentle a manner."

"God's worst curses on all of you!" cried the woman, with an energy which inspired her plain face and form with a terrible dignity and power, "if you lay a hand on a man who is the only friend a poor woman has ever found in the world!"

Glorieaux shuddered, and Mike receded a step or two: but the ex-minister maintained the most perfect composure, and exclaimed:

"Poor fools! It is written, 'The curse, causeless, shall not fall.' And yet, madame, I assure you that I most tenderly sympathize with you in your misfortunes, whatever they may be."

"Then let him alone!" cried the woman. "My only child has been stolen away from me--dear little Johnny--and the man offered to go get him. And you've made me betray him. Oh, God curse you all!"

"Madame," replied the still imperturbable parson, "the crime of blood-guiltiness cannot be imputed to you, for you did not know what you were doing."

The woman leaned against a tree, and waited until Glorieaux declared to the parson he would abandon the chase.

"It is useless," said he, striking a dramatic attitude, and pointing to the woman, "for her tears have quenched the fiery fever in the blood of Glorieaux."

"Then I'll git the hull thousand," growled Mike, "an' I'll need it, too, if I've got to stand this sort of thing much longer."

A confused sound of voices on the other side of the creek attracted the attention of the men, and caused the woman to raise her head. A moment later Jude appeared, with a child in his arms, and plunged into the water.

"Now we'll have him!" cried the parson; "and you, madame, will have your child. Be ready to chase him, men, if he attempts to run when he gets ashore."

"Go back! go back!" screamed the woman. "They are after you, these men. Try to--"

The law-abiding parson placed his hand over the woman's mouth, but found himself promptly flying backward through space, while Mike roared:

"Touch a woman, will yer? No thousand dollars nor any other money, 'll hire me to travel with such a scoundrel. Catch him yerself, if yer want ter,"

"But if you do," said Glorieaux, politely, as he drew his revolver, "it will be necessary for Glorieaux to slay the Lord's anointed."

"Follered, by thunder!" said Mike.

It was true. During the few seconds which had been consumed in conversation, Jude got well into the creek. He had not seemed to hear the woman's warning; but now a greater danger threatened him, for on the opposite bank of the creek there appeared a man, who commenced firing at Jude's head and the small portion of his shoulders that was visible.

"The monster. Oh, the wretch!" screamed the woman. "He may hit Johnny, his only son! Oh, God have mercy on me, and save my child!"

A shot immediately behind her followed the woman's prayer, and Glorieaux exclaimed, pointing to the opposite bank, where Marksey was staggering and falling:

"Glorieaux gathered from your words that a divorce would be acceptable, madame. Behold, you have it!"

"Pity nobody didn't think of it sooner," observed Mike, shading his eyes as he stared intently at Jude, "for there's a red streak in the water right behind him."

The woman was already standing at the water's edge, with hands clasped in an agony of terror and anxiety. The three men hastened to join her.

"Wish I could swim," said Mike, "for he's gettin' weak, an' needs help."

The parson sprang into the water, and, in spite of the chill and the swift current, he was soon by Jude's side.

"Take the young un," gasped Jude, "for I'm a goner."

"Put your hand on my shoulder," said the parson. "I can get you both ashore."

'"Tain't no use," said Jude, feebly; "corpses don't count for much in Californy."

"But your immortal part," remonstrated the parson, trying to seize Jude by the hand which held little Johnny.

"God hev mercy on it!" whispered the dying man; "it's the fust time He ever had an excuse to do it."

Strong man and expert swimmer as the ex-minister was, he was compelled to relinquish his hold of the wounded man; and Jude, after one or two fitful struggles against his fate, drifted lifeless down the stream and into eternity, while the widowed mother regained her child. The man of God, the chivalrous Frenchman and the brutish Mike slowly returned to their camp; but no one who met them could imagine, from their looks, that they were either of them anything better than fugitives from justice.

A LOVE OF A COTTAGE.

We had been married about six months, and were boarding in the most comfortable style imaginable, when one evening, after dinner, Sophronia announced that her heart was set upon keeping house. _My_ heart sank within me; but one of the lessons learned within my half year of married life is, that when Sophronia's heart is set upon anything, the protests I see fit to make must be uttered only within the secret recesses of my own consciousness. Then Sophronia remarked that she had made up her mind to keep house in the country, at which information my heart sank still lower. Not that I lack appreciation of natural surroundings. I delight in localities where beautiful scenery exists, and where tired men can rest under trees without even being suspected of inebriety. But when any of my friends go house-hunting in the city, in the two or three square miles which contain all the desirable houses, their search generally occupies a month, during which time the searchers grow thin, nervous, absent-minded, and uncompanionable. What, then, would be _my_ fate, after searching the several hundred square miles of territory which were within twenty miles of New York. But Sophronia had decided that it was to be--and I,

"Mine not to make reply;
Mine not to reason why;
Mine but to do or die."

By a merciful dispensation of Providence, however, I was saved from the full measure of the fate I feared. Sophronia has a highly imaginative nature; in her a fancy naturally ethereal has been made super-sensitive by long companionship of tender-voiced poets and romancers. So when I bought a railway guide and read over the names of stations within a reasonable distance of New York, Sophronia's interest was excited in exact proportion to the attractiveness of the names themselves. Communipaw she pronounced execrable. Ewenville reminded her of a dreadful psalm tune. Paterson recalled the vulgar question, "Who struck Billy Patterson?" Yonkers sounded Dutch. Morristown had a plebeian air. Rutherford Park--well, that sounded endurable; it reminded her of the scene in Mrs. Somebody's novel. Elizabeth was a dreadfully old-fashioned name. Villa Valley--

"Stop!" exclaimed Sophronia, raising impressively the hand which bore her diamond engagement ring; "that is the place, Pierre. (I was christened Peter, but _Miss_ Sophronia never looked encouragingly upon me until a friend nicknamed me Pierre.) I have a presentiment that our home will be at Villa Valley. How melodious--how absolutely enchanting it sounds. There is always a lake or a brook in a valley, too, don't you know?"

I did _not_ previously possess this exact knowledge of the peculiarity of valleys, but I have an accurate knowledge of what my duty is regarding any statement which Sophronia may make, so I promptly assented. By the rarest good fortune, I found in the morning paper an advertisement of a real estate agent who made a specialty of Villa Valley property. This agent, when visited by me early in the morning, abundantly confirmed Sophronia's intuition regarding brooks and lakes, by asserting that his charming town possessed both, beside many other attractions, which irresistibly drove us to Villa Valley the next day, with a letter to the agent's resident partner.

It was a bright April morning when we started in the resident agent's carriage, to visit a number of houses, the rent of which did not exceed four hundred dollars.

"Drive first to the Old Stone Cottage," said Sophronia; "the very name is enchanting."

The house itself did not support Sophronia's impression. It stood very near the road, was a quarter of a mile from any tree or bush, had three large and three small rooms, only one of which could be reached without passing through two others, for the house had no hall. The woodwork would have apparently greeted paint as a life-long stranger; the doors, in size and clumsiness, reminded me of the gates of Gaza, as pictured in Sunday-school books. The agent said it had once been Washington's headquarters, and I saw no reason to doubt his word; though I timidly asked whether tradition asserted that the Father of his Country had not suffered a twinge of neuralgia while at Villa Valley.

"A Perfect Snuggery" did not belie its name, but in size and ventilation forcibly suggested a chicken coop.

"Charming Swiss Cottage" seemed to be a remodeled pig-stye, from which objectionable matter had not been removed. "The House in the Woods" was approachable only through water half-way up to the carriage body; so we regretfully abandoned pursuit of it.

"Silver Lake!" exclaimed Sophronia, reading from the memoranda she had penciled from the agent's descriptive list. "_That_, I am sure, will suit us. Don't you remember, Pierre, my presentiment about a lake at Villa Valley?"

I remembered, by a little stretch of my imagination. But, alas! for the uncertainty even of the presentiments of one of Nature's most impressible children. The "lake" was a pond, perhaps twenty feet in diameter; an antiquated boot, two or three abandoned milk cans, and a dead cat, reposed upon its placid beach; and from a sheltered nook upon its southerly side, an early-aroused frog appeared, inquiringly, and uttered a cry of surprise--or, perhaps, of warning.

"Take me away?" exclaimed Sophronia, "It was a dream--a fateful dream."

"New Cottage, with all modern improvements," seemed really to justify its title; but Sophronia declined to look farther than its outside.

"I could never be happy in that house, Pierre," said she, with emphasis; "it looks to be entirely new."

"'Tis, ma'am," declared the agent; "the last coat of paint hasn't been on a month."

"So I divined," replied Sophronia. "And so it is simply a lifeless mass of boards and plaster--no loving heartthrobs ever consecrated its walls--no tender romances have been woven under its eaves--no wistful yearnings--no agonies of parting have made its chambers instinct with life--no--"

"I declare!" exclaimed the agent; "excuse me for interrupting, ma'am, but I believe I've got the very house you're looking for. How would you like a rambling, old family homestead, a hundred years old, with quaint, wide fireplaces, high mantels, overhanging eaves, a heavy screen of evergreens, vines clambering over everything, a great wide hall--"

"Exquisite--charming--enchanting--paradisaical--divine!" murmured Sophronia.

"And the rent is only three hundred dollars," continued the agent.

This latter bit of information aroused _my_ strongest sentiment, and I begged the agent to show us the house at once.

The approach was certainly delightful. We dashed into the gloom of a mass of spruces, pines, and arbor-vitæs, and stopped suddenly in front of a little, low cottage, which consisted principally of additions, no one of which was after any particular architectural order. Sophronia gazed an instant; her face assumed an ecstatic expression which I had not seen since the day of our engagement; she threw her arms about my neck, her head drooped upon my bosom, and she whispered:

"My ideal!"

Then this matchless woman, intuitively realizing that the moment for action had arrived, reassumed her natural dignity, and, with the air of Mrs. Scott Siddons in "Elizabeth," exclaimed:

"Enough! We take it!"

"Hadn't you better examine the interior first, my love?" I suggested.

"Were the interior only that of a barn," remarked my consistent mate, "my decision would not be affected thereby. The eternal unities are never disunited, nor are--"

"I don't believe I've got the key with me," said the agent; "but perhaps we can get in through one of the windows."

The agent tied his horse and disappeared behind the house. Again Sophronia's arm encircled me, and she murmured:

"Oh, Pierre, what bliss!"

"It's a good way from the station, pet," I ventured to remark.

Sophronia's enthusiasm gave place to scorn; she withdrew her affectionate demonstration, and replied:

"Spoken like a real man! The practical, always--the ideal, never! Once I dreamed of the companionship of a congenial spirit, but, alas! 'A good way from the station!' Were _I_ a man, I would, to reside in such a bower, plod cheerily over miles of prosaic clods."

"And you'd get your shapely boots most shockingly muddy," I thought, as the agent opened one of the front windows and invited us to enter.

"French windows, too!" exclaimed Sophronia; "oh Pierre! And see that exquisite old mantel; it looks as if it had been carved from ebony upon the banks of one of the Queen of the Adriatic's noiseless by-ways. And these tiny rooms, how cozy--how like fairy land! Again I declare, we will take it! Let us return at once to the city--how I loathe the thought of treading its noisy thoroughfares again!--and order our carpets and furniture."

"Are you sure you won't be lonesome here, darling?" I asked. "It is quite a distance from any neighbors."

"A true woman is never lonesome when she can commune with Nature," replied Sophronia. "Besides," she continued, in a less exalted strain, "I shall have Laura Stanley and Stella Sykes with me most of the time."

The agent drove us back to his office, spending not more than ten minutes on the road; yet the time sufficed Sophronia to give me in detail her idea of the combination of carpets, shades, furniture, pictures, etc., which would be in harmony with our coming domicile. Suddenly nature reasserted her claims, and Sophronia addressed the agent.

"Your partner told my husband that there were a lake and two brooks at Villa Valley. I should like to see them."

"Certainly, ma'am," replied the agent, promptly; "I'll drive you past them as you go to the train."

Ten minutes later the lease was made out and signed. I was moved to interrupt the agent with occasional questions, such as, "Isn't the house damp?" "Any mosquitoes?" "Is the water good and plentiful?" "Does the cellar extend under the whole house?" But the coldly practical nature of these queries affected Sophronia's spirits so unpleasantly, that, out of pure affection, I forebore. Then the agent invited us into his carriage again, and said he would drive us to the lower depot.

"Two stations?" I inquired.

"Yes," said he; "and one's as near to your house as the other."

"_Your_ house," whispered Sophronia, turning her soulful eyes full upon me, and inserting her delicate elbow with unnecessary force between my not heavily covered ribs--"_your_ house! Oh, Pierre! does not the dignity of having a house appear to you like a beautiful vision?"

"I strove for an instant to frame a reply in keeping with Sophronia's mental condition, when an unpleasant odor saluted my nose. That Sophronia was conscious of the same disgusting atmospheric feature, I learned by the sound of a decided sniff. Looking about us, I saw a large paper mill beside a stream, whose contents looked sewer-like.

"Smell the paper-mash boiling?" asked the agent. "Peculiar, isn't it? Very healthy, though, they say."

On the opposite side of the road trickled a small gutter, full of a reddish-brown liquid, its source seeming to be a dye-house behind us. Just then we drove upon a bridge, which crossed a vile pool, upon the shore of which was a rolling-mill.

"Here's the lake," said the agent; "Dellwild Lake, they call it. And here's the brooks emptying into it, one on each side of the road."

Sophronia gasped and looked solemn. Her thoughtfulness lasted but a moment, however; then she applied her daintily perfumed handkerchief to her nose and whispered: "Dellwild! Charbig dabe, Pierre, dod't you thig so?"

During the fortnight which followed, Sophronia and I visited house-furnishing stores, carpet dealers, furniture warehouses, picture stores, and _bric-a-brac_ shops. The agent was very kind; he sent a boy to the house with the keys every time the express wished to deliver any of our goods. Finally, the carpet dealer having reported the carpets laid, Sophronia, I, and our newly engaged servant, started by rail to Villa Valley, three double-truck loads of furniture preceding us by way of the turnpike. I had thoughtfully ordered quite a quantity of provisions put into the house, in advance of our arrival. Hiring a carriage at the station, and obtaining the keys of the agent, we drove to our residence. Sophronia, to use her own expression, 'felt as she imagined Juno did, when first installed as mistress of the rosy summit of the divine mount; while I, though scarcely in a mood to compare myself with Jove, was conscious of a new and delightful sense of manliness. The shades and curtains were in the windows, the sun shone warmly upon them, and a bright welcome seemed to extend itself from the whole face of the cottage. I unlocked the door and tenderly kissed my darling under the lintel; then we stepped into the parlor. Sophronia immediately exclaimed:

"Gracious!"

The word that escaped _my_ lips, I shrink from placing upon the printed page. A barrel of flour, one of sugar, another of corned beef, and a half-barrel of molasses, a box of candles, a can of kerosene oil, some cases of canned fruits, a box of laundry soap, three wash-tubs, and a firkin of butter--all these, and many other packages, covered the parlor floor, and sent up a smell suggestive of an unventilated grocery. The flour had sifted between the staves of the barrel, the molasses had dripped somewhat, the box of soap had broken open and a single bar had been fastened to the carpet by the seal of a boot-heel of heroic size. Sophronia stepped into little pools of molasses, and the effect seemed to be that the carpet rose to bestow sweet clinging kisses upon the dainty feet of the loveliest of her sex.

"Horrible!" ejaculated Sophronia.

"And here come the trucks," said I, looking out of the window, "and the one with the parlor furniture is in front."

Fortunately, the truckmen were good-tempered and amenable to reason, expressed by means of currency; so we soon had the provisions moved into the kitchen. Then the senior truckman kindly consented to dispose of an old tarpaulin, at about twice the price of a piece of velvet carpet of similar size, and this we spread upon the parlor floor while the furniture should be brought in. Sophronia assumed the direction of proceedings, but it soon became evident that she was troubled.

"The room, evidently, was not arranged for this furniture," said she.

And she spoke truthfully. We had purchased a lounge, a large centre-table, an _etagere_, a Turkish chair, two reception chairs, four chairs to match the lounge, a rocker or two, an elegant firescreen, and several other articles of furniture, and there was considerable difficulty experienced, not only in arranging them, but in getting them into the parlor at all. Finally, the senior truckman spoke:

"The only way to git everythin' in, is to fix 'em the way we do at the store--set 'em close together."

He spoke truly; and Sophronia, with a sigh, assented to such an arrangement, suggesting that we could rearrange the furniture afterward, and stipulating only that the lounge should be placed in the front of the room. This done, there were three-and-a-half feet of space between the front of the lounge and the inside of the window-casings.

We can, at least, sit upon it and lose our souls in the dying glories of the sun upon the eternal hills, and--"Gracious, Pierre, where's the piano to go?"

Sure enough; and the piano was already at the door. The senior truckman cast his professional eye at the vacant space, and spoke:

"You can put it right there," said he. "There won't be no room fur the stool to go behind it; but if you put the key-board to the front, an' open the winder, you can stand outdoors an' play."

Sophronia eyed the senior truckman suspiciously for a moment, but not one of his honest facial muscles moved, so Sophronia exclaimed:

"True. And how romantic!"

While the piano was being placed I became conscious of some shocking language being used on the stairway. Looking out I saw two truckmen and the headboard of our new bedstead inextricably mixed on the stairs.

"Why don't you go on?" I asked.

The look which one of the truckmen gave me I shall not Forget until my dying day; the man's companion remarked that when (qualified) fools bought furniture for such (doubly qualified) houses, they ought to have brains enough to get things small enough to get up the (trebly qualified) stairs.

I could not deny the logic of this statement, impious as were the qualifying adjectives which were used thereupon. But something had to be done; we could not put the bedstead together upon the stairway and sleep upon it there, even were there not other articles of furniture imperatively demanding a right of way.

"Try to get it down again," said I.

They tried, and, after one mighty effort, succeeded; they also brought down several square yards of ceiling plaster and the entire handrail of the stair.

"Think the ceilings of these rooms is high enough to let that bed stand up?" asked the senior truckman.