Chapter III: Part THREE

It doesn’t seem a bit possible!” exclaimed Bertha, “that this awful looking old man could have been a nice little boy,--nice enough to _ever_ have been my grandma’s playmate!”

“No,” reflected Max, “I didn’t dream that just tea and coffee ever helped to make drunkards,--very many people surely use them both,--nice people, too, grandma.”

“But it does not always have this effect, my dear, and we may be thankful, but it is certainly one of the stepping stones to intemperance.”

“But I don’t understand why,” said Max, who always wanted to know the reason for everything. “Can’t you tell us, grandma, why tea and coffee are so bad? ’Cause if they are, I’ll never drink another cup of either again, as long as I live,--for I don’t want to run any risk at all of being a drunkard,--isn’t that what you say, too, Henri?”

“Indeed, it is,--no drunkard for me, I tell you! but may be grandma will tell us a little more about it,” and Henri put his boyish cheek close to grandma’s and gave her two or three hearty kisses. “Please tell us, grandma.”

“Well, my children, both tea and coffee contain a very deadly poison, but in so small a quantity that we do not at once feel the evil effects.”

“No, grandma; I have often heard Mrs. Wilson, the grocer’s wife, say that she could not work until she had had her cup of tea.”

“That is because it stimulates the system,” said grandma. “I will make it plain to you. Do you remember in our walk this afternoon, we saw a cruel driver whipping his poor horse to make him pull his heavy load up the hill?”

_The Whip_]

“Yes, yes; and I felt like snatching the whip away from the wicked man,” said Henri.

“It would have been wiser and better for him to take off a part of the load instead of whipping his poor, patient horse. Still, you remember how much quicker the poor beast drew his burden to the top.

“Now, my children, tea and coffee act on the body just as the driver’s whip did upon the horse. Perhaps we can do more work at the time by drinking it, but, like the horse, when we have done the work, we are completely exhausted, and feel the need of more and more of the poison.”

“I just knew grandma could make it plain to you boys,” smiled Bertha,--“but I believe _I_ understood it quite well all the time. But please go on with the story about Joe, grandma, I want to see how it all comes out.”

“Why, my child, you _saw_ how it came out,--saw it all too plainly, this afternoon, when you saw poor old Joe as he reeled by us,” and grandma sighed, while a tear stole down her cheeks. “Yes, you _saw_ how my story must end; but I will tell you the steps which poor Joe next took:--

“When he was about ten years old, I went over again one day to play with him. As I have said, he was a pleasant and lively playfellow, generally good natured, and always ready to build me playhouses and never laughed at my dolls.

“After we had played for some time, Joey began to act uneasy. ‘What’s the matter, Joey?’ I asked. ‘See, you are spoiling my playhouse, and it just suited me. You act as if you didn’t want to play at all; I’ll go right home unless,--”

“‘O, don’t be a silly sissy!’ exclaimed Joey, ‘I didn’t mean to spoil your playhouse,--but, look here, Jennie Brown, _I’m_ getting dreadful thirsty!’

“‘Well, then, go and get a drink of water. See, Aunt Maggie has just pumped a nice fresh pail.’

“‘See here’ said Joey, ‘you needn’t think I’m such a sissy and ninny as to drink _water_ when I can get something else that’s a whole lot better!’

“He winked at me very slily, and turning on his heel, he beckoned me to follow. I was so curious to know what he was going to do, that I dropped my dolls and scampered after him. As we passed the kitchen window, he peeped in cautiously, to assure himself that Aunt Maggie was so busy that she would not be apt to see him, and then he again beckoned me to follow him down the back cellar stairs:--

“‘What are you going to do, Joey?’ I whispered, almost frightened at his strange actions.

“‘Sh--sh--! speak lower. See! I’m going to have a good drink of Aunt Maggie’s cider. She’s been saving it for weeks and weeks to make vinegar of,--but it’s good enough to suit me, now,’ he chuckled, as he produced a long straw, and, inserting it in the hole of the barrel, took a long, deep draft, and offered the straw to me:--

“‘I tell you, it’s good. Come, help yourself. It makes a fellow feel nice all over. When I take a little bit too much, it gives me a headache, and Aunt Maggie makes me a good, strong cup of tea,’ he chuckled, ‘so I don’t care very much after all.’”

“But did you drink, grandma?” gasped Bertha.

“I tasted it, but it was so bitter I couldn’t drink it, nor did I want to do so. Then we tip-toed back into the kitchen. Aunt Maggie gave Joe a keen glance, but she said nothing, and we hurried out again to our play.

“‘You oughtn’t to do that, Joey,’ I said, looking fearlessly into his bright brown eyes, ‘I just know you ought not; what would Aunt Maggie say?’

“‘It doesn’t harm her any,’ he returned; ‘the old lady will have a little less vinegar, that’s all,--I prefer my vinegar _this_ way. I’ve had all I’ve wanted to drink for a month, and it gets better and better,--and, besides, I can drink a whole lot more than I could at first, and it’s lots stronger, too. After a little I guess I can drink as much as a big man and never feel it!’ and poor Joey stretched himself to his greatest height, and strutted about the playhouse in an exceedingly silly manner.”

“Why didn’t you tell Aunt Maggie?” asked Bertha. “I would have told my mother, at least.”

“Perhaps you would, but I was a thoughtless child, and Joey was almost the only playmate I had, and as I was very fond of play, I suppose I kept quiet from a selfish fear that I might be forbidden his company entirely.”

OLD JOE, THE DRUNKARD