The Kimper family thinned out, numerically, as soon as the frugal
evening meal was despatched. Tom and Billy disappeared separately
without remark; Mary put on a small felt hat which added a rakish air
to her precocious face, and said she was going to the hotel to see if
sister Jane had any news. Half an hour later, the cook, all the
chamber-maids, waiters, bar-keepers, and stable-boys at the hostelry
were laughing and jeering, in which they were led by Jane, as Mary told
of her father's announcement that he had been converted and would have
no more stealing done in the interest of the family larder. The fun
became so fast and furious that it was obliged to end in sheer
exhaustion; so when Tom came in an hour later, he was unable to revive
it sufficiently to secure the stolen glass of beer which he had
coveted.
Sam Kimper did not seem to notice the disappearance of the more active
portion of the family. Taking the baby in his arms, he sat with closed
eyes while his wife cleared the table. Finally he said,--
"Nan, ain't you got nothin' else to do?"
"Nothin', that I know of," said the wife.
"Come an' set down alongside o' me, then, an' let me tell you about
somethin' that come about while I was in the penitentiary. Nan, a man
that used to come there Sundays found me a-cryin' in my cell one
Sunday; I couldn't help it, I felt so forlorn an' kind o' gone like.
I'd felt that way lots o' times before, when I was out an' around, but
then I could get over it by takin' a drink. There's always ways of
gettin' a drink,--sweepin' out a saloon, or cuttin' wood agin' winter,
when the saloon'll need it. But there wasn't no chance to get a drink
in jail, an' I was feelin' as if the under-pinnin' of me was gone.
"Well, the man said he knowed a friend that would stand by me an' cheer
me up. His name was Jesus. I told him I'd heerd of Him before, 'cause
I'd been to revival meetin's an' been preached to lots by one man an'
another. He said that wasn't exactly the way he wanted me to think
about Him,--said Jesus used to be alive and go around bein' sorry for
folks that was in trouble, an' He once comforted a thief that was bein'
killed in a most uncomfortable way, though Jesus was havin' a hard time
of it Himself about that time.
"That hit me where I lived, for I--well, you know what I was sent up
for. He said Jesus was God, but he came here to show men how to live,
an' he wanted me to think about Him only as a man, while I was in
trouble. He said the worse off a man was, the more sorry Jesus was for
him: so I said,--
"'I wish He was here now, then.'
"'He _is_ here, my friend,' said the man. 'He's here, though you can't
see Him. He ain't got nothin' to make out of you: neither have I: so
you needn't be afraid to take my word for it. I'll tell you some of the
things he said.' Then he read me a lot of things that did make me feel
lots better. Why, Nan, that man Jesus was so sorry for men in jail that
He went back on some high-toned folks that didn't visit 'em: just think
of that!
"After a while the man said, 'You seem to be feelin' better.'
"'So I am,' said I.
"'Then believe in him,' says he, 'an' you'll feel better always.'
"'I've been told that before,' says I, 'but I don't know how.'
"The man looked kind o' puzzled like, an' at last says he,--
"'What's yer politics?'
"'I'm a Jackson Democrat,' says I.
"'All right,' says he, 'but Andrew Jackson's dead, ain't he?'
"'So I've heerd,' said I.
"'But you still believe in him?' says he.
"'Of course,' said I.
"'Well,' says he, 'just believe in Jesus like you do in Andrew Jackson,
and you'll be all right in the course of time. Believe that what He
said was true, an' get your mind full of what He said, an' keep it
full, remindin' yourself over an' over again for fear you forget it or
other things'll put it out of your mind, an' you'll be happier while
you're in jail, an' you won't get back here again, nor in any other
jail, after you've been let out.'
"Well, that was encouragin', for I didn't want to get in no jails no
more. When the man went away he left me a little book that didn't have
nothin' in it but things Jesus Himself said. I read it lots; some of it
I didn't understand, an' I can't get it through my head yet, but what I
did get done me so much good that I found myself kind o' changin' like,
an' I've been changin' ever since. Nan, I want you to read it too, an'
see if it don't do you good. We ain't been what we ought to be; it's
all my fault. The children ain't had no show; that's all my fault too,
but it'll take all that two of us can do to catch up with 'em. I want
you to be always 'side o' me, Nan."
"We can't let 'em starve," said the wife; "an' if what you're
believin' is goin' to keep you from pickin' up a livin' for 'em when
you get a chance, what are we goin' to do?"
"I'm goin' to work," said Sam.
"Sho! You never done three days' work hand-runnin' in your life." Then
Mrs. Kimper gave a hard laugh.
"I've done it over two years now, an' I guess I can keep on, if I get
the chance. I can stick to it if you'll back me up, Nan."
"There ain't much to me nowaday," said Mrs. Kimper, after a moment or
two of blank staring as she held her chin in her hands and rested her
elbows on her knees. "Once I had an idee I was about as lively as they
make 'em, but things has knocked it out of me,--a good many kind of
things."
"I know it, poor gal," said Sam; "I know it: I feel a good deal the
same way myself sometimes; but it helps me along an' stren'thens me up,
like, to know that Him that the visitor in jail told me about didn't
have no home a good deal of the time, an' not overmuch to eat, an' yet
was cheerful like, an' always on His nerve. It braces a fellow up to
think somebody's who's been as bad off as himself has pulled through,
an' not stole nothin', nor fit with nobody, nor got drunk, but always
was lookin' out for other folks. Say, Nan, 'pears to me it's gettin'
dark all of a sudden--oh!"
The exclamation was called out by the cause of the sudden darkness,
which was no other than Deacon Quickset, who had reached the door-way
without being heard. The deacon's proportions were generous; those of
the door were not.
"Samuel," said the deacon, "you said this afternoon that you were a
changed man, and that you were leaning on a strength greater than your
own. I want to see you make a new start and a fair one; and, as there's
a prayer- and experience-meeting around at the church to-night, I
thought I'd come around and tell you that 'twould be a sensible thing
to go there and tell what the Lord's done for you. It will put you on
record, and make you some friends; and you need them, you know."
Sam was pallid by nature, more so through long confinement, but he
looked yet more pale as he stammered,--
"Me--speak--in meetin'? Before folks that--that's always b'longed to
the church?"
"You must acknowledge Him, Samuel, if you expect Him to bless you."
"I hain't no objections to acknowledgin' Him, deacon, only--I'm not the
man to talk out much before them that I know is my betters. I ain't got
the gift o' gab. I couldn't never say much to the fellers in the
saloon along around about election-times, though I b'lieved in the
party with all my might."
"It doesn't take any gift to tell the plain truth," said the deacon.
"Come along. Mrs. Kimper, you come too, so Samuel will have no excuse
to stay home."
"Me?" gasped Mrs. Kimper. "Me?--in meetin'? Goodness, deacon, it gives
me the conniptions to think of it! Besides,"--here she dragged her
scanty clothing about her more closely,--"I ain't fit to be seen among
decent folks."
"Clothes don't count for anything in the house of the Lord," said the
deacon, stoutly, though he knew he was lying. "Meeting begins at
half-past seven, and the sun's down now."
"Nan," whispered Sam, "come along. You can slip in a back seat an'
nobody'll see nothin' but your face. Stand by me, Nan: I'm your
husband. Stand by me, so I can stand by my only friend."
"Deacon ain't no friend o' yourn," whispered the trembling woman in
reply.
"I'm not talkin' about the deacon, Nan. Don't, go back on me. You're my
wife, Nan; you don't know what that means to me now,--you reelly
don't."
Mrs. Kimper stared, then she almost smiled.
"I mean it, Nan," whispered the man.
Mrs. Kimper rummaged for a moment in the drawers of a dilapidated
bureau, and finally folded a red handkerchief and tied it over her
head.
"Good!" said the deacon, who had been watching the couple closely.
"We'll go around by the back way, so nobody'll see either of you, if
you don't want them to. I'll take Samuel along with me, and you can
drop in wherever you think best, Mrs. Kimper. I'm not going back on any
man who is going to turn over a new leaf. Come along."