[Illustration]
But Aunt Maggie insisted upon knowing where Joe got the tobacco,”
said grandma, “and how he obtained the money for buying it; for she
found some of the nasty stuff hidden away in his room that same day.
So, at supper, she again asked him to tell her the truth, and begged
him to hide nothing from her. Aunt Maggie told my mother all about it
afterward. She said that Joey had been doing errands for the grocer,
Mr. Green, for some time, and that he had never brought home any money,
and that now Joey declared that he had taken his pay in tobacco,
because Mr. Green refused to pay him in any other way.”
“That wasn’t true, I dare say,” reflected Max. “Was it, grandmother?”
“No, indeed. When Mr. Green found out about it, he said that he had
paid the boy the money for all that he had done, and that he had not
only not given him any tobacco, but that he did not keep it for sale
at all in his shop. He said that as he knew it to be harmful, he had
decided not to sell the stuff. So poor Aunt Maggie saw at once that
Joey had added to his other sins, those of falsehood and deceit.”
“Why, grandma,” ventured Bertha, “I should think you would not have
wanted to play with him any more, when you saw what a bad, deceitful
boy he was.”
“No, I did not play with him any more. My father at once forbade that,
and in a few weeks Aunt Maggie moved away. Of course, I missed my old
playfellow, but I did not see him again in a long time,” continued
grandma. “My mother saw Aunt Maggie after they had been gone about a
year, and mother said that she never saw such a sad change in any one
before. The poor old lady’s hair had grown quite white, and her face
was pale and careworn.”
“I dare say that bad, ungrateful boy vexed her so that she had no
peace,” continued Bertha.
“Yes, yes,” sighed grandma, “my mother said there were tears in Aunt
Maggie’s eyes as she told her that poor Joe was going to ruin as fast
as he could, and that already she found it quite impossible to control
him.
“Finally, one day about three or four years after this, my father had
occasion to pass through the town where Joey lived, and I went with
him. I rather hoped we would not see Joe, for I knew that the meeting
would be only painful; for you will remember that by this time I had
grown to be a large girl,--quite a young lady, in fact, and Joe was a
year older.”
“Did Joe know you were coming?” asked Henri.
“O, no, or surely I do not think I should have found him in the place
where he was.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t have cared after all,” ventured Max.
“O, yes, he would, I am sure; for he was naturally a very proud lad,
fond of show, and always anxious to make a good impression upon his
friends. But you see, he didn’t know we were coming, and so as father
and I were passing the door of one of the many saloons which cursed
the little town, there stood my old playfellow, among a crowd of young
toughs, just in the act of lighting his pipe, and taking dreadful
lessons in beer drinking and profanity. O you can’t think how badly I
felt.”
“What did he say then, grandma? Wasn’t he very much ashamed?” asked
Bertha.
“Perhaps so. He stood close outside, by the door, and I called to him
just as he was stepping inside. At first he pretended not to hear me,
but it seemed to me that I could not let him enter that awful place;
and so I ventured to call his name once more, louder than before. He
could hardly refuse, then, to come back and speak to me. Just as he did
so, an old man came out, staggering and spueing as he came. The man
was quite well dressed, for this was one of the better saloons; but
the poor man’s face was red and bloated and looked much like old Joe’s
to-day.
“I could see that my young friend was considerably ashamed, but he
tried by falsehood and deceit, and by putting on a bold front, to
excuse the fact of his being in such a place.
“‘Fact is, Mr. Brown,’ he said, addressing my father, ‘I was in there
just doing an errand for Aunt Maggie. She wanted some alcohol for her
camphor, and of course, _she_ wouldn’t go, so she coaxed me. I don’t
like these rough fellows, myself, Jennie,’ he continued blandly. ‘You
know I never did. Didn’t we have some jolly times in the old days
though?’ and I fancied,” continued grandma, “that I could see a shade
of real regret in his expressive brown eyes. O I felt so sorry for him!
“‘Poor Joe!’ I said, ‘Aunt Maggie might a great deal better have gone
without her camphor, than to send you into a saloon among those awful
spueing men. Really, Joey,’ I questioned in an undertone, ‘did Aunt
Maggie actually and truly send you?’
“‘O you’re just like you used to be, Jennie,’ said he, laughing
lightly, but I could see that my question made him wince. ‘Of course
she sent me, I have to mind Aunt Maggie, don’t you see?’
“Finally, before I left him, I had made him promise solemnly that he
would keep away from the saloons and never touch another glass of beer
as long as he lived.”
“Then he owned up, did he?” questioned Max.
“Yes, for he must have known on second thought, that his wretched
falsehood about Aunt Maggie’s sending him into a saloon was too
foolish to be believed.”
“Well, anyway,” sighed Bertha, “the poor boy didn’t keep his promise to
you, grandma, or we would not have seen him in the gutter to-day.”
“O no, my dear; but it was all I could do, and perhaps it did affect
him for good for a little while; for though he was weak and foolish and
had, by this time, acquired a great love for the fatal cup, yet he had
great respect for my father, and also entertained a strong feeling of
friendship for me. Still, it took me some time to get him to make the
promise.
[Illustration: “_I’ll promise, of course._”]
“‘You’re asking a great deal of me, Jennie,’ he said, ‘seems to me
you’re pretty hard on a fellow, but I’ll promise, of course. Though you
ought to know me well enough to be perfectly assured that I would have
too much sense to drink enough to do me any harm. Just a social glass
now and again,--that’s all,--couldn’t possibly do me a bit of harm. I
flatter myself I’m too much of a gentleman not to know enough to quit
when I’ve had plenty. Of course some people can’t do it, but I am my
father’s son, Miss Jennie, and they say that he was a gentleman!’ and
the poor, misguided lad straightened himself very proudly and glanced
at my father as though hoping he would approve his logic.”
“What did your father say, grandma,” queried Henri.
“He only smiled sadly at the self-conceited young lad and said:--
“‘I used to know and love your father, Joe, he was a true gentleman,
and one of my dearest friends,--indeed, he was too much of a gentleman
to allow anything that could intoxicate to pass his lips. I only wish
you would follow in his steps.’
“This sort of thing was not to Joe’s liking one bit,” continued grandma,
“and he soon made an excuse to part company from us. He turned down
another street, and it was nearly five years before I saw him again.
Meanwhile, his heartbroken aunt, who had been to him both father and
mother, was doing all in her power to save him.
“‘I can’t imagine whom the boy takes after,’ she often said to
my mother. ‘None of his people ever drank, and his father was a
gentleman.’” But the poor woman did not realize that he had formed the
love for strong drink right at home in her own pantry and cellar.