II

“Good-mornin’, sir.”

Elder Brown leaned over the little pine picket which divided the

bookkeepers’ department of a Macon warehouse from the room in

general, and surveyed the well-dressed back of a gentleman who was

busily figuring at a desk within. The apartment was carpetless, and

the dust of a decade lay deep on the old books, shelves, and the

familiar advertisements of guano and fertilizers which decorated

the room. An old stove, rusty with the nicotine contributed by

farmers during the previous season while waiting by its glowing

sides for their cotton to be sold, stood straight up in a bed of

sand, and festoons of cobwebs clung to the upper sashes of the

murky windows. The lower sash of one window had been raised, and

in the yard without, nearly an acre in extent, lay a few bales

of cotton, with jagged holes in their ends, just as the sampler

had left them. Elder Brown had time to notice all these familiar

points, for the figure at the desk kept serenely at its task, and

deigned no reply.

“Good-mornin’, sir,” said Elder Brown again, in his most dignified

tones. “Is Mr. Thomas in?”

“Good-morning, sir,” said the figure. “I’ll wait on you in a

minute.” The minute passed, and four more joined it. Then the desk

man turned.

“Well, sir, what can I do for you?”

The elder was not in the best of humor when he arrived, and his

state of mind had not improved. He waited full a minute as he

surveyed the man of business.

“I thought I mout be able to make some arrangements with you to git

some money, but I reckon I was mistaken.” The warehouse man came

nearer.

“This is Mr. Brown, I believe. I did not recognize you at once. You

are not in often to see us.”

“No; my wife usually ’tends to the town bizness, while I run the

church and farm. Got a fall from my donkey this morning,” he said,

noticing a quizzical, interrogating look upon the face before him,

“and fell squar’ on the hat.” He made a pretense of smoothing it.

The man of business had already lost interest.

“How much money will you want, Mr. Brown?”

“Well, about seven hundred dollars,” said the elder, replacing his

hat, and turning a furtive look upon the warehouse man. The other

was tapping with his pencil upon the little shelf lying across the

rail.

“I can get you five hundred.”

“But I oughter have seven.”

“Can’t arrange for that amount. Wait till later in the season,

and come again. Money is very tight now. How much cotton will you

raise?”

“Well, I count on a hundr’d bales. An’ you can’t git the sev’n

hundr’d dollars?”

“Like to oblige you, but can’t right now; will fix it for you later

on.”

“Well,” said the elder, slowly, “fix up the papers for five, an’

I’ll make it go as far as possible.”

The papers were drawn. A note was made out for $552.50, for the

interest was at one and a half per cent. for seven months, and a

mortgage on ten mules belonging to the elder was drawn and signed.

The elder then promised to send his cotton to the warehouse to be

sold in the fall, and with a curt “Anything else?” and a “Thankee,

that’s all,” the two parted.

Elder Brown now made an effort to recall the supplemental

commissions shouted to him upon his departure, intending to execute

them first, and then take his written list item by item. His mental

resolves had just reached this point when a new thought made itself

known. Passersby were puzzled to see the old man suddenly snatch

his headpiece off and peer with an intent and awestruck air into

its irregular caverns. Some of them were shocked when he suddenly

and vigorously ejaculated:

“Hannah-Maria-Jemimy! goldarn an’ blue blazes!”

He had suddenly remembered having placed his memoranda in that hat,

and as he studied its empty depths his mind pictured the important

scrap fluttering along the sandy scene of his early-morning tumble.

It was this that caused him to graze an oath with less margin that

he had allowed himself in twenty years. What would the old lady say?

Alas! Elder Brown knew too well. What she would not say was what

puzzled him. But as he stood bareheaded in the sunlight a sense

of utter desolation came and dwelt with him. His eye rested upon

sleeping Balaam anchored to a post in the street, and so as he

recalled the treachery that lay at the base of all his affliction,

gloom was added to the desolation.

To turn back and search for the lost paper would have been worse

than useless. Only one course was open to him, and at it went

the leader of his people. He called at the grocery; he invaded

the recesses of the dry-goods establishments; he ransacked the

hardware stores; and wherever he went he made life a burden for

the clerks, overhauling show-cases and pulling down whole shelves

of stock. Occasionally an item of his memoranda would come to

light, and thrusting his hand into his capacious pocket, where lay

the proceeds of his check, he would pay for it upon the spot, and

insist upon having it rolled up. To the suggestion of the slave

whom he had in charge for the time being that the articles be laid

aside until he had finished, he would not listen.

“Now you look here, sonny,” he said, in the dry-goods store, “I’m

conducting this revival, an’ I don’t need no help in my line. Just

you tie them stockin’s up an’ lemme have ’em. Then I _know_ I’ve

_got_ ’em.” As each purchase was promptly paid for, and change had

to be secured, the clerk earned his salary for that day at least.

So it was when, near the heat of the day, the good man arrived at

the drugstore, the last and only unvisited division of trade, he

made his appearance equipped with half a hundred packages, which

nestled in his arms and bulged out about the sections of his

clothing that boasted of pockets. As he deposited his deck-load

upon the counter, great drops of perspiration rolled down his face

and over his waterlogged collar to the floor.

There was something exquisitely refreshing in the great glasses

of foaming soda that a spruce young man was drawing from a marble

fountain, above which half a dozen polar bears in an ambitious

print were disporting themselves. There came a break in the run of

customers, and the spruce young man, having swept the foam from

the marble, dexterously lifted a glass from the revolving rack

which had rinsed it with a fierce little stream of water, and asked

mechanically, as he caught the intense look of the perspiring

elder, “What syrup, sir?”

Now it had not occurred to the elder to drink soda, but the

suggestion, coming as it did in his exhausted state, was

overpowering. He drew near awkwardly, put on his glasses, and

examined the list of syrups with great care. The young man, being

for the moment at leisure, surveyed critically the gaunt figure,

the faded bandanna, the antique clawhammer coat, and the battered

stove-pipe hat, with a gradually relaxing countenance. He even

called the prescription clerk’s attention by a cough and a quick

jerk of the thumb. The prescription clerk smiled freely, and

continued his assaults upon a piece of blue mass.

“I reckon,” said the elder, resting his hands upon his knees and

bending down to the list, “you may gimme sassprilla an’ a little

strawberry. Sassprilla’s good for the blood this time er year, an’

strawberry’s good any time.”

The spruce young man let the syrup stream into the glass as he

smiled affably. Thinking, perhaps, to draw out the odd character,

he ventured upon a jest himself, repeating a pun invented by the

man who made the first soda fountain. With a sweep of his arm he

cleared away the swarm of insects as he remarked, “People who like

a fly in theirs are easily accommodated.”

It was from sheer good-nature only that Elder Brown replied, with

his usual broad, social smile, “Well, a fly now an’ then don’t hurt

nobody.”

Now if there is anybody in the world who prides himself on knowing

a thing or two, it is the spruce young man who presides over a soda

fountain. This particular young gentleman did not even deem a reply

necessary. He vanished an instant, and when he returned a close

observer might have seen that the mixture in the glass he bore had

slightly changed color and increased in quantity. But the elder saw

only the whizzing stream of water dart into its center, and the

rosy foam rise and tremble on the glass’s rim. The next instant he

was holding his breath and sipping the cooling drink.

As Elder Brown paid his small score he was at peace with the world.

I firmly believe that when he had finished his trading, and the

little blue-stringed packages had been stored away, could the poor

donkey have made his appearance at the door, and gazed with his

meek, fawnlike eyes into his master’s, he would have obtained full

and free forgiveness.

Elder Brown paused at the door as he was about to leave. A

rosy-cheeked schoolgirl was just lifting a creamy mixture to her

lips before the fountain. It was a pretty picture, and he turned

back, resolved to indulge in one more glass of the delightful

beverage before beginning his long ride homeward.

“Fix it up again, sonny,” he said, renewing his broad, confiding

smile, as the spruce young man poised a glass inquiringly. The

living automaton went through the same motions as before, and again

Elder Brown quaffed the fatal mixture.

What a singular power is habit! Up to this time Elder Brown had

been entirely innocent of transgression, but with the old alcoholic

fire in his veins, twenty years dropped from his shoulders, and a

feeling came over him familiar to every man who has been “in his

cups.” As a matter of fact, the elder would have been a confirmed

drunkard twenty years before had his wife been less strong-minded.

She took the reins into her own hands when she found that his

business and strong drink did not mix well, worked him into the

church, sustained his resolutions by making it difficult and

dangerous for him to get to his toddy. She became the business head

of the family, and he the spiritual. Only at rare intervals did he

ever “backslide” during the twenty years of the new era, and Mrs.

Brown herself used to say that the “sugar in his’n turned to gall

before the backslide ended.” People who knew her never doubted it.

But Elder Brown’s sin during the remainder of the day contained an

element of responsibility. As he moved majestically down toward

where Balaam slept in the sunlight, he felt no fatigue. There was

a glow upon his cheek-bones, and a faint tinge upon his prominent

nose. He nodded familiarly to people as he met them, and saw not

the look of amusement which succeeded astonishment upon the various

faces. When he reached the neighborhood of Balaam it suddenly

occurred to him that he might have forgotten some one of his

numerous commissions, and he paused to think. Then a brilliant idea

rose in his mind. He would forestall blame and disarm anger with

kindness—he would purchase Hannah a bonnet.

What woman’s heart ever failed to soften at sight of a new bonnet?

As I have stated, the elder was a man of action. He entered a store

near at hand.

“Good-morning,” said an affable gentleman with a Hebrew

countenance, approaching.

“Good-mornin’, good-mornin’,” said the elder, piling his bundles on

the counter. “I hope you are well?” Elder Brown extended his hand

fervidly.

“Quite well, I thank you. What—”

“And the little wife?” said Elder Brown, affectionately retaining

the Jew’s hand.

“Quite well, sir.”

“And the little ones—quite well, I hope, too?”

“Yes, sir; all well, thank you. Something I can do for you?”

The affable merchant was trying to recall his customer’s name.

“Not now, not now, thankee. If you please to let my bundles stay

untell I come back—”

“Can’t I show you something? Hat, coat—”

“Not now. Be back bimeby.”

Was it chance or fate that brought Elder Brown in front of a

bar? The glasses shone bright upon the shelves as the swinging

door flapped back to let out a coatless clerk, who passed him

with a rush, chewing upon a farewell mouthful of brown bread and

bologna. Elder Brown beheld for an instant the familiar scene

within. The screws of his resolution had been loosened. At sight

of the glistening bar the whole moral structure of twenty years

came tumbling down. Mechanically he entered the saloon, and laid a

silver quarter upon the bar as he said:

“A little whiskey an’ sugar.” The arms of the bartender worked like

a faker’s in a side show as he set out the glass with its little

quota of “short sweetening” and a cut-glass decanter, and sent a

half-tumbler of water spinning along from the upper end of the bar

with a dime in change.

“Whiskey is higher’n used to be,” said Elder Brown; but the

bartender was taking another order, and did not hear him. Elder

Brown stirred away the sugar, and let a steady stream of red liquid

flow into the glass. He swallowed the drink as unconcernedly as

though his morning tod had never been suspended, and pocketed the

change. “But it ain’t any better than it was,” he concluded, as

he passed out. He did not even seem to realize that he had done

anything extraordinary.

There was a millinery store up the street, and thither with

uncertain step he wended his way, feeling a little more elate, and

altogether sociable. A pretty, black-eyed girl, struggling to keep

down her mirth, came forward and faced him behind the counter.

Elder Brown lifted his faded hat with the politeness, if not the

grace, of a Castilian, and made a sweeping bow. Again he was in his

element. But he did not speak. A shower of odds and ends, small

packages, thread, needles, and buttons, released from their prison,

rattled down about him.

The girl laughed. She could not help it. And the elder, leaning

his hand on the counter, laughed, too, until several other girls

came half-way to the front. Then they, hiding behind counters and

suspended cloaks, laughed and snickered until they reconvulsed the

elder’s vis-à-vis, who had been making desperate efforts to resume

her demure appearance.

“Let me help you, sir,” she said, coming from behind the counter,

upon seeing Elder Brown beginning to adjust his spectacles for

a search. He waved her back majestically. “No, my dear, no;

can’t allow it. You mout sile them purty fingers. No, ma’am. No

gen’l’man’ll ’low er lady to do such a thing.” The elder was gently

forcing the girl back to her place. “Leave it to me. I’ve picked up

bigger things ’n them. Picked myself up this mornin’. Balaam—you

don’t know Balaam; he’s my donkey—he tumbled me over his head in

the sand this mornin’.” And Elder Brown had to resume an upright

position until his paroxysm of laughter had passed. “You see this

old hat?” extending it, half full of packages; “I fell clear inter

it; jes’ as clean inter it as them things thar fell out’n it.” He

laughed again, and so did the girls. “But, my dear, I whaled half

the hide off’n him for it.”

“Oh, sir! how could you? Indeed, sir. I think you did wrong. The

poor brute did not know what he was doing, I dare say, and probably

he has been a faithful friend.” The girl cast her mischievous

eyes towards her companions, who snickered again. The old man

was not conscious of the sarcasm. He only saw reproach. His face

straightened, and he regarded the girl soberly.

“Mebbe you’re right, my dear; mebbe I oughtn’t.”

“I am sure of it,” said the girl. “But now don’t you want to buy a

bonnet or a cloak to carry home to your wife?”

“Well, you’re whistlin’ now, birdie; that’s my intention; set ’em

all out.” Again the elder’s face shone with delight. “An’ I don’t

want no one-hoss bonnet neither.”

“Of course not. Now here is one; pink silk, with delicate pale

blue feathers. Just the thing for the season. We have nothing

more elegant in stock.” Elder Brown held it out, upside down, at

arm’s-length.

“Well, now, that’s suthin’ like. Will it soot a sorter redheaded

’ooman?”

A perfectly sober man would have said the girl’s corsets must have

undergone a terrible strain, but the elder did not notice her dumb

convulsion. She answered, heroically:

“Perfectly, sir. It is an exquisite match.”

“I think you’re whistlin’ again. Nancy’s head’s red, red as a

woodpeck’s. Sorrel’s only half-way to the color of her top-knot,

an’ it do seem like red oughter to soot red. Nancy’s red an’ the

hat’s red; like goes with like, an’ birds of a feather flock

together.” The old man laughed until his cheeks were wet.

The girl, beginning to feel a little uneasy, and seeing a customer

entering, rapidly fixed up the bonnet, took fifteen dollars out

of a twenty-dollar bill, and calmly asked the elder if he wanted

anything else. He thrust his change somewhere into his clothes, and

beat a retreat. It had occurred to him that he was nearly drunk.

Elder Brown’s step began to lose its buoyancy. He found himself

utterly unable to walk straight. There was an uncertain straddle in

his gait that carried him from one side of the walk to the other,

and caused people whom he met to cheerfully yield him plenty of

room.

Balaam saw him coming. Poor Balaam. He had made an early start that

day, and for hours he stood in the sun awaiting relief. When he

opened his sleepy eyes and raised his expressive ears to a position

of attention, the old familiar coat and battered hat of the elder

were before him. He lifted up his honest voice and cried aloud for

joy.

The effect was electrical for one instant. Elder Brown surveyed the

beast with horror, but again in his understanding there rang out

the trumpet words.

“Drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, -er-unc, -unc, -unc.”

He stooped instinctively for a missile with which to smite his

accuser, but brought up suddenly with a jerk and a handful of sand.

Straightening himself up with a majestic dignity, he extended his

right hand impressively.

“You’re a goldarn liar, Balaam, and, blast your old buttons, you

kin walk home by yourself, for I’m danged if you sh’ll ride me er

step.”

Surely Coriolanus never turned his back upon Rome with a grander

dignity than sat upon the old man’s form as he faced about and left

the brute to survey with anxious eyes the new departure of his

master.

He saw the elder zigzag along the street, and beheld him about to

turn a friendly corner. Once more he lifted up his mighty voice:

“Drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, drer-unc, -erunc, -unc, -unc.”

Once more the elder turned with lifted hand and shouted back:

“You’re a liar, Balaam, goldarn you! You’re er iffamous liar.” Then

he passed from view.