THEODORE'S INSPIRATION.
"New York postmark--that's from Ingolds & Ferry, I suppose. Chicago,
that must be from Southy, and this is Ned's scrawling hand; now for the
fourth--Albany. Who the mischief writes me from Albany?"
This was Mr. Stephens' running commentary on his letters. He broke the
seal of the Albany one, and glanced at its contents.
"Um," he said, meditatively, leaning his elbow on the table and his chin
on his hand. "Now to whom shall I send this appeal? I don't know of any
one. Mallery?"
"Yes, sir," answered Theodore from behind the screen.
"Do you know of any one who could go to Albany in December and
give--stop, I know myself. Yes, that's an idea."
"You certainly know more than I do then," answered Theodore, laughing.
"What do you happen to be talking about, sir?"
"How soon can you give me ten minutes of your valuable time?"
"At once, if you so desire," and the young man emerged into the main
office, and came forward to the desk.
"Read that, then," answered Mr. Stephens, tossing him the Albany letter.
"A temperance lecture, eh, before the Association; that's good," said
Theodore, running his eye rapidly over the few lines of writing. "Mr.
Ryan would be a capital man to send them. Don't you think so, sir? But
then it's in December. Ryan will not have returned from Chicago by that
time, I fear; but then there's Mr. Williams, he is a fine speaker and--"
"I tell you I've found a man," interrupted Mr. Stephens; "the very man.
Theodore, you must deliver that temperance lecture yourself."
"What a preposterous idea!" And before Theodore proceeded further he
gave himself up to a burst of merriment; then he added: "I thought you a
wiser man than that, sir. Why, I have never peeped in public."
"Don't you take part in the Wednesday meetings every evening, and lead
three out of four of the Saturday evening ones, and speak in the Young
Men's Association meetings every month?"
"Yes, sir, certainly; but those are religious meetings, entirely
different matters, and I--why, Mr. Stephens, I never thought of such a
thing!"
"I have often. I tell you, Theodore, you have talents in that direction.
You think and feel deeply on this matter of intemperance. If you don't
understand it thoroughly in all its bearings, I'm sure I don't know who
does, and you speak fluently and logically on any subject. Of course
there must be a first time, and Albany is as good a place as any. This
old friend of mine who has written for a speaker, will treat you like a
prince, and there is plenty of time for preparation; the meeting is not
until the 22d of December, and this is only October. My heart is very
much set on this, my boy."
But Theodore could not do much besides laugh; he burst into another
merry peal as he said:
"My dear sir, I _can't_ jump into the person of a full-fledged orator in
a month, not even to please _you_."
"I'll send in your name and acceptance," was Mr. Stephens' positive
answer. "There is no reason why you should grow into the character of a
quiet, rusty merchant like myself. I mean to send you adrift now and
then. Besides, you owe it to the cause, I tell you; you could do
incalculable good in that way."
But Theodore was not to be persuaded. The most that Mr. Stephens could
win from him was permission to delay answering the letter a few days,
and the promise that meantime he would make the matter a subject of
prayerful consideration.
"Meantime there is another matter on hand," said Mr. Stephens, turning
promptly, as was his custom, from one item of business to another.
"Information derived from Hoyt demands either your or my immediate
presence in their establishment. You understand the state of their
affairs, do you not?"
"Perfectly. Am I to attend to that business?"
"Well, it would be a great relief to me if you could. I hate the cars."
"Very well, sir; I can go of course. What time shall I start?"
"What time _can_ you start?"
Theodore glanced at his watch.
"The Express goes up in forty minutes. Shall I take that train?"
Mr. Stephens smiled, and made what sounded like an irrelevant reply:
"Your executive ability is perfectly refreshing, Theodore, to a man of
my gray hairs and crushing weight of business."
Theodore seemed to consider the reply sufficiently explicit, and in
forty minutes afterward, valise in hand, swung himself on the Express
train just as it was leaving the depot. Mr. Stephens' last remark to him
had been, "Remember, my boy, to think of that matter carefully, and be
prepared to give me a favorable answer; my heart is set on it." And
Theodore had laughed and responded, "If I have an inspiration during my
absence I may conclude to gratify you."
* * * * *
This all happened on an October day. The rest of the winter that was in
progress during that last chapter, and the long, bright summer, had
rolled away, and now another winter was almost ready to begin its work.
The summer had been a quiet one aside from business cares and
excitements. Pliny still retained his boarding place in the quiet asylum
that had opened to him when his own home had proved so dangerous a
place. Dora Hastings had spent the most of the summer with her parents,
traveling East and North, but Pliny had remained bravely at his post
struggling still with his enemy, but still persisting in carrying on the
warfare alone. This one matter was a sharp trial to Theodore's faith;
indeed he felt himself growing almost impatient.
"Why _must_ it be that _he_ should halt and hesitate so long!" he
exclaimed in a nervous and almost a petulant tone, as he paced up and
down the back parlor one evening, after having had a talk with the
little mother. "I am sure if ever I had faith for any one in the world I
had for him."
"Have you got it now?" she asked him, gently. "It appears to me as if
you were pretty impatient--kind as if you thought you had prayed prayers
enough, and it was high time they were answered."
Theodore looked surprised and disturbed, and continued his walk up and
down the room for a few moments in silence; then he came over to the
arm-chair where she sat, and resting his hand on her arm, spoke low and
gently:
"You probe to the very depth, dear friend. Thank you for your
faithfulness. I see I must commence anew, and pray, 'Lord, I believe;
help thou mine unbelief.'"
* * * * *
Well, the Express train whizzed past half a dozen minor stations, and
halted at last at the place of Theodore's destination. Circumstances
favored him, and the business that brought him thither was promptly
dispatched. Then a consultation with his time-table and watch showed him
a full hour of unoccupied time. He cast about him for some way of
occupying it agreeably. Just across the street was a pleasant building,
and a pleasant sign, "General News Depot and Reading Room." Thither he
went. The collection of books was unusually large and choice, Theodore
selected a book of reference that he had long been desiring to see and
took a seat. Several gentlemen were present, engaged in reading.
Presently the quiet was interrupted by the entrance of a middle-aged
gentleman, to whom the courteous librarian immediately addressed
himself.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Cranmer. Can I serve you to a book?"
"No, sir," responded the new-comer, promptly. "I don't patronize this
institution, you know, sir."
Theodore glanced up to see what sort of a personage this could be who
was so indifferent to his privileges. He looked the gentleman in every
sense, refined, cultivated and intellectual. At the same moment one of
the other readers addressed him.
"Why the mischief don't you, Cranmer? Have you read every book there is
in the world, and feel no need of further information?"
"Not by any manner of means; but I'm a temperance man myself."
"What on earth has that to do with it?"
And Theodore found himself wondering and listening intently for the
answer.
"A great deal in this establishment. The truth is, if we had no
drunkards we'd have no books."
"What's the meaning of your riddle, Cranmer?" queried an older and
graver gentleman, who had been intently poring over a ponderous volume.
"Don't you know how the thing is done?" said Cranmer, turning briskly
around toward the new speaker. "They use the license money of this
honorable and respectable old town to replenish the library!"
"I don't see what that has to do with temperance," promptly retorted the
young man who had begun the conversation. "Using the money for a good
purpose doesn't make drunkards. To what wicked use would _you_ have the
funds put?"
"I would keep the potter's field in decent order, and defray the funeral
expenses of murderers and paupers. That would be putting liquor money to
a legitimate use, making it defray its own expenses," returned Mr.
Cranmer, composedly.
"Well but, Cranmer," interposed the old gentleman, "explain your
position. It isn't the money belonging to the poor drunken wretches
that we use for the library, it's only what we make the scamps pay for
the privilege of doing business."
"For the privilege of making drunkards," retorted Mr. Cranmer. "Here,
I'll explain my position by illustrating. As I was coming up just now I
met old Connor's boy; he was coming up here, too. The poor fellow is
hungering and thirsting after books. He has been at work over hours to
my certain knowledge, for six weeks, to earn his dollar with which to
join this Library Association. He just accomplished the feat last night,
and was rushing over here, dollar in hand, and joy in his face. Just as
he reached the door old Connor stumbled and staggered along with his jug
in his hand, of course. 'Here you,' he said to the boy, 'what you hiding
under your arm? And what you about, anyhow? Mischief, I'll be bound.
Here give it to me whatever 'tis.' Now, gentlemen, I stood there, more
shame to me, and saw that poor wretch of a father deliberately take that
hard-earned dollar away from his boy. I saw the boy go crying off, and
the father stagger to that rum hole across the street, get his jug
filled, and pay that dollar! Now when that respectable rum-seller comes
to pay his license money, he is as likely to bring that stolen dollar as
any other--and they are all stolen in the first place from wives and
children; and when this _splendid_ Library Association, which is an
honor to the town, buys its next books, it buys them with money stolen
from the Jimmy Connors of the world. That's my opinion in plain English,
and I don't propose to pay my dollar in supporting any such
anti-temperance institution."
Theodore had listened attentively to this conversation, and his blood
was roused and boiling. He turned quickly away from the long line of
splendid books, and addressed Mr. Cranmer.
"I entirely agree with your position, sir," he said, earnestly. "And I
do not see how it is possible for any strictly temperance man to feel
otherwise."
"Good for you, young man," responded Mr. Cranmer, warmly. "I like
especially to see a _young_ man sound and square on this subject."
"Well, now, I call that straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel,"
remarked a gentleman who had heretofore taken no part in the
conversation. "I'm a temperance man myself, always have been, but I
consider that carrying the thing to a ridiculous extreme."
At this point Theodore, much to his regret, heard the train whistle, and
was obliged to leave the question unsettled; but the first remark he
made to Mr. Stephens on his return, after business was disposed of,
was:
"Well, sir, I found my inspiration."
"Ah, ha!" said Mr. Stephens. "Glad of that. What is your text?"
"The amazing consistency of the so-called temperance world," answered
Theodore, dryly.
It was this combination of circumstances that led him to take his seat
one wintry morning in a Buffalo train, himself ticketed through to
Albany. There was still five minutes before the train would start; and
while he chatted with Jim who had come to see him off, the opening door
revealed the portly form of Mr. Hastings, muffled to the throat in furs,
and with the identical "Wolfie" thrown over his arm--newly lined indeed
in brilliant red, but recognized in an instant by its soft peculiar fur,
and familiar to Theodore as the face of an old friend. Instantly his
memory traveled back to the scenes connected with that long-ago and
well-remembered journey when "Wolfie" proved such a faithful friend to
him. His face flushed at the thought of it, and yet the corners of his
mouth quivered with laughter. He flushed at the memory of the wretched
little vagrant that he was at that time, and he laughed at the
recollection of "Wolfie's" protecting folds and the new and delicious
sense of warmth that they imparted to him. What a curious world it was.
There sat Mr. Hastings in front of him now, as he had sat then, a
trifle older, more portly, but in all essential respects the same
haughty, handsome gentleman. But what mortal could recognize in himself
the little wretched vagabond known familiarly as "Tode Mall!" He tried
to travel backward and imagine himself that young scamp who stole his
passage from Albany to Buffalo, at which thought the blood rolled again
into his face, and he felt an instinctive desire to go at once and seek
out the proper authorities and pay for that surreptitious ride.
Moreover, he resolved that being an honest man now it was his duty so to
do, and that it should be the first item of business to which he would
attend after leaving the cars. Then he glanced about him to see if he
could establish his identity with the little ragged boy. A gentleman
with gray hair and gold spectacles bowed and addressed him.
"Good-morning, Mr. Mallery. Going East far?"
This was the merchant whose store joined their own. He knew nothing
about "Tode Mall," but he held intimate business relations with the
junior partner of the great firm. Even Mr. Hastings bowed stiffly. Mr.
Stephens' partner and the small boy who traveled in his company years
before were two different persons even to him. At one of the branch
stations that gentleman left the train, much to Theodore's regret, as
he had a curious desire to follow him once more in his journeyings and
note the contrasts time had made. Arrived in Albany, he looked with
curious eyes on the familiar and yet unfamiliar streets. Every five
minutes he met men whom he had known well in his boyhood. He recognized
them instantly now. They did not look greatly changed to him, yet not a
living soul knew him. He went into establishments from which he had been
unceremoniously ordered, not to say kicked, years before, and presented
their business card, "Stephens, Mallery & Co.," and was treated by those
same business men with the utmost courtesy and cordiality. He went down
some of the old familiar haunts, and could not feel that they had much
improved. He met a bloated, disfigured, wretched looking man, and
something in the peculiar slouching gate seemed familiar to him. He made
inquiries, and found him to be the person whom he had half surmised, the
old-time friend of his boyhood, Jerry, the only one who had had a word
of half comfort to bestow on him when he landed in Albany that eventful
night after his trip with Mr. Hastings, homeless and desolate. Jerry
stared at him now, a drunken, sleepy stare, and then instinctively stood
aside to let the gentleman pass, never dreaming that they had rolled in
the same gutter many a time. Does it seem strange to you that during all
these years Theodore had not long ere this returned to this old home of
his and sought out that wretched father? Sometimes it seemed very
strange to him. Don't imagine that he had not given it long and serious
thought, but he had shrunken from it with unutterable terror and dismay;
he had no loving, tender memories of his father--nothing but cruelty and
drunkenness and sin by which to remember him. Still oftentimes during
these later years he had told himself that he ought to seek out his
father; he ought to make some effort to reclaim him. He had prayed for
him constantly, fervently, had poured out his whole soul in that one
great desire; still he knew and remembered that "faith without works is
dead." He had made some effort, had written earnest appeals hot from his
heart, to which he had received no sort of a reply. He had written to
one and another in Albany, prominent names that he remembered, clergymen
of the city as he learned their addresses, begging for some assistance
in the search after his father. Each and all of these attempts had
proved failures. To some of his letters he had received answers,
courteous, Christian answers, and the gentlemen had lent him their time
and aid, but to no purpose. Apparently the name and place of the poor,
low rum-seller had faded from the memory of the Albanians. He had
disappeared one night after a more tremendous drunken row than usual,
and had never been seen or heard of since. This was all. And Theodore,
baffled and discouraged, had yet constantly meant to come to the search
in person, and as constantly had shrunken from setting out, and delayed
and excused himself until the present time. Now, however, he intended to
set about it with vigor. "No matter what he is, nor how low he has
sunken, he is _my father_, and as such I owe him a duty; and I must
constantly remember that it is not he of whom I have bitter memories,
but rum, rum! rum!!" This he told himself with firmly set lips, and a
white, determined face.