The landlord did not make his appearance on the next morning until
nearly ten o'clock; and then he looked like a man who had been on a
debauch. It was eleven before Harvey Green came down. Nothing about him
indicated the smallest deviation from the most orderly habit. Clean
shaved, with fresh linen, and a face, every line of which was smoothed
into calmness, he looked as if he had slept soundly on a quiet
conscience, and now hailed the new day with a tranquil spirit.
The first act of Slade was to go behind the bar and take a stiff glass
of brandy and water; the first act of Green, to order beefsteak and
coffee for his breakfast. I noticed the meeting between the two men, on
the appearance of Green. There was a slight reserve on the part of
Green, and an uneasy embarrassment on the part of Slade. Not even the
ghost of a smile was visible in either countenance. They spoke a few
words together, and then separated as if from a sphere of mutual
repulsion. I did not observe them again in company during the day.
"There's trouble over at the mill," was remarked by a gentleman with
whom I had some business transactions in the afternoon. He spoke to a
person who sat in his office.
"Ah! what's the matter?" said the other.
"All the hands were discharged at noon, and the mill shut down."
"How comes that?"
"They've been losing money from the start."
"Rather bad practice, I should say."
"It involves some bad practices, no doubt."
"On Willy's part?"
"Yes. He is reported to have squandered the means placed in his hands,
after a shameless fashion."
"Is the loss heavy?"
"So it is said."
"How much?"
"Reaching to thirty or forty thousand dollars. But this is rumor, and,
of course, an exaggeration."
"Of course. No such loss as that could have been made. But what was
done with the money? How could Willy have spent it? He dashes about a
great deal; buys fast horses, drinks rather freely, and all that; but
thirty or forty thousand dollars couldn't escape in this way."
At the moment a swift trotting horse, bearing a light sulky and a man,
went by.
"There goes young Hammond's three hundred dollar animal," said the last
speaker.
"It was Willy Hammond's yesterday. But there has been a change of
ownership since then; I happen to know."
"Indeed."
"Yes. The man Green, who has been loafing about Cedarville for the last
few years--after no good, I can well believe--came into possession
to-day."
"Ah! Willy must be very fickle-minded. Does the possession of a coveted
object so soon bring satiety?"
"There is something not clearly understood about the transaction. I saw
Mr. Hammond during the forenoon, and he looked terribly distressed."
"The embarrassed condition of things at the mill readily accounts for
this."
"True; but I think there are causes of trouble beyond the mere
embarrassments."
"The dissolute, spendthrift habits of his son," was suggested. "These
are sufficient to weigh down the father's spirits,--to bow him to the
very dust."
"To speak out plainly," said the other, "I am afraid that the young man
adds another vice to that of drinking and idleness."
"What?"
"Gaining."
"No!"
"There is little doubt of it in my mind. And it is further my opinion,
that his fine horse, for which he paid three hundred dollars only a few
days ago, has passed into the hands of this man Green, in payment of a
debt contracted at the gaming table."
"You shock me. Surely, there can be no grounds for such a belief."
"I have, I am sorry to say, the gravest reasons for what I allege. That
Green is a professional gambler, who was attracted here by the
excellent company that assembled at the 'Sickle and Sheaf' in the
beginning of the lazy miller's pauper-making experiment, I do not in
the least question. Grant this, and take into account the fact that
young Hammond has been much in his company, and you have sufficient
cause for the most disastrous effects."
"If this be really so," observed the gentleman, over whose face a
shadow of concern darkened, "then Willy Hammond may not be his only
victim."
"And is not, you may rest assured. If rumor be true, other of our
promising young men are being drawn into the whirling circles that
narrow toward a vortex of ruin."
In corroboration of this, I mentioned the conversation I had held with
one of the frequenters of Slade's bar room, on this very subject; and
also what I had myself observed on the previous evening.
The man, who had until now been sitting quietly in a chair, started up,
exclaiming as he did so--
"Merciful heaven! I never dreamed of this! Whose sons are safe?"
"No man's," was the answer of the gentleman in whose office we were
sitting--"No man's--while there are such open doors to ruin as you may
find at the 'Sickle and Sheaf.' Did not you vote the anti-temperance
ticket at the last election?"
"I did," was the answer; "and from principle."
"On what were your principles based?" was inquired.
"On the broad foundations of civil liberty."
"The liberty to do good or evil, just as the individual may choose?"
"I would not like to say that. There are certain evils against which
there can be no legislation that would not do harm. No civil power in
this country has the right to say what a citizen shall eat or drink."
"But may not the people, in any community, pass laws, through their
delegated law-makers, restraining evil-minded persons from injuring the
common good?"
"Oh, certainly--certainly."
"And are you prepared to affirm, that a drinking-shop, where young men
are corrupted, aye, destroyed, body and soul--does not work an injury
to the common good?"
"Ah! but there must be houses of public entertainment."
"No one denies this. But can that be a really Christian community which
provides for the moral debasement of strangers, at the same time that
it entertains them? Is it necessary that, in giving rest and
entertainment to the traveler, we also lead him into temptation?"
"Yes--but--but--it is going too far to legislate on what we are to eat
and drink. It is opening too wide a door for fanatical oppression. We
must inculcate temperance as a right principle. We must teach our
children the evils of intemperance, and send them out into the world as
practical teachers of order, virtue and sobriety. If we do this, the
reform becomes radical, and in a few years there will be no bar-rooms,
for none will crave the fiery poison."
"Of little value, my friend, will be, in far too many cases, your
precepts, if temptation invites our sons at almost every step of their
way through life. Thousands have fallen, and thousands are now
tottering, soon to fall. Your sons are not safe; nor are mine. We
cannot tell the day nor the hour when they may weakly yield to the
solicitation of some companion, and enter the wide open door of ruin.
And are we wise and good citizens to commission men to do the evil work
of enticement--to encourage them to get gain in corrupting and
destroying our children? To hesitate over some vague ideal of human
liberty when the sword is among us, slaying our best and dearest? Sir!
while you hold back from the work of staying the flood that is
desolating our fairest homes, the black waters are approaching your own
doors."
There was a startling emphasis in the tones with which this last
sentence was uttered; and I do not wonder at the look of anxious alarm
that it called to the face of him whose fears it was meant to excite.
"What do you mean, sir?" was inquired.
"Simply, that your sons are in equal danger with others."
"And is that all?"
"They have been seen, of late, in the bar-room of the 'Sickle and
Sheaf.'"
"Who says so?"
"Twice within a week I have seen them going there," was answered.
"Good heavens! No!"
"It is true, my friend. But who is safe? If we dig pits, and conceal
them from view, what marvel if our own children fall therein?"
"My sons going to a tavern?" The man seemed utterly confounded. "How
CAN I believe it? You must be in error, sir."
"No. What I tell you is the simple truth. And if they go there--"
The man paused not to hear the conclusion of the sentence, but went
hastily from the office.
"We are beginning to reap as we have sown," remarked the gentleman,
turning to me as his agitated friend left the office. "As I told them
in the commencement it would be, so it is happening. The want of a good
tavern in Cedarville was over and over again alleged as one of the
chief causes of our want of thrift, and when Slade opened the 'Sickle
and Sheaf,' the man was almost glorified. The gentleman who has just
left us failed not in laudation of the enterprising landlord; the more
particularly, as the building of the new tavern advanced the price of
ground on the street, and made him a few hundred dollars richer.
Really, for a time, one might have thought, from the way people went
on, that Simon Slade was going to make every man's fortune in
Cedarville. But all that has been gained by a small advance in
property, is as a grain of sand to a mountain, compared with the
fearful demoralization that has followed."
I readily assented to this, for I had myself seen enough to justify the
conclusion.
As I sat in the bar-room of the "Sickle and Sheaf" that evening, I
noticed, soon after the lamps were lighted, the gentleman referred to
in the above conversation, whose sons were represented as visitors to
the bar, come in quietly, and look anxiously about the room. He spoke
to no one, and, after satisfying himself that those he sought were not
there, went out.
"What sent him here, I wonder?" muttered Slade, speaking partly to
himself, and partly aside to Matthew, the bar-keeper.
"After the boys, I suppose," was answered.
"I guess the boys are old enough to take care of themselves."
"They ought to be," returned Matthew.
"And are," said Slade. "Have they been here this evening?"
"No, not yet."
While they yet talked together, two young men whom I had seen on the
night before, and noticed particularly as showing signs of intelligence
and respectability beyond the ordinary visitors at a bar-room, came in.
"John," I heard Slade say, in a low, confidential voice, to one of
them, "your old man was here just now."
"No!" The young man looked startled--almost confounded.
"It's a fact. So you'd better keep shady."
"What did he want?"
"I don't know."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing. He just came in, looked around, and then went out."
"His face was as dark as a thunder-cloud," remarked Matthew.
"Is No. 4 vacant?" inquired one of the young men.
"Yes."
"Send us up a bottle of wine and some cigars. And when Bill Harding and
Harry Lee come in, tell them where they can find us."
"All right," said Matthew. "And now, take a friend's advice and make
yourselves scarce."
The young men left the room hastily. Scarcely had they departed, ere I
saw the same gentleman come in, whose anxious face had, a little while
before, thrown its shadow over the apartment. He was the father in
search of his sons. Again he glanced around nervously; and this time
appeared to be disappointed. As he entered, Slade went out.
"Have John and Wilson been here this evening?" he asked, coming up to
the bar and addressing Matthew.
"They are not here;" replied Matthew, evasively.
"But haven't they been here?"
"They may have been here; I only came in from my supper a little while
ago."
"I thought I saw them entering, only a moment or two ago."
"They're not here, sir." Matthew shook his head and spoke firmly.
"Where is Mr. Slade?"
"In the house, somewhere."
"I wish you would ask him to step here."
Matthew went out, but in a little while came back with word that the
landlord was not to be found.
"You are sure the boys are not here?" said the man, with a doubting,
dissatisfied manner.
"See for yourself, Mr. Harrison!"
"Perhaps they are in the parlor?"
"Step in, sir," coolly returned Matthew. The man went through the door
into the sitting-room, but came back immediately.
"Not there?" said Matthew. The man shook his head. "I don't think
you'll find them about here," added the bar-keeper.
Mr. Harrison--this was the name by which Matthew addressed him--stood
musing and irresolute for some minutes. He could not be mistaken about
the entrance of his sons, and yet they were not there. His manner was
much perplexed. At length he took a seat, in a far corner of the
bar-room, somewhat beyond the line of observation, evidently with the
purpose of waiting to see if those he sought would come in. He had not
been there long, before two young men entered, whose appearance at once
excited his interest. They went up to the bar and called for liquor. As
Matthew set the decanter before them, he leaned over the counter, and
said something in a whisper.
"Where?" was instantly ejaculated, in surprise, and both of the young
men glanced uneasily about the room. They met the eyes of Mr. Harrison,
fixed intently upon them. I do not think, from the way they swallowed
their brandy and water, that it was enjoyed very much.
"What the deuce is he doing here?" I heard one of them say, in a low
voice.
"After the boys, of course."
"Have they come yet?"