There was no happier family in all Houston than the O'Malleys. Mr.
O'Malley held a responsible position in one of our large breweries,
and was a thrifty citizen and an indulgent husband and father. His son
Pat was part owner of a flourishing little grocery, and also played
the E-flat horn in the band that discourses sweet music Sunday
afternoons in a building on one of our quietest unpaved avenues.
The light and hope of the family was the youngest daughter, Kathleen,
an ebon-haired girl of 19, with Madonna-like features, and eyes as
black as the wings of the crow. They lived in a little rose-embowered
cottage near the corner where the street car turns.
Kathleen was engaged to be married to Fergus O'Hollihan, a stalwart
and handsome young man, who came to see her every night, with
exquisitely washed hands and face, and wet hair, brushed down low upon
a forehead that did not exactly retreat, but seemed to rather fall
back for reinforcements. On Sunday nights Kathleen and Fergus would
wander arm in arm over to the Gesundheit Bier Garten, and while the
string band in the pavilion played the dear old Fatherland melodies
they would sit at a little round table in some dark corner and click
glasses in the most friendly and lover-like manner. The marriage was
to come off in June, and Kathleen, after the custom of her people, had
already prepared her bridal trousseau and housekeeping effects. In her
wardrobe were great piles of beautifully embroidered things in fine
linen and damask; heaps of table cloths, napkins and towels, and in
the big drawers of her bureau were piles of dainty, lace-trimmed
garments that Kathleen, being a modest Irish maiden and not a New York
millionairess, kept shyly hidden from view, instead of having their
description printed in the _Post_. Kathleen had made these garments
herself, working with loving care and patience, and they were intended
as a guarantee of good faith, and not for publication. The girls in
the neighborhood all envied Kathleen her good luck, for Fergus was a
fine-looking young man, and his business was prospering. He could
drink more whiskey, tell funnier jokes and sing "The Wearin' of the
Green" so you could hear it farther on a still night than could any
other young man of their acquaintance.
So, dark-haired Kathleen was happy, bending over her work with rosy
cheeks and smiling lips, while, alas! already the serpent was at work
that was to enter her Eden.
* * * * *
One day Kathleen was sitting at her window, half hidden by the
climbing honeysuckle vines, when she saw Fergus pass down the street
with another man, a low-browed, treacherous-looking person, with
shifty eyes and a snakelike manner.
It was with a deep foreboding and a strange sinking of the heart that
she recognized Fergus' companion as a notorious member of the Young
Men's Christian Association of Houston. From that moment Kathleen's
peace of mind fled. When Fergus came to see her that night he seemed
abstracted and different. His hand trembled when he took the glass of
rye she handed him, and when he sang for her
"Let the huntsman graze his hounds As the farmer does his
grounds,"
that sad and melancholy old song that Irishmen always sing when they
feel particularly jolly, his voice sounded plaintive and full of
pathos.
Kathleen was far too wise to chide him. She tried to be gay and
cheerful, though the change in Fergus made her heart very sad. Again
the next day, and once more the following day but one, did she see him
with the low-browed tempter that had wrought the change.
Day by day Fergus grew morose and pale. His once jolly and laughing
face grew stern and thoughtful. He rarely spoke to anyone, and once
when Mr. O'Malley handed him a big schooner from a keg fresh from the
brewery, he heaved such a deep and mournful sigh that the foam flew
half across the room.
"Kathleen," said her papa one day, "what's the matter wid that
long-legged omadhaun Fergus? He looks like he was walking over his own
grave."
"Oh, papa," said Kathleen, bursting into tears, "I do not know, he
seems to be full of bayou water."
Let us follow Fergus and the sinister stranger, and see what spell is
upon our hero.
* * * * *
William K. Meeks was a member of the notorious Young Men's Christian
Association. His parents were honest and reputable citizens of
Houston, and they had tried to inculcate in him the best principles,
and train him to be a good and useful citizen. When about 18 years of
age he met a man on the street one night who persuaded him to visit
the rooms of the association.
After taking a bath and joining in the singing of a hymn, he was led
into a game of checkers by some smooth talking young man, and finally
threw all reserve to the winds and without a thought of his mother or
his home, sank back into an arm chair and began to read the editorials
in a religious newspaper.
After that his progress in the same direction was easy. He cultivated
side whiskers and white ties and fell so swiftly into the alluring
ways of his companions that no ice cream and strawberry sociable or
Evening of Song in the hall of the association was complete without
Mr. Meeks. He became what is known as a "capper" for the hall, and
many poor wandering young fellows strolling aimlessly about the
streets of Houston have good cause to remember the sly, suave,
plausible voice of the low-browed William Meeks, as he addressed them
in insinuating tones, and invited them to the gorgeously lighted rooms
of the Young Men's Christian Association.
William Meeks had for a long time had his eye upon Fergus O'Hollihan.
The innocent straightforwardness of the young Irishman seemed to mark
him as an easy prey.
One day he entered Fergus' store, made some trifling purchase, and
then invited him to the hall.
"All right," said Fergus, "I'll walk up with you, as trade is a little
dull. Hadn't we better take along a bottle of whiskey to help pass
away the time?"
"No," said William, with a sly smile. "There is no need. We have
plenty to drink up there."
They passed down the street together, and then it was that Kathleen
saw them, and the cloud began to gather over her happy young life.
William led Fergus to the door of the steps leading up to the hall,
gave a sharp glance around to see whether they were observed, and they
ascended the stairs.
"What do you fellows do up there?" asked Fergus, gazing around the
hall in wonder.
"We read and sing and pray," said William. "Now, come over here, Mr.
O'Hollihan, I have something to show you."
William went to a large water cooler in the corner, drew a brimming
glass of ice water, and with a cold and cruel smile curling his lips,
handed it to Fergus.
Ah, little Kathleen, in thy rose-twined cottage, thy dark eyes have
many a tear in waiting. Could love be omnipresent, that sparkling
glass of water would be dashed to the floor ere it touched thy lover's
lips!
Fergus took the glass and gazed with wonder at its transparent
contents; then seized with some sudden impulse he drained the glass of
water to the last drop. As he drank, William Meeks, with a diabolical
look of triumph on his face, rubbed his clammy hands together and
exulted.
"What is this stuff?" asked Fergus; "this cold, refreshing liquid that
with such exquisite freshness thrills through my heated frame? What
nectar is this, tasteless, colorless and sweet as the morning air that
quenches thirst, and does not excite the senses? Speak, Mr. Meeks, is
it to be found elsewhere?"
"It is water," said William, softly, "and it can be had in plenty."
"I have often sailed on the bayou," said Fergus, "and have washed my
hands at the hydrant at home, but I have never before seen any water."
Fergus drank glass after glass from the cooler, and finally suffered
William to lead him, reluctant, from the hall.
They parted at the door, and as Fergus went down the street like one
in some happy dream, saying softly to himself at intervals: "Water!"
"Water!" William Meeks looked after him with a smile of devilish
satisfaction upon his dark face.
* * * * *
That evening after he closed the store Fergus started home and
suddenly felt an imperious thirst come upon him. He was already a
slave to this wonderful new liquid that refreshed him so.
He entered a little corner saloon, where he had been in the habit of
stopping to get a drink. The bartender seized a mug and reached for
the bottle under the counter.
"Hold on," said Fergus; "don't be so fast. Give me a glass of water,
please."
"You owe me ein dollar und five cents," he said. "Blease, Mr.
Hollihan, bay me now pefore you go py yourself too much grazy to him
remember, und I pe mooch obliged."
Fergus then threw the money upon the counter and staggered out of the
saloon.
He did not go to see Kathleen that night--he was feeling too badly. He
was wandering about in an agony of thirst, when he saw a piece of ice
as large as a coconut fall from an ice wagon. He seized it in both
hands, and hiding himself behind a pile of lumber sucked the ice
greedily, with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands.
After that he kept a jug of water in the store behind some barrels
under the counter, and when no one was looking he would stoop down,
and holding up the jug, let the cursed stuff that was driving the
light from Kathleen's dark eyes trickle down his burning throat.
* * * * *
It was Kathleen's wedding night. The parlor of the little cottage was
brilliantly lit, and roses and evergreens were draped upon the walls.
Cape jessamines filled the house with their delicious perfume and
wreaths of white lilies were hung upon picture frames and the backs of
chairs. The ceremony was to take place at 9 p.m., and by 7 o'clock
the guests had begun to assemble, for the smell of the good things
Mrs. O'Malley was cooking pervaded the whole neighborhood.
In the parlor, standing on a trestle decorated with violets and
evergreens, stood a keg of whiskey as cold as ice, and on the center
table were several beautifully decorated imported glasses, with quite
a wedding-like polish upon their shining sides.
Kathleen's heart grew lighter as the hour approached. "When Fergus is
mine," she said to herself, "I will be so loving and sweet to him that
this strange melancholy will leave him. If it doesn't, I will pull his
hair out."
The minutes crept by, and at half past eight, Kathleen, blushing and
timid-eyed, and looking like the Lorelei that charmed men's souls from
their bodies on the purple heights of the Rhine, took her stand by the
keg, and shyly drew for her father's guests glass after glass of the
ruby liquid, scarcely less red than the glow upon her own fair cheek.
At a quarter to nine Fergus had not come, and all hands began to grow
anxious.
At ten minutes to nine, Mr. O'Malley brought in his shotgun and
carefully loaded it. Kathleen burst into tears.
Where was Fergus O'Hollihan?
* * * * *
In the garish halls of the Young Men's Christian Association were
gathered a group of gay young men.
Little do the majority of our citizens know what scenes go on in
places of this kind. Our police well know that these resorts exist,
but such is our system of city government that rarely do the guardians
of peace set foot in establishments of the kind. Two or three young
men were playing checkers, feverishly crowning the kings of their
opponents, and watching the board with that hollow-eyed absorption and
compressed lips so often noted in men of that class. Another played
upon the guitar, while in a corner harsh ribald laughter broke from
the lips of a man who was reading the Austin _Statesman_.
At a little table at one side of the room sat Fergus O'Hollihan and
William Meeks. Before them, on a waiter, were two large glasses of ice
water. William Meeks was speaking in a low, treacherous voice, and
Fergus was listening with an abandoned and reckless look upon his
face.
"Sobriety," said William, insinuatingly, as his snaky eyes were fixed
upon the open and ingenious countenance of Fergus, "sobriety is one of
our cardinal virtues. Why should a man debase himself, destroy his
brain, deaden his conscience and forge chains that eventually will
clog his best efforts and ruin his fondest hopes? Let us be men and
live temperate and cleanly lives. Believe me, Mr. O'Hollihan, it is
the better plan."
Fergus' unsteady hand went out to the glass of water and he tossed it
down his throat. "More," he gasped, gazing with feverish eyes. A
member of the association in passing by stopped and laid his hand on
William's shoulder.
"Old man," he said in a whisper, "the boys know you've struck a soft
thing, but don't carry it too far. We don't want to have to bore
another artesian well."
William shot a glance of displeasure at the young man, and he went
away.
Just then a quartette began to sing "Come, Thou Fount," and Fergus,
forgetting all his associations and best impulses, joined in with his
strong tenor, and William Meeks' face wore a look of fiendish
gloating.
At this moment Kathleen was weeping in her mother's arms. Mr. O'Malley
was just ramming down the wad on the buckshot in his gun, and the
beautiful wedding supper was growing cold upon the banquet table.
Suddenly in the street before the hall a brass band began to play an
air that was Kathleen's favorite. It brought Fergus to his senses. He
sprang to his feet and overturned the table and William Meeks. William
sprang to his feet, rushed to the cooler and drawing a glass of water
thrust it into Fergus' hands. Fergus hurled the glass to the floor and
made a dash for the door. The secretary of the association met him
there with the water hose and turned it full in his face. Fergus shut
his mouth tightly, put the secretary to sleep with one on the point of
his chin, and dashed down the stairs into the street.
* * * * *
As the clock struck nine, Mr. O'Malley placed two caps on his gun and
one upon his head and started to find his son-in-law elect. The door
burst open and Fergus rushed in. Kathleen ran to meet him with open
arms, but he waved her sternly aside.
"I have first," he said, "a duty to perform." He knelt before the
whiskey keg, closed his mouth over the faucet and turned on the
handle.
Sing, happy birds, in the green trees, but your songs make not half
the melody that ripples in the glad heart of little Kathleen.
When Fergus arose from the keg, he was the same old Fergus once more.
He gathered his bride to his heart, and Mr. O'Malley fired both
barrels of his gun into the ceiling with joy. Fergus was rescued.
(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 19, 1896.)