were flying kites and playing marbles, the prudent Joseph was trading
Sunday-school tickets for strawberries and eggs, which he converted into
currency of the republic. As he grew up, and his old school-mates
purchased cravats and hair-oil at Squire Tackey's store, it was the
industrious Joseph who stood behind the counter, wrapped up their
purchases, and took their money. When the same boys stood on the
street-corners and cast sheep's eyes at the girls, the business-like
Joseph stood in the store-door and contemplated these same boys with
eyes such as a hungry cat casts upon a brood of young birds who he
expects to eat when they grow older. Joe never wasted any time at
parties; he never wore fine clothing; he never drank nor smoked; in
short, Joe was so industrious that by the time he reached his majority
he had a thousand dollars in the bank, and not a solitary virtue in his
heart.
For Joe's money good Squire Tackey had an earnest longing, and soon had
it to his own credit; while the sign over the store-door read "Tackey &
Gatter." Then the Squire wanted Joe's soul, too, and so earnest was he
that Joe soon found it necessary to remonstrate with his partner.
"'Twont do, Squire," said he; "religion's all very well in its place,
but when a man loses the sale of a dozen eggs, profit seven cents,
because his partner is talking religion with him so hard that a customer
gets tired of waiting and goes somewhere else, then religion's out of
place."
"The human soul's of more cons'kence than many eggs, Joseph," argued
the Squire.
"That's just it," replied Joe; "money don't hit the value of the soul
any way, and there's no use trying to mix 'em. And while we're talking,
don't you think we might be mixing some of the settlings of the molasses
barrel with the brown sugar?--'twill make it weigh better."
The Squire sighed, but he could not help admitting that Joe was as good
a partner as a man could want.
In one of Joe's leisure moments it struck him that if he were to die,
nobody would lose a cent by the operation. The idea was too
exasperating, and soon the local agents of noted insurance companies
ceased to enjoy that tranquility which is characteristic of business men
in the country. Within a fortnight two of the agents were arraigned
before their respective churches for profane brawling, while Joe had
squeezed certain agents into dividing commissions to the lowest unit of
divisibility, and had several policies in the safe at the store.
The Squire, his partner, was agent for the Pantagonian Mutual, and
endured his full share of the general agony Joe had caused. But when he
had handed Joe a policy and receipt, and taken the money, and counted it
twice, and seen to it carefully that all the bills were good, the good
Squire took his revenge.
"Joseph," said he, "you ain't through with insurance yet--you need to
insure your soul against risk in the next world, and there's only one
Agent that does it."
The junior partner stretched himself on the counter and groaned. He knew
the Squire was right--he had heard that same story from every minister
he had ever heard. Joe was so agitated that he charged at twelve and a
half cents some calico he had sold at fifteen.
Only one Agent! But the shrewd Joseph rejoiced to think that those who
represented the Great Agent differed greatly in the conditions of the
insurance, and that some made more favorable terms than others, and that
if he could get the ministers thoroughly interested in him, he would
have a good opportunity for comparing rates. The good men all wanted
Joe, for he was a rising young man, and could, if the Spirit moved him,
make handsome subscriptions to good purposes. So, in their zeal, they
soon regarded each other with jealous eyes, and reduced their respective
creeds to gossamer thinness. They agreed about grace being free, and Joe
accepted that much promptly, as he did _anything_ which could be had
without price. But Joe was a practical man, and though he found fault
with none of the doctrines talked at him, he yet hesitated to attach
himself to any particular congregation. He finally ascertained that the
Reverend Barzillai Driftwood's church had no debt, and that its
contributions to missions and other religious purposes were very small,
so Joe allowed himself to be gathered into the fine assortment of
crooked sticks which the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood was reserving unto
the day of burning.
Great was the rejoicing of the congregation at Joe's saving act, and
sincere was the sorrow of the other churches, who knew their own creeds
were less shaky. But in the saloon and on the street Joe's religious act
was discussed exclusively on its merits, and the results were such as
only special spiritual labor would remove. For no special change was
noticeable in Joe; on Sunday he abjured the world, but on Monday he made
things uncomfortable for the Widow Macnilty, whose husband had died in
the debt of Tackey & Gatter. A customer bought some gingham, on Joe's
assurance that the colors were fast, but the first washday failed to
confirm Joe's statement. The proprietor of the stage line between
Bungfield and Cleopas Valley traded horses with Joe, and was afterward
heard mentioning his new property in language far more scriptural than
proper.
Still, Joe was a church-member, and that was a patent of respectability.
And as he gained years, and building lots, and horses, and commenced
discounting notes, his respectability grew and waxed great in the minds
of the practical people of Bungfield. Even good women, real mothers in
Israel, could not help thinking, as they sorrowed over the sand in the
bottoms of their coffee-cups, and grew wrathful at "runney" flour bought
for "A 1 Superfine" of Tackey & Gatter, that Joe would make a valuable
husband. So thought some of the ladies of Bungfield, and as young ladies
who can endure the idea of such a man for perpetual partner can also
signify their opinions, Joe began to comprehend that he was in active
demand. He regarded the matter as he would a sudden demand for any
commodity of trade, and by skillfully manipulating the market he was
soon enabled to choose from a full supply.
Thenceforward Joe was as happy as a man of his nature could be. All his
investments were paying well: the store was prosperous, he was
successful in all his trading enterprises, he had purchased, at fearful
shaves, scores of perfectly good notes, he realized on loans interest
which would cause a usury law to shrivel and crack, his insurance
policies brought him fair dividends, and his wife kept house with
economy and thrift. But the church--the church seemed an unmitigated
drag. Joe attended all the church meetings--determined to get the worth
of the money he was compelled to contribute to the current expenses--he
had himself appointed treasurer, so he could get the use of the church
money; but the interest, even at the rates Joe generally obtained, did
not balance the amount of his contribution.
Joe worried over the matter until he became very peevish, yet he came no
nearer a business-like adjustment of receipts and expenditures. One day
when his venerable partner presented him a certificate of dividend from
the Pantagonian Mutual, Joe remarked:
"Never got any dividends on that other insurance you put me up to
taking, partner--that 'gainst fire risks in the next world, you know.
'Twill be tough if there's any mistake--church does take a sight of
money."
"Joseph," said the Squire, in a sorrowful tone, "I've always been afeard
they didn't look enough into your evidences when they took you into
that church. How can a man expect to escape on the day of wrath if he's
all the time grumbling at the cost of his salvation? Mistake? If you
don't know in your heart the truth of what you profess, there's mighty
little hope for you, church or no church."
[Illustration: JOE AND HIS VENERABLE PARTNER TALKING OVER INSURANCE
MATTERS.]
"Know in my heart!" cried Joe. "That's a pretty kind of security. Is
that what I've been paying church dues for? Better have known it in my
heart in the first place, and saved the money. What's the use of
believing all these knotty points, if they don't make a sure thing for a
man?"
"If your belief don't make you any better or happier, Joseph," rejoined
the Squire, "you'd better look again and see if you've got a good hold
of it; those that's got a clear title don't find their investment as
slow in making returns, while those that find fault are generally the
ones that's made a mistake."
Poor Joe! He thought he had settled this whole matter; but now, if his
partner was right, he was worse off than if he hadn't begun. He believed
in justification by faith; now, wasn't his faith strong--first class, he
might say? To be sure of being safe, hadn't he believed everything that
_all_ the ministers had insisted upon as essential? And what _was_
faith, if it wasn't believing? He would ask his partner; the old man had
got him into this scrape--now he must see him through.
"Squire," said he, "isn't faith the same thing as believing?"
"Well," said the Squire, adjusting his glasses, and taking from the desk
the little Testament upon which he administered oaths, "that depends on
how you believe. Here's a verse on the subject: 'Thou believest in God;
thou doest well; the devils also believe, and tremble.'"
Ugh! Joe shivered. He wasn't an aristocrat, but would one fancy such
companionship as the Squire referred to?
"Here," said the Squire, turning the leaves, "is another passage bearin'
on the subject. 'O, generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee
from the wrath to come? Bring forth, therefore, _fruits_ meet for
repentance.'"
Vipers! Joe uncomfortably wondered who else the Squire was going to
introduce into the brotherhood of the faith.
"Now, see what it says in another place," continued the Squire, "Not
every one that saith unto Me Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of
heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven."
"Yes," said Joe, grateful for hearing of no more horrible believers,
"but what _is_ his will but believing on him? Don't the Bible say that
they that believe shall be saved?"
"Joseph," said the Squire, "when you believed in my store, you put in
your time and money there. When you believed in hoss-tradin' you devoted
yourself to practicing it. When you believed life insurance was a good
thing, you took out policies and paid for them, though you _have_
complained of the Patagonian dividends. Now, if you do believe in God,
what have you done to prove it?"
"I've paid over a hundred dollars a year church dues," said Joe,
wrathfully, "not counting subscriptions to a bell and a new organ."
"That wasn't for God, Joseph," said the Squire; "'twas all for you. God
never'll thank you for running an asylum for paupers fit to work. You'll
find in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew a description of those
that's going into the kingdom of heaven--they're the people that give
food and clothing to the needy, and that visit the sick and prisoners,
while those that don't do these things _don't_ go in, to put it mildly.
He don't say a word about belief there, Joseph; for He knows that giving
away property don't happen till a man's belief is pretty strong."
Joe felt troubled. Could it really be that his eternal insurance was
going to cost more money? Joe thought enviously of Colonel Bung,
President of the Bungfield Railroad Co.--the Colonel didn't believe in
anything; so he saved all his money, and Joe wished he had some of the
Colonel's courage.
Joe's meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Sam Ottrey, a poor
fellow who owed Joe some money. Joe had lent Sam a hundred dollars,
discounted ten per cent, for ninety days, and secured by a chattel
mortgage on Sam's horse and wagon. But Sam had been sick during most of
the ninety days, and when he went to Joe to beg a few days of grace,
that exemplary business man insisted upon immediate payment.
It was easy to see by Sam's hopeless eye and strained features that he
had not come to pay--he was staring ruin in the face, and felt as
uncomfortable as if the amount were millions instead of a horse and
wagon, his only means of support. As for Joe, he had got that hundred
dollars and horse and wagon mixed up in the oddest way with what he and
his partner had been talking about. It was utterly unbusiness-like--he
knew it--he tried to make business business, and religion religion, but,
try as he might, he could not succeed. Joe thought briskly; he
determined to try an experiment.
"Sam," said he, "got the money?"
"No," Sam replied; "luck's agin me--I've got to stand it, I suppose."
"Sam," said Joe, "I'll give you all the time you need, at legal
interest."
Sam was not such a young man as sentimental people would select to try
good deeds upon. But he was human, and loved his wife and children, and
the sudden relief he felt caused him to look at Joe in a manner which
made Joe find a couple of entire strangers in his own eyes. He hurried
into the little office, and when his partner looked up inquiringly, Joe
replied:
"I've got a dividend, Squire--one of those we were talking about."
"How's that?" asked the old man, while Joe commenced writing rapidly.
"I'll show you," said Joe, handing the Squire the paper on which he has
just put in writing his promise to Sam.
"Joseph," said the Squire, after reading the paper several times, to
assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, "it beats the widow's
mites; she gave the Lord all she had, but you've given Him more than you
ever had in all your life until to-day."
Joe handed Sam the paper, and it was to the teamster the strongest
evidence of Christianity he had ever seen in Bungfield. He had known of
some hard cases turning from the saloon and joining the church, but none
of these things were so wonderful as this action of Joe Gatter's. Sam
told the story, in strict confidence, to each of his friends, and the
good seed was thus sown in soil that it had never reached before.
It would be pleasant to relate that Joe forthwith ceased shaving notes
and selling antiquated grease for butter, and that he devoted the rest
of his days and money to good deeds, but it wouldn't be true. Those of
our readers who have always consistently acted according to their own
light and knowledge are, of course, entitled to throw stones at Joe
Gatter; but most of us know to our sorrow why he didn't always act
according to the good promptings he received. Our only remaining duty is
to say that when, thereafter, Joe's dividends came seldom, he knew who
to blame.
THE TEMPERANCE MEETING AT BACKLEY.
Loud and long rang the single church-bell at Backley, but its industry
was entirely unnecessary, for the single church at Backley was already
full from the altar to the doors, and the window-sills and altar-steps
were crowded with children. The Backleyites had been before to the
regular yearly temperance meetings, and knew too well the relative
merits of sitting and standing to wait until called by the bell. Of
course no one could afford to be absent, for entertainments were
entirely infrequent at Backley; the populace was too small to support a
course of lectures, and too moral to give any encouragement to circuses
and minstrel troupes, but a temperance meeting was both moral and cheap,
and the children might all be taken without extra cost.
For months all the young men and maidens at Backley had been practising
the choruses of the songs which the Temperance Glee Club at a
neighboring town was to sing at the meeting. For weeks had large
posters, printed in the reddest of ink, announced to the surrounding
country that the parent society would send to Backley, for this especial
occasion, one of its most brilliant orators, and although the pastor
made the statement (in the smallest possible type) that at the close of
the entertainment a collection would be taken to defray expenses of the
lecturer, the sorrowing ones took comfort in the fact that certain
fractional currency represented but a small amount of money. The bell
ceased ringing, and the crowd at the door attempted to squeeze into the
aisles; the Backley Cornet Quartette played a stirring air; Squire Breet
called the meeting to order, and was himself elected permanent Chairman;
the Reverend Mr. Genial prayed earnestly that intemperance might cease
to reign; the Glee Club sang several songs, with rousing choruses; a
pretended drunkard and a cold water advocate (both pupils of the Backley
High School), delivered a dialogue in which the pretended drunkard was
handled severely; a tableau of "The Drunkard's Home" was given; and then
the parent society's brilliant orator took the platform.
The orator was certainly very well informed, logical and convincing,
besides being quite witty. He proved to the satisfaction of all present
that alcohol was not nutritious; that it awakened a general and
unhealthy physical excitement; and that it hardened the tissues of the
brain. He proved by reports of analyses, that adulteration, and with
harmful materials, was largely practiced. He quoted from reports of
police, prison and almshouse authorities, to prove his statement that
alcohol made most of our criminals. He unrolled a formidable array of
statistics, and showed how many loaves of bread could be bought with the
money expended in the United States for intoxicating liquors; how many
comfortable houses the same money would build; how many schools it would
support; and how soon it would pay the National Debt.
Then he drew a moving picture of the sorrow of the drunkard's family and
the awfulness of the drunkard's death, and sat down amid a perfect
thunder of applause.
The faithful beamed upon each other with glowing and expressive
countenances; the Cornet Quartette played "Don't you go, Tommy"; the
smallest young lady sang "Father, dear father, come Home with me Now";
and then Squire Breet, the Chairman, announced that the meeting was open
for remarks.
A derisive laugh from some of the half-grown boys, and a titter from
some of the misses, attracted the attention of the audience, and
looking round they saw Joe Digg standing up in a pew near the door.
"Put him out!" "It's a shame!" "Disgraceful!" were some of the cries
which were heard in the room.
"Mr. Digg is a citizen of Backley," said the Chairman, rapping
vigorously to call the audience to order, "and though not a member of
the Association, he is entitled to a hearing."
"Thank you, Mr. Chairman," said Joe Digg, when quiet was restored; "your
words are the first respectful ones I've ever heard in Backley, an' I do
assure you I appreciate 'em. But I want the audience to understand I
ain't drunk--I haven't had a cent for two days, an' nobody's treated
me."
By this time the audience was very quiet, but in a delicious fever of
excitement. A drunkard speaking right out in a temperance meeting!--they
had never heard of such a thing in their lives. Verily, Backley was
going to add one to the roll of modest villages made famous by unusual
occurrences.
"I 'spose, Mr. Chairman," continued Joe Digg, "that the pint of
temp'rance meetin's is to stop drunkenness, an' as I'm about the only
fully developed drunkard in town, I'm most likely to know what this
meetin's 'mounted to."
Squire Breet inclined his head slightly, as if to admit the correctness
of Joe Digg's position.
"I believe ev'ry word the gentleman has said," continued the drunkard,
"and"--here he paused long enough to let an excitable member exclaim
"Bless the Lord!" and burst into tears--"and he could have put it all a
good deal stronger without stretchin' the truth. An' the sorrer of a
drunkard's home can be talked about 'till the Dictionary runs dry, an'
then ye don't know nothin' 'bout it. But hain't none of ye ever laughed
'bout lockin' the stable door after the hoss is stolen? That's just what
this temp'rance meetin' an' all the others comes to."
A general and rather indignant murmur of dissent ran through the
audience.
"Ye don't believe it," continued Joe Digg, "but I've been a drunkard,
an' I'm one yet, an' ye all got sense enough to understan' that I ort to
know best about it."
"Will the gentleman have the kindness to explain?" asked the lecturer.
"I'm a comin' to it, sir, ef my head'll see me through," replied the
drunkard. "You folks all b'leeve that its lovin' liquor that makes men
drink it; now, 'taint no sech thing. I never had a chance to taste fancy
drinks, but I know that every kind of liquor _I_ ever got hold of was
more like medicine than anything nice."
"Then what _do_ they drink for?" demanded the excitable member.
"I'll tell you," said Joe, "if you'll have a little patience. I have to
do it in my own way, for I ain't used to public speakin'. You all know
who I am. My father was a church-member, an' so was mother. Father done
day's work, fur a dollar'n a quarter a day. How much firewood an'
clothes an' food d'ye suppose that money could pay for? We had to eat
what come cheapest, an' when some of the women here wuz a sittin'
comfortable o' nights, a knittin' an' sewin' an' readin', mother wuz
hangin' aroun' the butchershop, tryin' to beat the butcher down on the
scraps that wasn't good enough for you folks. Soon as we young 'uns was
big enough to do anything we wuz put to work. I've worked for men in
this room twelve an' fourteen hours a day. I don't blame 'em--they
didn't mean nothin' out of the way--they worked just as long 'emselves,
an' so did their boys. But they allers had somethin' inside to keep 'em
up, an' I didn't. Does anybody wonder that when I harvested with some
men that kep' liquor in the field, an' found how it helped me along,
that I took it, an' thought 'twas a reg'lar God's-blessin'? An' when I
foun' 'twas a-hurtin' me, how was I to go to work an' giv' it up, when
it stood me instead of the eatables I didn't have, an' never had,
neither?"
"You should hev prayed," cried old Deacon Towser, springing to his feet;
"prayed long an' earnest."
[Illustration: THE TEMPERANCE MEETING.]
"Deacon," said Joe Digg, "I've heerd of your dyspepsy for nigh on to
twenty year; did prayin' ever comfort _your_ stomach?"
The whole audience indulged in a profane laugh, and the good deacon was
suddenly hauled down by his wife. The drunkard continued:
"There's lots of jest sech folks, here in Backley, an' ev'ry where's
else--people that don't get half fed, an' do get worked half to death.
Nobody _means_ to 'buse 'em, but they do hev a hard time of it, an'
whisky's the best friend they've got."
"I work my men from sunrise to sunset in summer, myself," said Deacon
Towser, jumping up again, "an' I'm the first man in the field, an' the
last man to quit. But I don't drink no liquor, an' my boys don't,
neither."
"But ye don't start in the mornin' with hungry little faces a hauntin'
ye--ye don't take the dry crusts to the field for yer own dinner, an'
leave the meat an' butter at home for the wife an' young 'uns. An' ye go
home without bein' afeard to see a half-fed wife draggin' herself aroun'
among a lot of puny young 'uns that don't know what's the matter with
'em. Jesus Christ hissef broke down when it come to the cross, deac'n,
an' poor human bein's sometimes reaches a pint where they can't stan' no
more, an' when its wife an' children that brings it on, it gits a man
awful."
"The gentleman is right, I have no doubt," said the Chairman, "so far as
a limited class is concerned, but of course no such line of argument
applies to the majority of cases. There are plenty of well-fed, healthy,
and lazy young men hanging about the tavern in this very village."