He was startled by a big, hearty voice at his side, exclaiming: “What makes yer so down in the mouth? Come, take a drink, and cheer up!”
Raising his eyes, he saw a round, red face, like a harvest moon, shining full upon him. It was somewhat kindly in its expression, in keeping with the words. Rough as was the courtesy, it went straight to the lonely, discouraged heart of the young man, and with moistened eyes he said, “I thank you for speaking to me in a tone that has a little human touch in it, for the last man that spoke to me left an echo in my ear that I would gladly get out of it.”
“Bad luck to him, then! Give us yer hand; there!” with a grip like a vise. “Bill Cronk never went back on a man he took to. I tell yer what, stranger,” said he, becoming confidential, “when I saw yer glowering and blinking here in the corner as if yer was listening to yer own funeral sermon, I be ⸻ if I could take a comfortable drink. Come, now, take a good swig of old rye, and see how things will mellow up.”
Our good Samaritan in this case was a very profane and disreputable one, as many are in this medley world. He had a great, kindly nature, that was crawling and grovelling in all sorts of low, unseemly places, instead of growing straight up toward heaven.
“I hope you will think me none the less friendly if I decline,” said Dennis. “I would drink with you as quick as with any man living, but it is a thing I never do.”
“Oh, you’re temperance, are yer? Well, I don’t think none the wuss of yer for standing by yer colors. Between us, it would be better for me if I was a little more so. Hang it all! I take a drop too much now and then. But what is a fellow to do, roughing it up and down the world like me? I should often get lonely and mope in the corner as you did, if I didn’t get up steam. When I am down in the mouth I take a drink to liven me up, and when I feel good I take a drink to make me feel better. When I wouldn’t take a drink on my own hook, I meet somebody that I’d ought to drink with. It is astonishing how many occasions there are to drink, ’specially when a man’s travelling, like me.”
“No fear but what the devil will make occasions enough,” said Dennis.
“What has the devil got to do with it?” asked the man, gruffly.
Just then the miserable wretch entered who, appearing opportunely in Gavin’s Hotel, had cured Dennis of his desire to drink, when weary and despondent, for the sake of the effects. For a moment they looked at the blear-eyed, trembling wreck of a man, and then Dennis asked, “Had God any hand in making that man what he is?”
“I should say not,” said Bill Cronk, emphatically.
“Well, I should say the devil had,” said Dennis; “and there behind the bar are the means used—the best tool he has, it seems to me; for with it he gets hold of men with some heart and soul in them, like you.”
The man winced under the words that both conscience and experience told him were true; at the same time he was propitiated by Dennis’s good opinion of him. He gave a big, good-natured laugh, slapped Dennis on the shoulder, and said: “Wal, stranger, p’raps you’re right. ’Tain’t every temperance lecturer though that has an awful example come in just at the right time so slick. But you’ve stood by yer colors, and we won’t quarrel. Tell us, now, if it ain’t private, what you’re so chopfallen about.”
Dennis told his story, as grateful for this rough sympathy as a thirsty traveller would be in finding a spring though surrounded by thorns and rocks.
The round, jolly face actually grew long and serious through interest in the young man’s tribulations.
After scratching a shaggy but practical head for a few moments, Bill spoke as follows:
“Seems to me the case is just this: here you are, a young blooded colt, not broken to either saddle or thills—here you are whinnying around a market where they want nothing but dray-hosses. People look shy at you—usually do at a strange hoss. Few know good p’ints when they see ’em. When they find you ain’t broke in to nothin’, they want you to work for nothin’. I see how you can’t do this. And yet fodder is runnin’ short, and you must do somethin’.”
Bill, having dealt in livestock all his life, naturally clothed his thoughts in language drawn from familiar objects, and Dennis, miserable as he was, half smiled at the close parallel run between him and a young, useless colt; but he only said, “I don’t think there is a carthorse in all Chicago that feels more broken down and dispirited than I do tonight.”
“That may all be, too,” said Bill; “but you’d feel a little oats mighty quick, and a cart-hoss wouldn’t. But I know the p’ints, whether it’s a man or a hoss; you’d take kindly to work of the right sort, and it would pay anyone to take you at yer own terms, but you can’t make ’em see it. If I was in a situation to take you, I’d do it in a minute. Hang it all! I can’t do much for you, either. I took a drop too much in Cleveland t’other night, and some of the folks in the house looked over my pocketbook and left me just enough to get home with.”
Dennis shook his head reproachfully and was about to speak.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Bill, heading off another temperance lecture. “I’ll take a drink by and by, and think over what you’ve
