Part 2 (2/2)

Brierley held out his hand to him, and the other grasped it warmly.

”I'll tell you what,” said Ned, in a cheery voice, ”I'd give a good deal, Thomas, to see you a total abstainer; it'd be the making of you.”

Johnson shook his head sorrowfully.

”I mustn't; Alice wouldn't let me. I can't; the drink's more to me nor meat, and clothes, and everything. I durstn't, for my old pals at the 'George' would chaff me to death with their jeers and their jokes. I couldn't face them for shame.”

”Oh, Thomas,” cried Ned, ”what a slave the drink's made of you:-- mustn't! can't! durstn't!--what! ain't you a man? haven't you got a will of your own?”

”No, Ned, that's just it; I haven't a will of my own: the old lad's got it off me long since.”

”Ay, but, Thomas, you must get it back again,” exclaimed Brierley's wife; ”you must go to Jesus, and he'll help you.”

Johnson fidgeted uneasily in his chair; at last he said,--

”I can't do without my beer; I haven't strength to work without it.”

”You've taken plenty of it, I reckon,” remarked Ned, ”and you don't seem to thrive much on't.”

”I've taken too much,” said the other, ”but I can't do without a little.”

”You can't do _with_ a little, I fear. It's first only a pint, and then it's only a quart, and then it's only a gallon, till at last it's only a fuddled head and an empty pocket. Come, join us, Thomas; take the first step boldly like a man, and then just pray for grace, and you'll not fear what other folks can do to you.”

”But I shall never get through my work without a drop of beer to wash dust out of my throat and spirit me up,” persisted Johnson. ”I feel like another sort of man when I've had my pint.”

”Yes, just for a bit,” replied Ned. ”Now it seems to me just the same as what we might do with our fire. I bid our Esther look to the fire, so she goes and sticks to the poker, and each now and then she pokes away at the fire, and the fire blazes up and blazes up, but very soon there's nothing left to blaze with. The fire'll be out directly, so I says to our Mary, _you_ look after the fire, so our Mary goes to the heap and fetches a shovel of coal, and claps it on the top of the hot cinders, and she won't let our Esther poke it no more, so it burns steady and bright, and throws out a good heat, and lasts a long time.

Now, when you take your drop of beer, you're just poking the fire, you're not putting any coal on; you can work like a lion for a bit, but you're only using up the old stock of strength faster and faster, you're not putting on any new. I've helped you to put a little gradely coal on to-night, and I hope it won't be the last time by many.”

”Father,” broke in Esther, laughing, and highly entertained at the part she bore in her father's ill.u.s.tration, ”when you tell your tale again, you must make our Mary stick to the poker, and me clap the coal on.”

”Ay, ay, child,” said her father, ”you shall each take it in turn.”

”Well, you may be right,” sighed Johnson; ”but Jack Barnes says as he's knowed scores of teetottallers that's wasted away to skin and bone for want of the drink; he says beer strengthens the bone, and makes the muscles tight and firm.”

”Jack Barnes may say what he likes, but I'll just ask you, Thomas, to think and judge for yourself. You see me and mine; you see seven total abstainers here to-night. Not one of these childer knows the taste of the drink; they work hard, you know, some in the pit, some in the mill: do _they_ look nothing but skin and bone? Where'll you find healthier childer? I'm not boasting, for it's the good Lord that's given 'em health, yes, and strength too, without the drink.”

”Ay, and just look at Jack Barnes's own lads, and the company they keep,” said John, the eldest son; ”you may see them all at the four lane ends, [Note 1], any Sunday morn, with their pigeons, looking more like scarecrows than Christians; and afore night they'll be so weary that they'll scarce know how to bide anywhere. They'll be lounging about, looking as limp as a strap out of gear, till they've got the ale in them, and then they're all for swearing and shouting up and down the lanes.”

”I can't deny,” said Johnson, ”that you teetottallers have the best of it in many ways. It's a bad bringing-up for childer to see such goings- on as is in Barnes's house.”

”And, Thomas,” said Brierley's wife, ”you know how it is with Joe Taylor's lads and wenches. There's a big family on 'em. They're not short of bra.s.s in that house, or shouldn't be. There's drink enough and to spare goes down their throats, and yet there's not one of the whole lot but's as lean as an empty bobbin, and as white as a heap of cotton.

They're nearly starved to death afore reckoning-day comes; and with all their good wage they cannot make things reach and tie.”

”Well, I must wish you good night now,” said Johnson, rising to go. ”I suppose I can do nothing about our Sammul but have patience.”

”Yes, pray for patience, Thomas; and pray to be shown the right way: and give up the drink, man--ay, give it up at once, for Betty's sake, for Alice's sake, and for your own soul's sake.”

”I'll try, I'll try; good night.”

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