Part 20 (1/2)
”Does not Thomas Johnson live here?”
”Yes; he does,” was Johnson's reply.
”And I suppose, then, you're Thomas Johnson yourself?” said the stranger.
”I reckon you're not so far wrong,” was the answer.
”Ah, well; so it is for sure,” broke out Betty. ”Why, you're the teetottal chap as came a-lecturing when me and our poor Sammul signed the pledge.”
”Sit ye down, sit ye down,” cried her father; ”you're welcome to our house, though it is but a sorrowful one.”
”I think, my friend,” said the stranger, ”that you are one of us now.”
”You may well say _now_,” replied the other, ”for when you was here afore, you'd a gone out of the door a deal quicker nor you came in; but, I bless the Lord, things are changed now.”
”Yes, indeed,” said the other, ”it is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes; though, indeed, he does work such wonderful things that we've daily cause to bless and praise him. Well, my friend--for we are friends, I see, in the best of bonds now--I have not long to stay now, but I just want to ask you one thing. I should like to have a total abstinence meeting next month in Langhurst. Will you say a word for us? We want some working man who has been rescued, through G.o.d's mercy, from the chains of the drink, to stand up and tell, in a simple, straightforward way, what he once was, and what G.o.d has done for him as a pledged abstainer; and I judge, from what I hear, that you're just the man we want.”
Johnson paused for a while.
”I don't know,” he said, shaking his head; ”I don't know. I'm not so sure it'll do at all.”
”Oh, fayther,” cried Betty, ”you must do what the gentleman axes you.
It may do good to some poor creatures, and lead 'em to sign. It's only a small candle-end as the Lord's given such as we are, but we must light it, and let it s.h.i.+ne.”
”Well,” said her father, slowly, ”maybe I oughtn't to say 'No;' and yet you may be sure, if it gets talked on in the village, it's little peace as I shall have.”
”Well, my friend,” said the stranger, ”of course I don't wish to bring you into trouble. Still this is one of the ways in which you may take up a cross n.o.bly for your Saviour, and he'll give the strength to carry it.”
”Say no more,” replied Johnson; ”if the Lord spares me, they shall hear a gradely tale from me.”
It was soon noised abroad in Langhurst that Thomas Johnson was to give an account of himself as a reformed man and a total abstainer, at a meeting to be held in the village in the following month of November.
His old companions were half mad with rage and vexation. What could be done? They were determined that he should be served out in some way, and that he should be prevented from appearing at the meeting. Come what would, he should not stand up and triumph in his teetotalism on the platform--that they were quite resolved on. Some scheme or plan must be devised to hinder it. And fortune seemed to favour them.
A short time after it became generally known that Johnson was to speak, a young lad might be seen hurrying home in his coal-pit-clothes to a low, dirty-looking cottage that stood on the outskirts of the village.
”Mother,” cried the boy, as soon as he reached the house and could recover his breath, ”where's fayther?”
”He's not come home yet,” said the mother; ”but what ails you, John?”
”Why, mother,” said the boy, with trembling voice, ”fayther gave me a s.h.i.+lling to get change just as we was leaving the pit-bank, and I dropped it somewhere as I were coming down the lane. I'm almost sure Ben Taylor's lad found it, and picked it up; but when I axed him if he hadn't got it, he said 'No,' and told me he'd knock my head against the wall if I didn't hold my noise. I see'd fayther go by at the lane end, but he didn't see me. He'll thrash the life out of me if he finds I've lost the s.h.i.+lling.--I've run for my life, but he'll be here directly.
You must make it right, mother--you must.”
”Ay, ay, lad; I'll speak to your fayther. He shan't beat you. Just keep out of the road till he's cooled down a bit. Eh! here he comes for sure, and a lot of his mates with him. There--just creep under the couch-chair, lad. They'll not tarry so long. Fayther'll be off to the 'George' as soon as he's had his tea.”
So the poor boy crept under the couch, the hanging drapery effectually hiding him from the view of any who might come in. Another moment, and Will Jones the father entered the house with half-a-dozen companions.
”Well, and what's up now?” asked the wife, as the men seated themselves--some on chairs, and one or two on the couch.
”Never you heed, Martha,” said her husband; ”but just clap to the door, and take yourself off to Molly Grundy's, or anywhere else you've a mind.”