Part 40 (1/2)
”Your executive ability is perfectly refres.h.i.+ng, Theodore, to a man of my gray hairs and crus.h.i.+ng weight of business.”
Theodore seemed to consider the reply sufficiently explicit, and in forty minutes afterward, valise in hand, swung himself on the Express train just as it was leaving the depot. Mr. Stephens' last remark to him had been, ”Remember, my boy, to think of that matter carefully, and be prepared to give me a favorable answer; my heart is set on it.” And Theodore had laughed and responded, ”If I have an inspiration during my absence I may conclude to gratify you.”
This all happened on an October day. The rest of the winter that was in progress during that last chapter, and the long, bright summer, had rolled away, and now another winter was almost ready to begin its work.
The summer had been a quiet one aside from business cares and excitements. Pliny still retained his boarding place in the quiet asylum that had opened to him when his own home had proved so dangerous a place. Dora Hastings had spent the most of the summer with her parents, traveling East and North, but Pliny had remained bravely at his post struggling still with his enemy, but still persisting in carrying on the warfare alone. This one matter was a sharp trial to Theodore's faith; indeed he felt himself growing almost impatient.
”Why _must_ it be that _he_ should halt and hesitate so long!” he exclaimed in a nervous and almost a petulant tone, as he paced up and down the back parlor one evening, after having had a talk with the little mother. ”I am sure if ever I had faith for any one in the world I had for him.”
”Have you got it now?” she asked him, gently. ”It appears to me as if you were pretty impatient--kind as if you thought you had prayed prayers enough, and it was high time they were answered.”
Theodore looked surprised and disturbed, and continued his walk up and down the room for a few moments in silence; then he came over to the arm-chair where she sat, and resting his hand on her arm, spoke low and gently:
”You probe to the very depth, dear friend. Thank you for your faithfulness. I see I must commence anew, and pray, 'Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.'”
Well, the Express train whizzed past half a dozen minor stations, and halted at last at the place of Theodore's destination. Circ.u.mstances favored him, and the business that brought him thither was promptly dispatched. Then a consultation with his time-table and watch showed him a full hour of unoccupied time. He cast about him for some way of occupying it agreeably. Just across the street was a pleasant building, and a pleasant sign, ”General News Depot and Reading Room.” Thither he went. The collection of books was unusually large and choice, Theodore selected a book of reference that he had long been desiring to see and took a seat. Several gentlemen were present, engaged in reading.
Presently the quiet was interrupted by the entrance of a middle-aged gentleman, to whom the courteous librarian immediately addressed himself.
”Good-afternoon, Mr. Cranmer. Can I serve you to a book?”
”No, sir,” responded the new-comer, promptly. ”I don't patronize this inst.i.tution, you know, sir.”
Theodore glanced up to see what sort of a personage this could be who was so indifferent to his privileges. He looked the gentleman in every sense, refined, cultivated and intellectual. At the same moment one of the other readers addressed him.
”Why the mischief don't you, Cranmer? Have you read every book there is in the world, and feel no need of further information?”
”Not by any manner of means; but I'm a temperance man myself.”
”What on earth has that to do with it?”
And Theodore found himself wondering and listening intently for the answer.
”A great deal in this establishment. The truth is, if we had no drunkards we'd have no books.”
”What's the meaning of your riddle, Cranmer?” queried an older and graver gentleman, who had been intently poring over a ponderous volume.
”Don't you know how the thing is done?” said Cranmer, turning briskly around toward the new speaker. ”They use the license money of this honorable and respectable old town to replenish the library!”
”I don't see what that has to do with temperance,” promptly retorted the young man who had begun the conversation. ”Using the money for a good purpose doesn't make drunkards. To what wicked use would _you_ have the funds put?”
”I would keep the potter's field in decent order, and defray the funeral expenses of murderers and paupers. That would be putting liquor money to a legitimate use, making it defray its own expenses,” returned Mr.
Cranmer, composedly.
”Well but, Cranmer,” interposed the old gentleman, ”explain your position. It isn't the money belonging to the poor drunken wretches that we use for the library, it's only what we make the scamps pay for the privilege of doing business.”
”For the privilege of making drunkards,” retorted Mr. Cranmer. ”Here, I'll explain my position by ill.u.s.trating. As I was coming up just now I met old Connor's boy; he was coming up here, too. The poor fellow is hungering and thirsting after books. He has been at work over hours to my certain knowledge, for six weeks, to earn his dollar with which to join this Library a.s.sociation. He just accomplished the feat last night, and was rus.h.i.+ng over here, dollar in hand, and joy in his face. Just as he reached the door old Connor stumbled and staggered along with his jug in his hand, of course. 'Here you,' he said to the boy, 'what you hiding under your arm? And what you about, anyhow? Mischief, I'll be bound.