Part 40 (2/2)

Here give it to me whatever 'tis.' Now, gentlemen, I stood there, more shame to me, and saw that poor wretch of a father deliberately take that hard-earned dollar away from his boy. I saw the boy go crying off, and the father stagger to that rum hole across the street, get his jug filled, and pay that dollar! Now when that respectable rum-seller comes to pay his license money, he is as likely to bring that stolen dollar as any other--and they are all stolen in the first place from wives and children; and when this _splendid_ Library a.s.sociation, which is an honor to the town, buys its next books, it buys them with money stolen from the Jimmy Connors of the world. That's my opinion in plain English, and I don't propose to pay my dollar in supporting any such anti-temperance inst.i.tution.”

Theodore had listened attentively to this conversation, and his blood was roused and boiling. He turned quickly away from the long line of splendid books, and addressed Mr. Cranmer.

”I entirely agree with your position, sir,” he said, earnestly. ”And I do not see how it is possible for any strictly temperance man to feel otherwise.”

”Good for you, young man,” responded Mr. Cranmer, warmly. ”I like especially to see a _young_ man sound and square on this subject.”

”Well, now, I call that straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel,”

remarked a gentleman who had heretofore taken no part in the conversation. ”I'm a temperance man myself, always have been, but I consider that carrying the thing to a ridiculous extreme.”

At this point Theodore, much to his regret, heard the train whistle, and was obliged to leave the question unsettled; but the first remark he made to Mr. Stephens on his return, after business was disposed of, was:

”Well, sir, I found my inspiration.”

”Ah, ha!” said Mr. Stephens. ”Glad of that. What is your text?”

”The amazing consistency of the so-called temperance world,” answered Theodore, dryly.

It was this combination of circ.u.mstances that led him to take his seat one wintry morning in a Buffalo train, himself ticketed through to Albany. There was still five minutes before the train would start; and while he chatted with Jim who had come to see him off, the opening door revealed the portly form of Mr. Hastings, m.u.f.fled to the throat in furs, and with the identical ”Wolfie” thrown over his arm--newly lined indeed in brilliant red, but recognized in an instant by its soft peculiar fur, and familiar to Theodore as the face of an old friend. Instantly his memory traveled back to the scenes connected with that long-ago and well-remembered journey when ”Wolfie” proved such a faithful friend to him. His face flushed at the thought of it, and yet the corners of his mouth quivered with laughter. He flushed at the memory of the wretched little vagrant that he was at that time, and he laughed at the recollection of ”Wolfie's” protecting folds and the new and delicious sense of warmth that they imparted to him. What a curious world it was.

There sat Mr. Hastings in front of him now, as he had sat then, a trifle older, more portly, but in all essential respects the same haughty, handsome gentleman. But what mortal could recognize in himself the little wretched vagabond known familiarly as ”Tode Mall!” He tried to travel backward and imagine himself that young scamp who stole his pa.s.sage from Albany to Buffalo, at which thought the blood rolled again into his face, and he felt an instinctive desire to go at once and seek out the proper authorities and pay for that surrept.i.tious ride.

Moreover, he resolved that being an honest man now it was his duty so to do, and that it should be the first item of business to which he would attend after leaving the cars. Then he glanced about him to see if he could establish his ident.i.ty with the little ragged boy. A gentleman with gray hair and gold spectacles bowed and addressed him.

”Good-morning, Mr. Mallery. Going East far?”

This was the merchant whose store joined their own. He knew nothing about ”Tode Mall,” but he held intimate business relations with the junior partner of the great firm. Even Mr. Hastings bowed stiffly. Mr.

Stephens' partner and the small boy who traveled in his company years before were two different persons even to him. At one of the branch stations that gentleman left the train, much to Theodore's regret, as he had a curious desire to follow him once more in his journeyings and note the contrasts time had made. Arrived in Albany, he looked with curious eyes on the familiar and yet unfamiliar streets. Every five minutes he met men whom he had known well in his boyhood. He recognized them instantly now. They did not look greatly changed to him, yet not a living soul knew him. He went into establishments from which he had been unceremoniously ordered, not to say kicked, years before, and presented their business card, ”Stephens, Mallery & Co.,” and was treated by those same business men with the utmost courtesy and cordiality. He went down some of the old familiar haunts, and could not feel that they had much improved. He met a bloated, disfigured, wretched looking man, and something in the peculiar slouching gate seemed familiar to him. He made inquiries, and found him to be the person whom he had half surmised, the old-time friend of his boyhood, Jerry, the only one who had had a word of half comfort to bestow on him when he landed in Albany that eventful night after his trip with Mr. Hastings, homeless and desolate. Jerry stared at him now, a drunken, sleepy stare, and then instinctively stood aside to let the gentleman pa.s.s, never dreaming that they had rolled in the same gutter many a time. Does it seem strange to you that during all these years Theodore had not long ere this returned to this old home of his and sought out that wretched father? Sometimes it seemed very strange to him. Don't imagine that he had not given it long and serious thought, but he had shrunken from it with unutterable terror and dismay; he had no loving, tender memories of his father--nothing but cruelty and drunkenness and sin by which to remember him. Still oftentimes during these later years he had told himself that he ought to seek out his father; he ought to make some effort to reclaim him. He had prayed for him constantly, fervently, had poured out his whole soul in that one great desire; still he knew and remembered that ”faith without works is dead.” He had made some effort, had written earnest appeals hot from his heart, to which he had received no sort of a reply. He had written to one and another in Albany, prominent names that he remembered, clergymen of the city as he learned their addresses, begging for some a.s.sistance in the search after his father. Each and all of these attempts had proved failures. To some of his letters he had received answers, courteous, Christian answers, and the gentlemen had lent him their time and aid, but to no purpose. Apparently the name and place of the poor, low rum-seller had faded from the memory of the Albanians. He had disappeared one night after a more tremendous drunken row than usual, and had never been seen or heard of since. This was all. And Theodore, baffled and discouraged, had yet constantly meant to come to the search in person, and as constantly had shrunken from setting out, and delayed and excused himself until the present time. Now, however, he intended to set about it with vigor. ”No matter what he is, nor how low he has sunken, he is _my father_, and as such I owe him a duty; and I must constantly remember that it is not he of whom I have bitter memories, but rum, rum! rum!!” This he told himself with firmly set lips, and a white, determined face.

CHAPTER XXVII.

DAWN AND DARKNESS.

Tweddle Hall was reasonably full. The citizens of Albany had turned out well to do their townsman honor, howbeit they did not know that he had tumbled about in their gutters and straggled about their streets up almost to the verge of young manhood. Theodore had felt many misgivings since that day when he suddenly and almost unexpectedly to himself pledged his word to address an Albany audience on this evening; but he had three things to a.s.sist him. First, he was thoroughly and terribly in earnest; secondly, he was entirely posted on all the arguments for and against this mammoth subject of temperance--he had studied it carefully and diligently; and, finally, he always grew so tremendously indignant and sarcastic over the monstrous wrong, and the ridiculous and inconsistent opinions held by the ma.s.ses, that in ten minutes after he commenced talking about it he would have forgotten his audience in his ma.s.sive subject, even though the President and his Cabinet had been among them. So on this particular evening, his blood roused to the boiling point through brooding over the wrongs that had come to him by the help of this fiend, he spoke as he had no idea that he _could_ speak. Had Mr. Stephens been one of his auditors his face might have glowed with pride over his protege. Had Mr. Birge been present to listen to the eloquent appeal his heart might have thanked G.o.d that the little yellow-haired boy who stood in solemn awe and took in the meaning of his mother's only prayer, had lived to answer it so fully and grandly in the city of his birth.

After the address there was a pledge circulated. Theodore was the first to write his name in bold, firm letters, and he remarked to the chairman as he wrote: ”This is the fifteenth pledge that I have signed. I am prouder every time I write my name in one.” There were many signers that evening, among them several whose tottering steps had to be steadied as they came forward. Then presently there came a pretty girl, leading with gentle hand the trembling form of an old man; both faces looked somewhat familiar to Theodore, yet he could not locate them.

”Who are those two?” he said, as the little girlish white hand steadied the feeble fingers of the old man.

”That is an interesting case. The girl has been the salvation of the old man; he is her grandfather. They belonged to a miserable set, the lowest of the low, but there seemed to be something more than human about the child. Her father was killed in a drunken broil, and her mother lay drunk at the time, and died soon after; but she clung to this old man, followed him everywhere, even to rum holes. She got mixed in with a mission Sabbath-school about that time, started down in that vile region where she lived; that was a great thing, too; it was sustained princ.i.p.ally by an earnest young man by the name of Birge--and, by the way, I have heard that he has since become a minister and is preaching in Cleveland.”

”He is my pastor,” answered Theodore, while his eyes sparkled.

”Is it possible! Well, now, if that isn't a remarkable coincidence!”

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