University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
A GOOD SAMARITAN.

Dennis was too good a Christian, and had received
too deep a lesson in his father's case, to become bitter,
angry, and defiant, even if he had believed that God was
against him. He would have felt that it was simply his
duty to submit—to endure patiently. Somehow, until to-day,
his heart had refused to believe that God could be
against any of His creatures. In fact, it was his general
impression that God had everything to do with his being

a good Christian, but very little with his getting a good
place. The defect in his religion, and that of his mother
too, was to a certain extent, that both separated the spiritual
life of the soul too widely from present life with its
material, yet essential cares and needs. At this point,
they, like multitudes of others, fell short of their full privilege,
and enjoyment of God's goodness. His mother had
cheered and sustained her hard lot by hopes and visions
of the better life beyond—by anticipating joys to come.
She had never fully learned how God's love, like the sunlight,
could shine upon and brighten the thorny, rocky
way, and cause the thorns to blossom, and delicate fragrant
flowers to grow in the crevices, and bloom in shaded
nooks, among the sharp stones. She must wait for her
consolation. She must look out of her darkness to the
light that shone through the portals of the tomb, forgetting
that God caused His servants to sing at midnight, in the
inner prison, the deepest dungeon, though scourged and
bleeding.

Unconsciously her son had imbibed the same ideas.
Most devoutly he asked every day to be kept from sin,
that he might grow in the Christian life; but he did not
ask or expect, save in a vague, general way, that help
which a wise, good, earthly father would give to a young,
inexperienced child, struggling with the hard, practical difficulties
of this world. As the days grew darker and more
full of disappointment, he had asked with increasing earnestness
that he might be kept from sin—from falling before
the many and peculiar temptations that assailed him;
and we have seen how God answered his prayer, and kept
him where so many would have fallen. But God meant
to show him that His goodness extended farther than he
thought, and that He cared for His children's well-being
now as truly as in the hereafter, when He gathered them
home into His immediate presence. But Dennis could

not see this now. As far as he thought at all on the subject,
he had the vague feeling that God was either trying
his faith or meting out some righteous judgment, and he
must do the best he could, and only see to it that he did
not sin and give way morally.

Yet, in the thick night of his earthly prospects, Dennis
still loved and trusted God. He reasoned justly, that
if at last brought to such a place as heaven, no matter
what he suffered here, he had only cause for unbounded
gratitude. And he felt sure that all would be right in the
end, but now feared that his life would be like his father's,
a tissue of disappointments, and that he, an unsuccessful
voyager, storm-tossed and shipwrecked, would be thrown
upon the heavenly shore by some dark crested billow
of misfortune, instead of sailing into port with flying
colors.

Thus Dennis sat lost in gloomy musings, but too wearied
in mind and body to follow any line of thought long.
A few stern facts kept looming up before him, like rocks
on which a ship is drifting. He had less than a dollar in
his pocket. It was Friday night. If he did not get anything
to do Saturday, how was he was going to live Sunday
and the days that followed? Then his dependent
mother and sister rose up before him. They seemed to
his morbid fancy hungry and cold, and their famine-pinched
faces full of reproach. His head bowed lower, and he
became the very picture of dejection.

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 your fore-foot;
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 groveling
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, except
in sickness.”

“O yer 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 would not
take a drink on my own hook, I meet somebody that I
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 occasion
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 Gamblin'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,” sald 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 got, 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' 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. 'Taint every temperance
lecturer though that has an awful example come
in just at the right time so slick. But you've stood by yer
color, and we wont quarrel. Tell us, now, if it aint private,
what yer 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 in the vernacular of his trade 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 horses. People look shy at you—usually
do at a strange hoss. Few know good pints when they
see 'em. When they find you aint broke into 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 live-stock 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 cart-horse in all Chicago that
feels more broken down and dispirited than I do to-night.”

“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 pints, whether it be a man or a hoss—you'd take
kindly to work of the right sort, and it would pay any one
to take you at your 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 pocket-book 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
bye, and think over what you've said, for I can't think
much until I get a little steam up. But now we must try
and see some way out of the fog for you.” And again in
absence of the wonted steam he scratched the shaggy
head vigorously.

“Seems to me the best thing for you is to do as I did
when I first broke the home pasture and started out on a

rampage. I just grabbed the fust job that came along,
good, bad or indifferent—always kept doing something.
You can look for a bird in a bush quite as well when
you've got one in the hand as when you haint. To be sure
I wasn't as squeamish as you are. I'd jumped at the offer
you had this afternoon; but I reckon I'd taken toll too
often to be very profitable. But in this way I always kept
agoin'—never got down underfoot so the stronger ones
could tread on me. When it comes to that, I want to die.
Now if you've got plenty of clear grit—little disposed to
show the white feather though, to-night, aint yer?”

Dennis flushed up, and was about to speak almost
angrily.

“There! there!” said his new friend. “I said yer
wasn't a cart-hoss, one touch of the spur and up goes tail
and ears, and then look out. Are yer ashamed to do any
kind of honest work? I mean kinder pious work that
hasn't any smack of the devil you're so afraid of, in it?”

“No! work is just what I want.”

“Would you black boots, now?”

Dennis winced, thought a moment, and then with a
manly flush said—

“Yes, before I would take a cent of charity from any
living soul.”

“Give us yer fore-foot again; you're the kind of critter
I like to invest in—for you'd improve on a feller's
hands. No fear about you; the only thing is to get you
in harness before a load that will pay to haul.”

Suddenly he got up, strode to the bar-room door, looked
out into the night, and came back again.

“I think I know of a way in which you can make two
or three dollars to-morrow.”

“How?” exclaimed Dennis, his whole face lighting up
with hope.

“Go to a hardware store, invest in a big wooden snow-shovel,

and clean off sidewalks before stores. You can
pick up a good many quarters before night, like enough.”

“I will do it,” said Dennis, heartily, “and thank you
warmly for the suggestion, and for your kindly interest
generally,” and he looked up and felt himself another man.

“Gosh! but it takes mighty few oats to set you up!
But come, and let us have a little plain, substantial fodder.
I will drink nothing but coffee, to-night, out of compliment
to you.”

“Cheered, comforted, and hopeful, Dennis sat down
with his good Samaritan, and made a hearty supper, after
which they parted with a strong, friendly grip, and sincere
good wishes, Cronk, the drover, going on farther west,
and Dennis to the rest he so sorely needed.