University of Virginia Library

THE MAN WHO MADE A BEAST OF HIMSELF.

By Henry Travers.

“If your husband will make a beast of himself,”
said old Mrs. Gnipen, and her harsh features showed
harsher lines than before—“if your husband will
make a beast of himself, that's your misfortune. I've
nothing to do with it. So you needn't come whining
to me.”

“If Mr. Gnipen wouldn't sell him liquor, ma'am,”
sobbed the poor woman, who had received the repulsive
answer of the landlord's wife—“if you and Mr.
Gnipen wouldn't sell him liquor, but would just say
to him, in a kind way—”

“Not sell liquor, indeed!” and the old lady drew
herself up in supreme astonishment at such a proposition.
“And pray, Mrs. Wimbleton, for what purpose
do you think we keep tavern? If your husband
will make a beast of himself—”

“Now don't say that again, Mrs. Gnipen,” said poor
Mrs. Wimbleton, in a distressed voice. “My husband
isn't a beast. Not a kinder man is there alive,
if he'd only let drink alone.”

“Why don't he let it alone, then? or why can't he
use it in moderation, as a decent man should? Here
he comes, every two or three days, and drinks and
drinks until he makes a fool of himself, and disgraces
our house, which has always been a decent, orderly
house.”

“Don't sell him liquor, then, Mrs. Gnipen. He
can't drink without going beyond himself. He's
weak in this matter.”

“No, Mrs. Wimbleton, we never do that. If we
refuse to sell to one man, because his wife comes snivelling
about, we'll have our house surrounded by women
in little or no time. Keep your husband at home;
that's all the consolation I have to give you. Keep
him at home, Mrs. Wimbleton.”

“If your husband, Mrs. Gnipen—”

“What have you got to say about my husband?”
fiercely inquired the old woman.

“If your husband were to come home in liquor,
you'd maybe have a little more feeling—”

“My husband come home in liquor! Mr. Gnipen
get drunk!”

The tavern-keeper's wife boiled over with anger,
and she raised her clenched hand, and shook it fiercely
at the poor, shrinking creature, who stood before her.

“He's as likely to get drunk as any one,” retorted
Mrs. Wimbleton, who felt very much like the trampled
woman—disposed to show that all life was not
entirely crushed out of her.

“You'd better not say that again, Mrs. Wimbleton!
You'd better not tempt me too far! No one shall
speak ill of my husband!”

“He's bloated up now as big as one of his brandy
casks!” retorted Mrs. Wimbleton, gaining courage;
“and if he isn't brought home on a wheelbarrow,
one of these days, as drunk as a beast, I'm no prophet.
And so good morning to you, Mrs. Gnipen. When
that happens, I'll call and give you my compliments.
Maybe, then you'll have a little more feeling for
others. Maybe, then you won't be so quick to tell
other women about their husbands' making beasts of
themselves.”

And saying this, Mrs. Wimbleton retired. The
heat of her anger had dried up her tears. Her form
no longer drooped in attitude. Her step was quick
and firm. As she walked on towards her home, she
met Mr. Wimbleton on his way to Gnipen's tavern.

“John,” said she, in a quick voice, and she laid her
hand firmly on his arm as she spoke, “where are
you going?”

“Over to Gnipen's,” replied Wimbleton, evincing
some surprise at the manner of his wife, so changed
from its usual patient submissive character.

“To Gnipen's! And do you know what Mrs.
Gnipen says of you?”

“What does she say?”

“Why, that you make a beast of yourself!”

“How do you know?”

“She told me so to my teeth, so she did!”

“And what did you say, Kate?” Wimbleton felt
some risings of indignation.

“I told her that her husband was little more than
a brandy cask, and that I'd live to see him brought
home on a wheelbarrow.”

“You were sharp, Kate.” Wimbleton laughed.

“How did the old crone relish that part of the joke?”

“Not much. She fairly boiled over with rage.”

“Brought home on a wheelbarrow! Ha! ha!”

Wimbleton seemed greatly amused at the idea.

“What put that into your head?”

“I had to say something to bring the old wretch to
her feeling; and I think I succeeded. To talk to
me of your making a beast of yourself! I couldn't
stand it.”

“Old Gnipen on a wheelbarrow! Ha! ha!” Wimbleton
couldn't get over that.

“Come home, John,” said Mrs. Wimbleton, who
still had tight hold of her husband's arm, and now

gently drew him the way she wished him to go.
“Don't visit places where they talk of you being a
beast.”

Wimbleton yielded to his wife's persuasion; and,
as he walked along by her side, laughed outright
every now and then, saying, as he did so—

“Gnipen on a wheelbarrow! That's too good!”

“Now don't go to that tavern any more, John.
Don't! you will kill me!” said Mrs. Wimbleton, on
their arrival at home. “Don't let people say you
make a beast of yourself. Have more pride, more respect
for yourself, more respect for me and the children.”

“I won't go there but once more, Kate,” replied
Wimbleton.

“Don't go at all, John.”

“Yes, once. When Gnipen is trundled home on a
wheelbarrow, I'm going along to witness his reception.
Make a beast of myself, do I?”

“I was only talking at Mrs. Gnipen. I don't suppose
it will happen,” said Mrs. Wimbleton.

“It will happen then, Kate; and that too, before
night, or my name is not John Wimbleton. The
Sporting Club dines at the White Swan to-day, and
Gnipen is always present on these occasions. Last
time, and the time before that, I saw him staggering
home a little before dark, so tipsy that it would have
puzzled him to say whether he were going up hill or
down. This evening he will, no doubt, be in the
same happy state, and prepared to enjoy the ride you
spoke of, amazingly.”

And laughing to himself, Wimbleton went off to
the shop where he worked. He had not quite lost
all self-respect, nor was he entirely indifferent to the
feelings of his wife. The fact that Gnipen's better
half should have insulted Kate so grossly, galled him
much more than was apparent to her; and when she
spoke of having retorted after the fashion related, he
instantly conceived the idea of executing what she
had prophesied, at the same time, that he took a strong
internal resolution to abandon a habit that was fast
dragging him down towards disgrace and ruin.

“Tom,” said Wimbleton, to a half-witted person
who turned a wheel in the shop where he worked—
“Tom, do you think you could wheel old Gnipen for
the distance of a square or two?”

“Oh yes, if he'd sit still,” replied Tom, grinning
at the novel suggestion.

“Very well, Tom, I'll give you two shillings for
the job.”

“And a treat into the bargain?” inquired Tom.

“No!” Wimbleton looked grave as he shook his
head. “No, Tom! This treating is a bad business.
I'm going to stop it. I've sworn off from drinking
any more. When a man drinks until they call him
a beast, I think it's about time to stop.”

Dressed up in his best, and feeling his importance,
the landlord went to the dinner of the Sporting Club,
where he drank wine and brandy until he was only
a little above the condition of some of his companions,
who were under the table.

In this interesting condition, he started for home,

carefully setting down his feet at every step, and
vainly imagining that he was going along in a math-ematical
line, when, in fact, he was, to all appearance,
engineering for the location of a Virginia worm fence.

Suddenly, and without any perceptible warning,
landlord Gnipen found his heels tripped up, and his
rotund body, corporation and all, transferred to some
vehicle, the exact nature of which he could not at
first make out. But, in a little while, his bewildered
senses were clear enough to enable him to comprehend
that he was riding on a wheelbarrow, attended
by a pretty respectable and pretty noisy escort.

To move from his position he found impossible;
for, like a great turtle, he had been turned upon his
back. To keep from rolling upon the ground, he
clung eagerly to the side of his carriage, which was
rapidly propelled by Tom, in fulfilment of his contract
with Mr. Wimbleton; while, sober as a judge,
and calmly enjoying his pipe, the last named individual
walked erect by the side of the tipsy landlord.

Mrs. Gnipen was taking her afternoon nap in her
large cushioned chair, dreaming a pleasant dream
after the subsidence of her indignation, which had
been aroused by Mrs. Wimbleton's slanderous suggestion
about her husband and a wheelbarrow, when
she was aroused by the noise of shouting and loud
laughter. By the time she was fairly awake, the
door was flung open, and in came the astonished landlord
to visit his no less astonished wife, in all the dignity
of a one wheeled carriage, accompanied by a host
of attendants.

“Three cheers for Gnipen!” cried Wimbleton, as
Tom tipped, dexterously, the wheelbarrow, and
dropped his load at the feet of the landlady. “Three
cheers for the man who never made a beast of himself!”

Three loud and long cheers went up from the
crowd which had been attracted by the novel sight of
Boniface going home from the club dinner, drunk, on
a wheelbarrow.

“Now, right about face and march!” added Wimbleton,
moving towards the door as he spoke; and the
crowd, imitating his example, left Mrs. Gnipen to
console herself as best she could over an event that
was to her humiliating beyond conception.

Now Gnipen, though engaged in a calling that reflects
honour on no man, but rather disgrace, had the
organ of self-esteem largely developed. He considered
himself a person of standing and importance in the
community, and, if the truth were told, a little better
than his neighbours. Terrible, therefore, was his
mortification, when, on a return to sobriety, he became
fully aware of the disgraceful liberty that had
been taken with him; and that it was all over town
how he had been taken home drunk on a wheel-barrow.

As for Mrs. Gnipen, she could not hold her head
up in the bar-room, and showed herself there no
more. Something of what poor wives suffered, whose
husbands she had helped to debase, she now experienced,
and no one pitied her suffering. As for Gnipen
himself, the cruel jibes and jeers of his free and easy

drinking customers galled him so terribly, that, after
enduring them for a little while, he became fretted
beyond endurance, and, selling out his tavern, went
off and set up in a neighbouring town. But the story
of his wheelbarrow adventure followed him there.
This, and the fact of not doing very well in the new
stand, finally drove him off into the country, where
he is now engaged in the more honourable and useful
employment of a farmer.

Wimbleton kept his good resolution, much to the
joy of his wife.