University of Virginia Library

JOHN JENKINS;
Or, The Smoker Reformed.
BY T. S. A--TH--R.

1. CHAPTER I.

“One cigar a day!” said Judge Boompointer.

“One cigar a day!” repeated John Jenkins, as with
trepidation he dropped his half-consumed cigar under
his work-bench.

“One cigar a day is three cents a day,” remarked
Judge Boompointer, gravely, “and do you know, sir,
what one cigar a day, or three cents a day, amounts
to in the course of four years?”

John Jenkins, in his boyhood, had attended the
village school, and possessed considerable arithmetical
ability. Taking up a shingle which lay upon
his work-bench, and producing a piece of chalk,
with a feeling of conscious pride he made an exhaustive
calculation:

“Exactly forty three dollars and eighty cents,”
he replied, wiping the perspiration from his heated

brow, while his face flushed with honest enthusiasm.

“Well, sir, if you saved three cents a day, instead
of wasting it, you would now be the possessor
of a new suit of clothes, an illustrated Family
Bible, a pew in the church, a complete set of
Patent Office Reports, a hymn-book, and a paid
subscription to Arthur's Home Magazine, which could
be purchased for exactly forty-three dollars and eighty
cents—and,” added the Judge, with increasing
sternness, “if you calculate leap-year, which you
seem to have strangely omitted—you have three
cents more, sir; three cents more!” What would
that buy you, sir?”

“A cigar,” suggested John Jenkins; but, coloring
again deeply, he hid his face.

“No, sir,” said the Judge, with a sweet smile of
benevolence stealing over his stern features; “properly
invested, it would buy you that which passeth
all price. Dropped into the missionary box, who
can tell what heathen, now idly and joyously wantoning
in nakedness and sin, might be brought to
a sense of his miserable condition, and made, through
that three cents, to feel the torments of the wicked?”

With these words the Judge retired, leaving John
Jenkins buried in profound thought. “Three cents
a day,” he muttered. “In forty years I might be
worth four hundred and thirty-eight dollars and ten
cents—and then I might marry Mary. Ah, Mary!”
The young carpenter sighed, and drawing a twenty-five

cent daguerreotype from his vest pocket, gazed
long and fervidly upon the features of a young girl
in book muslin and a coral necklace. Then, with
a resolute expression, he carefully locked the door
of his workshop and departed.

Alas! his good resolutions were too late. We trifle
with the tide of fortune which too often nips
us in the bud and casts the dark shadow of misfortune
over the bright lexicon of youth! That
night the half-consumed fragment of John Jenkins's
cigar set fire to his work-shop and burned it up, together
with all his tools and materials. There was
no insurance.

2. CHAPTER II.
THE DOWNWARD PATH.

“Then you still persist in marrying John Jenkins?”
queried Judge Boompointer, as he playfully,
with paternal familiarity, lifted the golden
curls of the village belle, Mary Jones.

“I do,” replied the fair young girl, in a low
voice, that resembled rock candy in its saccharine
firmness; “I do. He has promised to reform.
Since he lost all his property by fire—”

“The result of his pernicious habit, though he
illogically persists in charging it to me,” interrupted
the Judge.

“Since then,” continued the young girl, “he has

endeavored to break himself of the habit. He tells
me that he has substituted the stalks of the Indian
ratan the outer part of a leguminous plant called
the smoking-bean, and the fragmentary and unconsumed
remainder of cigars which occur at rare and
uncertain intervals along the road, which, as he
informs me, though deficient in quality and strength,
are comparatively inexpensive.” And, blushing at
her own eloquence, the young girl hid her curls
on the Judge's arm.

“Poor thing,” muttered Judge Boompointer.
“Dare I tell her all? Yet I must.”

“I shall cling to him,” continued the young girl,
rising with her theme, “as the young vine clings to
some hoary ruin. Nay, nay, chide me not, Judge
Boompointer. I will marry John Jenkins!”

The Judge was evidently affected. Seating himself
at the table, he wrote a few lines hurriedly upon
a piece of paper, which he folded and placed in the
fingers of the destined bride of John Jenkins.

“Mary Jones,” said the Judge, with impressive
earnestness, “take this trifle as a wedding gift from
one who respects your fidelity and truthfulness. At
the altar let it be a reminder of me.” And covering
his face hastily with a handkerchief, the stern and
iron-willed man left the room. As the door closed,
Mary unfolded the paper. It was an order on the
corner grocery for three yards of flannel, a paper of
needles, four pounds of soap, one pound of starch,
and two boxes of matches!

“Noble and thoughtful man!” was all Mary Jones

could exclaim, as she hid her face in her hands and
burst into a flood of tears.

The bells of Cloverdale are ringing merrily. It is
a wedding. “How beautiful they look!” is the exclamation
that passes from lip to lip, as Mary Jones,
leaning timidly on the arm of John Jenkins, enters
the church. But the bride is agitated, and the bridegroom
betrays a feverish nervousness. As they
stand in the vestibule, John Jenkins fumbles earnestly
in his vest pocket. Can it be the ring he is
anxious about? No. He draws a small brown substance
from his pocket, and biting off a piece, hastily
replaces the fragment and gazes furtively around.
Surely no one saw him? Alas! the eyes of two
of that wedding party saw the fatal act. Judge
Boompointer shook his head sternly. Mary Jones
sighed and breathed a silent prayer. Her husband
chewed!

3. CHAPTER III. AND LAST.

“What! more bread?” said John Jenkins, gruffly.
“You're always asking for money for bread. D—nation!
Do you want to ruin me by your extravagance?”
and as he uttered these words he drew from
his pocket a bottle of whisky, a pipe and a paper of
tobacco. Emptying the first at a draught, he threw
the empty bottle at the head of his eldest boy, a youth
of twelve summers. The missile struck the child

full in the temple, and stretched him a lifeless corpse.
Mrs. Jenkins, whom the reader will hardly recogas
the once gay and beautiful Mary Jones, raised the
dead body of her son in her arms, and, carefully
placing the unfortunate youth beside the pump in
the back-yard, returned with saddened step to the
house. At another time, and in brighter days, she
might have wept at the occurrence. She was past
tears now.

“Father, your conduct is reprehensible!” said little
Harrison Jenkins, the youngest boy. “Where
do you expect to go when you die?”

“Ah!” said John Jenkins, fiercely; “this comes
of giving children a liberal education; this is the result
of Sabbath schools. Down, viper!”

A tumbler thrown from the same parental fist laid
out the youthful Harrison cold. The four other children
had, in the meantime, gathered around the table
with anxious expectancy. With a chuckle, the now
changed and brutal John Jenkins produced four
pipes, and, filling them with tobacco, handed one
to each of his offspring and bade them smoke.
“It's better than bread!” laughed the wretch hoarsely.

Mary Jenkins, though of a patient nature, felt it
her duty now to speak. “I have borne much,
John Jenkins,” she said. “But I prefer that the
children should not smoke. It is an unclean habit,
and soils their clothes. I ask this as a special
favor!

John Jenkins hesitated—the pangs of remorse began
to seize him.

“Promise me this, John!” urged Mary upon
her knees.

“I promise!” reluctantly answered John.

“And you will put the money in a savings
bank?”

“I will,” repeated her husband; “and I'll give
up smoking, too.”

“Tis well, John Jenkins!” said Judge Boompointer,
appearing suddenly from behind the door, where
he had been concealed during this interview. “Nobly
said! my man. Cheer up! I will see that the
children are decently buried.” The husband and
wife fell into each other's arms. And Judge Boompointer,
gazing upon the affecting spectacle, burst
into tears.

From that day John Jenkins was an altered
man.