On the morning after the meeting the happiest man in all Barton was the Reverend Jonas Wedgewell. He had been one of the first to agitate the subject of a grand temperance demonstration; in fact, he had, while preaching the funeral sermon of a young man who had been drowned while drunk, prophesied that the sad event which had on that occasion drawn his hearers together would give a mighty impetus to the temperance movement; then like a sensible, matter-of-fact prophet, he exerted himself to the uttermost that his prophecy might be fulfilled. He subscribed liberally to the fund which paid for advertising the meeting; he labored personally a full hour with the performer on the big drum, and ended by persuading him to forego a coon-hunt on that particular night, that he might take part in a hunt for nobler game. The Reverend Jonas had drafted all the pledges which were circulated during the meeting, and had seen to it that they contained no weak or ungrammatic expressions which might tempt thirsty souls to treat disrespectfully the documents and the principles they embodied. He had reached the church door at the third tap of the bell, had greeted all his reverend brethren with a hearty shake with both his own hands, and had offered the Reverend Timotheus Brown so many pertinent suggestions as to the prayer which that gentleman had been requested to make that the ancient divine remarked, with a touch of saintly sarcasm, that he did not consider that the occasion justified him in making a departure from his habit of offering strictly original prayers.

Through the whole course of the meeting good Pastor Wedgewell sat expectantly on the extreme end of the pulpit sofa, his body inclined a little forward, his hands upon his knees, his eyes gleaming brightly through polished glasses, and his whole pose suggesting the most intense earnestness. He discerned a telling point before its verbal expression was fully completed, his hands commenced to applaud the moment the point was announced; his varnished boots and well-stored head beat time alike to “Lily Dale,” the march from “Norma,” “Sweet Spirit, hear my prayer,” and such other airs as the band was not ashamed to play in public; he sprang from his seat and approvingly patted the youthful backs of the pretended drunkard and his mother, he laughed almost hysterically at the wit of the lecturer, and moistened handkerchief after handkerchief as the able speaker depicted the sad results of drunkenness. While the pledges were being circulated, the reverend man occupied a position which raked the house, and he was the first to announce to the faithful in the front seats the capture of any drinking man. He intercepted Tom Lyker, a tin-shop apprentice, who had signed the pledge, in the aisle, immediately after the audience was dismissed, and suggested that they should together hold a season of prayer in the study attached to the church; and the rather curt manner in which the repentant but not altogether regenerate Thomas declined the invitation did not abash the holy man in the least; for, as the audience finally dispersed, he secured a few faithful ones, with whom he adjourned to the study, and enjoyed what he afterward referred to as a precious season.

Mrs. Wedgewell, who rendered but feeble reverence unto him who was at once her spouse and her spiritual adviser, had been known to say that when the old gentleman was wound up there was no knowing when he would run down again; and all who saw the good man on the morning after the meeting, admitted that his wife’s simile was an uncommonly apt one. Squire Tomple believed so fully in the advantages of the early bird over all others in search of sustenance, that his store was always opened at sunrise; yet George Doughty had just taken the third shutter from the front window, when a gentle tap on the shoulder caused him to drop the rather heavy board upon his toes. As he wrathfully turned himself, he beheld the approving countenance and extended congratulatory hand of the Reverend Wedgewell.

“George, my dear, my noble young friend,” said he, as the irate youth squeezed his agonized toes, “you have performed a most noble and meritorious action—an action which you will never have cause to regret.”

For a moment or two the young man’s face said many things not seemly to express in appropriate words to a clergyman; but he finally recovered his sense of politeness, and replied:

“I hope I shan’t repent of it, but I don’t know. It may be noble and meritorious to sign the pledge, but a fellow needs to have twenty times as much man in him to keep it.”

“Now you don’t mean to say, George, that you’ll allow such a vile appetite to regain its ascendency over you?” pleaded the preacher.

“’Tisn’t a vile appetite,” quickly replied the young man. “I need whisky as much as I need bread and butter—yes, and a great deal more, too. I have to open the store at sunrise, and keep it open till nine o’clock and after, have to make myself agreeable to anywhere from two to twenty people at a time, sell all I can, watch people who will steal the minute your eye is off of them, not let anybody feel neglected, and see that I get cash from everybody who isn’t good pay. When there isn’t anybody here, I’ve got to keep the books, see that the stock don’t run down in spots, and stir up people that are slow pay. The only way I can do it all is by taking something to help me. I hate whisky—I’m going to try to leave it alone; but I tell you, Dominie, it’s going to be one of the biggest fights you ever knew a young man to go into.”

The reverend listener was as easily depressed as he was exalted, and Doughty’s short speech had the effect of greatly elongating the minister’s countenance. Yet he had a great deal of that pertinacity which is as necessary to soldiers of the cross as it is to those of the bayonet; so he began manfully to search his mind for some weapon or means of defense which the clerk could use. Suddenly his countenance brightened, his benevolent eyes enlarged behind his glasses, and he exclaimed:

“Just the thing! My dear young friend, the hand of Providence is in this matter. Your worthy employer was the chairman of our meeting last night; certainly he will be glad to give you such assistance as shall lessen the amount of your labors. Here he comes now. Let me manage this affair; I really ask it as a favor.”

“I’m much obliged, but I think—confound it!” ejaculated the young man, as his companion hastened out of earshot and buttonholed Squire Tomple. Half smiling and half frowning Doughty retired from the door, but took up a new position, from which he could see the couple. To the eyes of the clerk, his employer seemed a rock in his unchanging pose, while the old preacher, rich in many a grace not peculiar to country storekeepers, yet utterly ignorant of business and such of its perversions as are called requirements, seemed a mere lamb—a fancy which was strengthened by the incessant gesturing and change of position in which he indulged when in conversation. The pair soon separated; the minister walked away, his step seeming not so exultant as when he approached the merchant; while the latter, appearing to his clerk to be broader, deeper, and more solid than ever, approached the store, lifted up his head, displayed the face he usually wore when he found he had made a bad debt, and said,

“George, I wish you wouldn’t try to talk about business to ministers. Old Wedgewell has just pestered me nearly to death; says you complain of having too much to do, and that you have to drink to keep up. It’ll be just like him to tell somebody else, and a pretty story that’ll be to go around about the chairman of a temperance meeting.”

“I didn’t mean to say anything to him,” replied the clerk; “but he made me drop a shutter on my toes, and I guess that loosened my tongue a little. I didn’t tell him anything but the truth, though, Squire. I signed the pledge, last night, hoping you’d help me through.”

“What—what do you mean, George?” asked the merchant, in a tone which defined the word “conservative” more clearly than lexicographer ever did.

“I can’t work so many hours a day without drinking sometimes,” replied the clerk. “What I ask of you is to take a boy. If I could come in a couple of hours later every morning—and there’s next to nothing done in the first two hours of the day—I could have a decent amount of rest, not have to hurry so much, and wouldn’t break down so often, and have to go to whisky to be helped up again.”

“A boy would have to be paid,” remarked the Squire in the tone he habitually used when making a penitential speech in class-meeting; “and here’s summer-time coming; there isn’t much business done in summer, you know.”

“A boy won’t cost more than a dollar a week the first year,” replied the clerk, “and you’d make that out of the people who sometimes have to go somewhere else and trade on days when you’re not here and I’m too busy to wait on them. There isn’t so much money made in summer; but women come to the store then a good deal more than they do in the winter, and they take up an awful amount of time. Besides, the store has to be opened about two hours earlier every morning than it does in winter.”

The merchant pinched his gloomy brow and reflected. Doughty looked at him without much hopefulness. The Squire’s heart might be all right, but his pocket-book was by far the more sensitive and controlling organ. At last the Squire said,

“Well, if it’s for your good that you want the boy, you ought to be willing to pay his salary. Besides——”

“Excuse me, Squire Tomple,” interrupted Doughty; “’tisn’t for my good alone. ‘Accursed be he who putteth the bottle to his brother’s lips.’ I’ve heard you quote that to more than one man right in this store. That’s what you’re doing to me if you keep on. You sell half as much again as any other storekeeper in town, and why? Because I am smart enough to hold custom. I haven’t cared to do anything else. I’ve given myself up to making and holding custom for you, and I took to whisky to keep me up to my work.”

“Well, haven’t I paid you for all you’ve done?” demanded the proprietor.

“Yes; but now I ask you to pay a little more. I’ve told you why; and now the case stands just here: which do you care for most, the price of a boy or the soul of your faithful clerk? You say a man’s soul’s in danger if he drinks.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, George,” replied the Squire, “I’ll think about it. I want to do what’s right; but I—I don’t like to have other people’s sins fastened on me.”