Speaking after the manner of the flesh, the Reverend Timotheus Brown had found only plain sailing on the river; spiritually, he had a very different experience. “As stubborn as a mule” was the most common of the current estimates of Pastor Brown’s character; and if the conscientious old preacher had ever personally heard this opinion of himself, the verbal expression thereof would have given him but slight annoyance, compared with that which he experienced from his own inner man as he paddled down the stream. To forcibly resist something so satisfied the strongest demand of his nature that neither shortening breath nor blistering hands caused him to slacken the speed with which he forced his paddle against the water. But another contest was going on, and in this the consistent theologian was not so triumphant as he liked always to be. Harry Wainright was one of the ungodly; that he owned (and frequently occupied) a high-priced pew in Mr. Brown’s own church was only another reason why the preacher should quote concerning him, “He that being often reproved hardeneth his neck——”—what if the conclusion of the same passage—“shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy,” should apply? What could prevent its doing so, if Wainright had fulfilled the description in the first half? Had not the same God inspired the whole passage? If so, what right had any man, least of all a minister of the Gospel, to try to set at naught the Divine will? Harry Wainright was, according to the decrees of an unchangeable God, one of the lost—as much so as if he were already in the bottomless pit. And still the old man’s paddle flew; once on the trip he had felt as if the weakness of the arm of flesh would decide the case for him, and in favor of the Word whose expounder he was; he found himself wishing that it might, so that he could feel that although God had overruled him, he might have comfort in the assurance that he had not proved indifferent to his sudden emotion of yearning for his fellow man. But that mysterious physical readjustment, known in animals as “second breath,” came to the rescue of his fainting frame, and then it seemed as if no watery torrent could prevail against the force of his arm. Oh! if he might but talk to some one of the fathers of the church; that he might be, even for ten minutes, back in his own library! But no father of the church resided along the Reverend Brown’s nautical course, nor was there a theological library nearer than his own, and there he was, actually bent upon saving one whom the Eternal pronounced lost! Lost? Hold! “For the Son of Man is come into the world to save them that are lost.” If Christ had a right to save the lost, had not an ambassador of Christ the same privilege? was not an ambassador one who stood in the place—who fulfilled the duties—of an absent king? “Glory be to God on high!” shouted the Reverend Timotheus, and the dense woods echoed back “God on high!” as the old man, forty years a conscientious pastor, but only that instant converted to Christianity, drove his paddle into the water with a force that nearly threw the canoe into the air.

As for Parson Wedgewell, whom we left arising from his knees after asking information from his Divine guide, he found himself upon the right road. The river was nearer than he had dared to hope; a run of half a mile brought him into a clearing, in which stood Brown’s warehouse, near the river. The Excellence had just put her nose against the bank, and the clerk at the warehouse was tired of wondering why Fred Macdonald, on the opposite bank, was shouting so impatiently to the ferryman, and why an old man in a canoe should be coming down the river at the rate of fifty-paddle strokes per minute, when he saw Parson Wedgewell, coatless, hatless, with open shirt, disordered hair, and face covered with dirt deposited just after an unlucky stumble, come flying along the road, closely followed by Tom Adams, who was lashing his horses furiously. A happy inspiration struck the clerk; he shouted “Horse thief!” and seized the parson, and instantly received a blow under the chin which rendered him inactive and despondent for the space of half an hour. The parson saw the gang-plank shoved out; he saw Harry Wainright step aboard; he saw the Rev. Timotheus jump from his canoe into water knee deep, dash up the plank, and throw his arm over Harry Wainright’s shoulder; but only a second or two elapsed before Parson Wedgewell monopolized the runaway’s other side, and then, as the three men stared at each other, neither one speaking a word, and the two pastors bursting into tears, Tom Adams hurried aboard, and exclaimed,

“Mr. Wainright, Mrs. Wainright is particular anxious to see you this evenin’, for somethin’, I don’t know what, an’ I hadn’t time to get any sort of a carriage for fear I’d lose the boat; but there’s good springs to the seat of the brick-yard wagon, an’ a new sheep-skin besides.” No other words coming to Tom’s mind, he abruptly walked forward muttering, “That’s the cock-an’-bullest yarn I ever did tell; I knew I wouldn’t know what to say.” As Tom meditated, he heard one “roustabout” say to another,

“I say, Bill, you know that feller that used to sell such bully whiskey in Barton? Well, he’s around there on the guards, dancin’ like a lunatic. I shouldn’t wonder if that’s what come of swearin’ off drinkin’.”

“Mighty unsafe perceedin’,” replied Bill, eyeing Crupp suspiciously.

Harry Wainright made not the slightest objection to going back home, and he acted very much like a man who was glad of the company in which he found himself. The divine of the canoe looked at his blistered hands, and paid the resuscitated clerk to send the boat back by the first steamer. While Fred Macdonald was crossing the river, Tom Adams kindly drove back the road and recovered Parson Wedgewell’s coat and hat, and the parson accepted the hospitalities of the boat to the extent of water, soap, and towel. He attempted to make his peace with the injured clerk; but that functionary, having already interviewed Tom Adams, insisted that no apology was necessary, and asked the old gentleman in what church he preached.

As the party started back, they saw, coming through a cross-road, a buggy violently driven, and containing two men—who proved to be Squire Tomple and Father Baguss—in a vehicle belonging to the latter; their air of having merely happened there deceived no one, least of all Harry Wainright himself. Father Baguss did not live in town, nor within four miles of it; but when Squire Tomple suggested that he would beg a ride back in Tom Adams’s wagon, Father Baguss objected, and remarked that he guessed he had business in town himself; so the Squire retained his seat, and Father Baguss fell in behind the wagon as decorously as if he was taking part in a funeral procession. Behind them came Fred Macdonald, who had good excuse to gallop back to the peculiar attraction that awaited him in Barton, but preferred to remain in his present company. As the party approached the town, Tom Adams considerately drove through the darkest and most unfrequented streets, and stopped as near as possible to Wainright’s house. Wainright, politely declining any escort, walked quietly home. Father Baguss stood up in his buggy, with his hand to his ear, in the original position of attention: suddenly he exclaimed,

“There! I heard his door shut: now, brethren.” And Father Baguss started the doxology. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” and the glorious harmonies of the old choral were proof even against the tremendous but discordant notes which Tom Adams, with the most honorable intentions, interjected in rapid succession. Then the party broke up. The two pastors escorted each other home alternately and several times in succession, during which apparently meaningless proceeding they learned, each from the other, how much of good intent had been stifled in both of them for lack of prompt application. Crupp and Tomple talked but little, and no “Imaginary Conversation” would be at all likely to reproduce what they said. Father Baguss made the whole air between Barton and his own farm redolent of camp-meeting airs, and Fred Macdonald heard in Parson Wedgewell’s parlor something sweeter than all the music ever written. As for Tom Adams, he jogged slowly toward his employer’s stables, repeating to himself,

“The bulliest spree I ever went on—the very bulliest!”