The superintendency of the Mississippi Valley Woolen Mills was a position which exactly suited Fred Macdonald, and it gave him occasion for the expenditure of whatever superfluous energy he found himself possessed of, yet it did not engross his entire attention. The faculty which the busiest of young men have for finding time in which to present themselves, well clothed and unbusiness-like, to at least one young woman, is as remarkable and admirable as it is inexplicable. The evenings which did not find Fred in Parson Wedgewell’s parlor were few indeed, and if, when he was with Esther, he did not talk quite as sentimentally as he had done in the earlier days of his engagement, and if he talked business very frequently, the change did not seem distasteful to the lady herself. For the business of which he talked was, in the main, of a sort which loving women have for ages recognized as the inevitable, and to which they have subjected themselves with a unanimity which deserves the gratitude of all humanity. Fred talked of a cottage which he might enter without first knocking at the door, and of a partnership which should be unlimited; if he learned, in the course of successive conversations, that even in partnerships of the most extreme order many compromises are absolutely necessary, the lesson was one which improved his character in the ratio in which it abased his pride. The cottage grew as rapidly as the mill, and on his returns from various trips for machinery there came with Fred’s freight certain packages which prevented their owner from appearing so completely the absorbed business man which he flattered himself that he seemed. Then the partnership was formed one evening in Parson Wedgewell’s own church, in the presence of a host of witnesses, Fred appearing as self-satisfied and radiant as the gainer in such transactions always does, while Esther’s noble face and drooping eyes showed beyond doubt who it was that was the giver.

As the weeks succeeded each other after the wedding, however, no acquaintance of the couple could wonder whether the gainer or the giver was the happier. Fred improved rapidly, as the school-boy improves; but Esther’s graces were already of mature growth, and rejoiced in their opportunity for development. Though she could not have explained how it happened, she could not but notice that maidens regarded her wonderingly, wives contemplated her wistfully, frowns departed and smiles appeared when she approached people who were usually considered prosaic. Yet shadows sometimes stole over her face, when she looked at certain of her old acquaintances, and the cause thereof soon took a development which was anything but pleasing to her husband.

“Fred,” said Esther one evening, “it makes me real unhappy sometimes to think of the good wives there are who are not as happy as I am. I think of Mrs. Moshier and Mrs. Crayme, and the only reason that I can see is, their husbands drink.”

“I guess you’re right, Ettie,” said Fred. “They didn’t begin their domestic tyranny in advance, as you did—bless you for it.”

“But why don’t their husbands stop?” asked Esther, too deeply interested in her subject to notice her husband’s compliment. “They must see what they’re doing, and how cruel it all is.”

“They’re too far gone to stop; I suppose that’s the reason,” said Fred. “It hasn’t been easy work for me to keep my promise, Ettie, and I’m a young man; Moshier and Crayme are middle-aged men, and liquor is simply necessary to them.”

“That dreadful old Bunley wasn’t too old to reform, it seems,” said Esther. “Fred, I believe one reason is that no one has asked them to stop. See how good Harry Wainright has been since he found that so many people were interested in him that day!”

“Ye——es,” drawled Fred, evidently with a suspicion of what was coming, and trying to change the subject by suddenly burying himself in his memorandum book. But this ruse did not succeed, for Esther crossed the room to where Fred sat, placed her hands on his shoulders, and a kiss on his forehead, and exclaimed,

“Fred, you’re the proper person to reform those two men!”

“Oh, Ettie,” groaned Fred, “you’re entirely mistaken. Why, they’d laugh right in my face, if they didn’t get angry and knock me down. Reformers want to be older men, better men, men like your father, for instance, if people are to listen to them.”

“Father says they need to be men who understand the nature of those they are talking to,” replied Esther; “and you once told me that you understood Moshier and Crayme perfectly.”

“But just think of what they are, Ettie,” pleaded Fred. “Moshier is a contractor, and Crayme’s a steamboat captain; such men never reform, though they always are good fellows. Why, if I were to speak to either of them on the subject, they’d laugh in my face, or curse me. The only way I was able to make peace with them for stopping drinking myself was to say that I did it to please my wife.”

“Did they accept that as sufficient excuse?” asked Esther.

“Yes,” said Fred reluctantly, and biting his lips over this slip of his tongue.

“Then you’ve set them a good example, and I can’t believe its effect will be lost,” said Esther.

“I sincerely hope it won’t,” said Fred, very willing to seem a reformer at heart; “nobody would be gladder than I to see those fellows with wives as happy as mine seems to be.”

“Then why don’t you follow it up, Fred, dear, and make sure of your hopes being realized? You can’t imagine how much happier I would be if I could meet those dear women without feeling that I had to hide the joy that’s so hard to keep to myself.”

The conversation continued with considerable strain to Fred’s amiability; but his sophistry was no match for his wife’s earnestness, and he was finally compelled to promise that he would make an appeal to Crayme, with whom he had a business engagement, on the arrival of Crayme’s boat, the Excellence.

Before the whistles of the steamer were next heard, however, Esther learned something of the sufferings of would-be reformers, and found cause to wonder who was to endure most that Mrs. Crayme should have a sober husband, for Fred was alternately cross, moody, abstracted, and inattentive, and even sullenly remarked at his breakfast-table one morning that he shouldn’t be sorry if the Excellence were to blow up, and leave Mrs. Crayme to find her happiness in widowhood. But no such luck befell the lady: the whistle-signals of the Excellence were again heard in the river, and the nature of Fred’s business with the captain made it unadvisable for Fred to make an excuse for leaving the boat unvisited.

It did seem to Fred Macdonald as if everything conspired to make his task as hard as it could possibly be. Crayme was already under the influence of more liquor than was necessary to his well-being, and the boat carried as passengers a couple of men, who, though professional gamblers, Crayme found very jolly company when they were not engaged in their business calling. Besides, Captain Crayme was running against time with an opposition boat which had just been put upon the river, and he appreciated the necessity of having the boat’s bar well stocked and freely opened to whoever along the river was influential in making or marring the reputation of steamboats. Fred finally got the captain into his own room, however, and made a freight contract so absent-mindedly that the sagacious captain gained an immense advantage over him; then he acted so awkwardly, and looked so pale, that the captain suggested chills, and prescribed brandy. Fred smiled feebly, and replied,

“No, thank you, Sam; brandy’s at the bottom of the trouble. I”—here Fred made a tremendous attempt to rally himself—“I want you to swear off, Sam.”

The astonishment of Captain Crayme was marked enough to be alarming at first; then the ludicrous feature of Fred’s request struck him so forcibly that he burst into a laugh before whose greatness Fred trembled and shrank.

“Well, by thunder!” exclaimed the captain, when he recovered his breath; “if that isn’t the best thing I ever heard yet! The idea of a steamboat captain swearing off his whiskey! Say, Fred, don’t you want me to join the church? I forgot that you’d married a preacher’s daughter, or I wouldn’t have been so puzzled over your white face to-day. Sam Crayme brought down to cold water! Wouldn’t the boys along the river get up a sweet lot of names for me—the ‘Cold-water Captain,’ ‘Psalm-singing Sammy’! and then, when an editor or any other visitor came aboard, wouldn’t I look the thing, hauling out glasses and a pitcher of water! Say, Fred, does your wife let you drink tea and coffee?”

“Sam!” exclaimed Fred, springing to his feet, “if you don’t stop slanting at my wife, I’ll knock you down.”

“Good!” said the captain, without exhibiting any signs of trepidation. “Now you talk like yourself again. I beg your pardon, old fellow; you know I was only joking, but it is too funny. You’ll have to take a trip or two with me again, though, and be reformed.”

“Not any,” said Fred, resuming his chair; “take your wife along, and reform yourself.”

“Look here, now, young man,” said the captain, “you’re cracking on too much steam. Honestly, Fred, I’ve kept a sharp eye on you for two or three months, and I am right glad you can let whiskey alone. I’ve seen times when I wished I were in your boots; but steamboats can’t be run without liquor, however it may be with woolen mills.”

“That’s all nonsense,” said Fred. “You get trade because you run your boat on time, charge fair prices, and deliver your freight in good order. Who gives you business because you drink and treat?”

The captain, being unable to recall any shipper of the class alluded to by Fred, changed his course.

“’Tisn’t so much that,” said he; “it’s a question of reputation. How would I feel to go ashore at Pittsburg or Louisville or Cincinnati, and refuse to drink with anybody? Why, ’twould ruin me. It’s different with you who don’t have to meet anybody but religious old farmers. Besides, you’ve just been married.”

“And you’ve been married for five years,” said Fred, with a sudden sense of help at hand. “How do you suppose your wife feels?”

Captain Crayme’s jollity subsided a little, but with only a little hesitation he replied,

“Oh! she’s used to it; she doesn’t mind it.”

“You’re the only person in town that thinks so, Sam,” said Fred.

Captain Crayme got up and paced his little state-room two or three times, with a face full of uncertainty. At last he replied,

“Well, between old friends, Fred, I don’t think so very strongly myself. Hang it! I wish I’d been brought up a preacher, or something of the kind, so I wouldn’t have had business ruining my chances of being the right sort of a family man. Emily don’t like my drinking, and I’ve promised to look up some other business; but ’tisn’t easy to get out of steamboating when you’ve got a good boat and a first-rate trade. Once she felt so awfully about it that I did swear off—don’t tell anybody, for God’s sake! but I did. I had to look out for my character along the river, though; so I swore off on the sly, and played sick. I’d give my orders to the mates and clerks from my bed in here, and then I’d lock myself in, and read novels and the Bible to keep from thinking. ’Twas awful dry work all around; but ‘whole hog or none’ is my style, you know. There was fun in it, though, to think of doing something that no other captain on the river ever did. But, thunder! by the time night came, I was so tired of loafing that I wrapped a blanket around my head and shoulders, like a Hoosier, sneaked out the outer door here, and walked the guards, between towns; but I was so frightened for fear some one would know me that the walk did me more harm than good. And blue! why a whole cargo of indigo would have looked like a snow-storm alongside of my feelings the second day; ’pon my word, Fred, I caught myself crying in the afternoon, just before dark, and I couldn’t find out what for either. I tell you, I was scared, and things got worse as time spun along; the dreams I had that night made me howl, and I felt worse yet when daylight came along again. Toward the next night I was just afraid to go to sleep; so I made up my mind to get well, go on duty, and dodge everybody that it seemed I ought to drink with. Why, the Lord bless your soul! the first time we shoved off from a town, I walked up to the bar, just as I always did after leaving towns; the barkeeper set out my particular bottle naturally enough, knowing nothing about my little game; I poured my couple of fingers, and dropped it down as innocent as a lamb before I knew what I was doing. By George! my boy, ’twas like opening lock-gates; I was just heavenly gay before morning. There was one good thing about it, though—I never told Emily I was going to swear off; I was going to surprise her, so I had the disappointment all to myself. Maybe she isn’t as happy as your wife; but, whatever else I’ve done, or not done, I’ve never lied to her.”

“It’s a pity you hadn’t promised her then, before you tried your experiment,” said Fred. The captain shook his head gravely and replied,

“I guess not; why, I’d have either killed somebody or killed myself if I’d gone on a day or two longer. I s’pose I’d have got along better if I’d had anybody to keep me company, or reason with me like a schoolmaster; but I hadn’t; I didn’t know anybody that I dared trust with a secret like that.”

“I hadn’t reformed then, eh?” queried Fred.

“You? why you’re one of the very fellows I dodged! Just as I got aboard the boat—I came down late, on purpose—I saw you out aft. I tell you, I was under my blankets, with a towel wrapped around my jaw, in about one minute, and was just a-praying that you hadn’t seen me come aboard.”

Fred laughed, but his laughter soon made place for a look of tender solicitude. The unexpected turn that had been reached in the conversation he had so dreaded, and the sympathy which had been awakened in him by Crayme’s confidence and openness, temporarily made of Fred Macdonald a man with whom Fred himself had never before been acquainted. A sudden idea struck him.

“Sam,” said he, “try it over again, and I’ll stay by you. I’ll nurse you, crack jokes, fight off the blues for you, keep your friends away. I’ll even break your neck for you, if you like, seeing it’s you if it’ll keep you straight.”

“Will you, though?” said the captain, with a look of admiration undisguised, except by wonder. “You’re the first friend I ever had, then. By thunder! how marrying Ettie Wedgewell did improve you, Fred! But,” and the captain’s face lengthened again, “there’s a fellow’s reputation to be considered, and where’ll mine be after it gets around that I’ve sworn off?”

“Reputation be hanged!” exclaimed Fred. “Lose it, for your wife’s sake. Besides, you’ll make reputation instead of lose it: you’ll be as famous as the Red River Raft, or the Mammoth Cave—the only thing of the kind west of the Alleghanies. As for the boys, tell them I’ve bet you a hundred that you can’t stay off your liquor for a year, and that you’re not the man to take a dare.”

“That sounds like business,” exclaimed the captain, springing to his feet.

“Let me draw up a pledge,” said Fred eagerly, drawing pen and ink toward him.

“No, you don’t, my boy,” said the captain gently, and pushing Fred out of the room and upon the guards. “Emily shall do that. Below there!—Perkins, I’ve got to go up town for an hour; see if you can’t pick up freight to pay laying-up expenses somehow. Fred, go home and get your traps; ‘now’s the accepted time,’ as your father-in-law has dinged at me, many a Sunday, from the pulpit.”