Ten Nights in a Bar Room. T. S. Arthur

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СКАЧАТЬ forty and fifty years of age, who had a few weeks before received the Democratic nomination for member of Congress. He was very talkative and very affable, and soon formed a kind of centre of attraction to the bar-room circle. Among other topics of conversation that came up was the new tavern, introduced by the landlord, in whose mind it was, very naturally, the uppermost thought.

      “The only wonder to me is,” said Judge Lyman, “that nobody had wit enough to see the advantage of a good tavern in Cedarville ten years ago, or enterprise enough to start one. I give our friend Slade the credit of being a shrewd, far-seeing man; and, mark my word for it, in ten years from to-day he will be the richest man in the county.”

      “Nonsense—Ho! ho!” Simon Slade laughed outright. “The richest man! You forget Judge Hammond.”

      “No, not even Judge Hammond, with all deference for our clever friend Willy,” and Judge Lyman smiled pleasantly on the young man.

      “If he gets richer, somebody will be poorer!” The individual who tittered these words had not spoken before, and I turned to look at him more closely. A glance showed him to be one of a class seen in all bar-rooms; a poor, broken-down inebriate, with the inward power of resistance gone—conscious of having no man’s respect, and giving respect to none. There was a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, as he fixed them on Slade, that gave added force to the peculiar tone in which his brief but telling sentence was uttered. I noticed a slight contraction on the landlord’s ample forehead, the first evidence I had yet seen of ruffled feelings. The remark, thrown in so untimely (or timely, some will say), and with a kind of prophetic malice, produced a temporary pause in the conversation. No one answered or questioned the intruder, who, I could perceive, silently enjoyed the effect of his words. But soon the obstructed current ran on again.

      “If our excellent friend, Mr. Slade,” said Harvey Green, “is not the richest man in Cedarville at the end of ten years, he will at least enjoy the satisfaction of having made his town richer.”

      “A true word that,” replied Judge Lyman—”as true a word as ever was spoken. What a dead-and-alive place this has been until within the last few months. All vigorous growth had stopped, and we were actually going to seed.”

      “And the graveyard, too,” muttered the individual who had before disturbed the self-satisfied harmony of the company, remarking upon the closing sentence of Harvey Green. “Come, landlord,” he added, as he strode across to the bar, speaking in a changed, reckless sort of a way, “fix me up a good hot whisky-punch, and do it right; and here’s another sixpence toward the fortune you are bound to make. It’s the last one left—not a copper more in my pockets,” and he turned them inside-out, with a half-solemn, half-ludicrous air. “I send it to keep company in your till with four others that have found their way into that snug place since morning, and which will be lonesome without their little friend.”

      I looked at Simon Slade; his eyes rested on mine for a moment or two, and then sunk beneath my earnest gaze. I saw that his countenance flushed, and that his motions were slightly confused. The incident, it was plain, did not awaken agreeable thoughts. Once I saw his hand move toward the sixpence that lay upon the counter; but whether to push it back or draw it toward the till, I could not determine. The whisky-punch was in due time ready, and with it the man retired to a table across the room, and sat down to enjoy the tempting beverage. As he did so, the landlord quietly swept the poor unfortunate’s last sixpence into his drawer. The influence of this strong potation was to render the man a little more talkative. To the free conversation passing around him he lent an attentive ear, dropping in a word, now and then, that always told upon the company like a well-directed blow. At last, Slade lost all patience with him, and said, a little fretfully:

      “Look here, Joe Morgan, if you will be ill-natured, pray go somewhere else, and not interrupt good feeling among gentlemen.”

      “Got my last sixpence,” retorted Joe, turning his pockets inside-out again. “No more use for me here to-night. That’s the way of the world. How apt a scholar is our good friend Dustycoat, in this new school! Well, he was a good miller—no one ever disputed that—and it’s plain to see that he is going to make a good landlord. I thought his heart was a little too soft; but the indurating process has begun, and, in less than ten years, if it isn’t as hard as one of his old mill-stones, Joe Morgan is no prophet. Oh, you needn’t knit your brows so, friend Simon, we’re old friends; and friends are privileged to speak plain.”

      “I wish you’d go home. You’re not yourself tonight,” said the landlord, a little coaxingly, for he saw that nothing was to be gained by quarreling with Morgan. “Maybe my heart is growing harder,” he added, with affected good-humor; “and it is time, perhaps. One of my weaknesses, I have heard even you say, was being too woman-hearted.”

      “No danger of that now,” retorted Joe Morgan. “I’ve known a good many landlords in my time, but can’t remember one that was troubled with the disease that once afflicted you.”

      Just at this moment the outer door was pushed open with a slow, hesitating motion; then a little pale face peered in, and a pair of soft blue eyes went searching about the room. Conversation was instantly hushed, and every face, excited with interest, turned toward the child, who had now stepped through the door. She was not over ten years of age; but it moved the heart to look upon the saddened expression of her young countenance, and the forced bravery therein, that scarcely overcame the native timidity so touchingly visible.

      “Father!” I have never heard this word spoken in a voice that sent such a thrill along every nerve. It was full of sorrowful love—full of a tender concern that had its origin too deep for the heart of a child. As she spoke, the little one sprang across the room, and laying her hands upon the arm of Joe Morgan, lifted her eyes, that were ready to gush over with tears, to his face.

      “Come father! won’t you come home?” I hear that low, pleading voice even now, and my heart gives a quicker throb. Poor child! Darkly shadowed was the sky that bent gloomily over thy young life.

      Morgan arose, and suffered the child to lead him from the room. He seemed passive in her hands. I noticed that he thrust his fingers nervously into his pocket, and that a troubled look went over his face as they were withdrawn. His last sixpence was in the till of Simon Slade!

      The first man who spoke was Harvey Green, and this not for a minute after the father and his child had vanished through the door.

      “If I was in your place, landlord”—his voice was cold and unfeeling—”I’d pitch that fellow out of the bar-room the next time he stepped through the door. He’s no business here, in the first place; and, in the second, he doesn’t know how to behave himself. There’s no telling how much a vagabond like him injures a respectable house.”

      “I wish he would stay away,” said Simon, with a perplexed air.

      “I’d make him stay away,” answered Green.

      “That may be easier said than done,” remarked Judge Lyman. “Our friend keeps a public-house, and can’t just say who shall or shall not come into it.”

      “But such a fellow has no business here. He’s a good-for-nothing sot. If I kept a tavern, I’d refuse to sell him liquor.”

      “That you might do,” said Judge Lyman; “and I presume your hint will not be lost on our friend Slade.”

      “He will have liquor, so long as he can get a cent to buy it with,” remarked one of the company; “and I don’t see why our landlord here, who has gone to so much expense to fit up a tavern, shouldn’t have the sale of it as well as anybody else. Joe talks a little freely sometimes; but no one can say that he is quarrelsome. СКАЧАТЬ