Three People

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Callers found their usually brisk host almost inattentive during the
remainder of that afternoon. About five o'clock he dispatched a note,
addressed "J. H. McPherson, Euclid House," and astonished and delighted
his young waiter by an unusually early putting up of shutters, and of
putting things generally to rights for the night. In fact, it was not
more than seven o'clock when Jim McPherson arrived and found his
old-time companion alone and in waiting.

"Halloo! What's up?" was his greeting.

"You received my note?"

"Yes, and have been dying of curiosity ever since to know what the
'important business intimately connected with' myself, could be about I
thought at one time though, that I wasn't going to get away. All
creation appeared to want to take supper with us to-night. What are you
all shut up so early for?"

"Business. Jim, I have just the chance for you to get away from there."

"How?"

"Well," and then his companion launched forth in an account of his
afternoon letter, and the prospects which were opening before him, and
also his idea of the prospects which were opening before Jim. When he
ceased, the said Jim gazed at him in silence for a moment, and then
said:

"And you offer me an out-and-out partnership?"

"Out-and-out. You can come right in here and take the business just as
it is, furniture and fixtures of all sorts, and from this time forth
until we change our minds I'll pay half the expenses and share the
profits. That is--well, there's only one proviso."

"I thought there must be something somewhere. What is it?"

"You know, Jim, this is a temperance business."

"Of course. What's your proviso?"

"You must sign the pledge."

"Stuff and nonsense."

"Very well, if that's your final answer we will drop the subject."

"But, Tode, that's perfectly silly. Can't you trust a fellow unless he
puts his name to a piece of paper like a baby? I don't drink, and I
won't sell rum here. What more do you want?"

"Want you to say so on paper."

"What for?"

"To gratify me perhaps. It isn't a great deal to do. If you mean what
you say you can have no serious objection to doing so."

"Yes, but I have. I don't approve of signing away my liberty in that
style."

"Who has been saying that to you?" asked Theodore, gravely.

"Perhaps I said it myself."

"I think not. I believe _you_, personally, have more sense."

Whereat Jim laughed and looked a little ashamed.

"No matter," he said at last, "I ain't going to sign a pledge for
anybody, but I'm willing to get out of that business. I don't like
making drunkards any better than you do, and I should have quit before
if I could have seen any chance just on mother's account, but I never
expected an offer like this."

To all of which Theodore made answer only by setting himself comfortably
back in his arm-chair, pushing a fruit-basket toward his companion, and
saying:

"Have a pear, Jim?"

Then the talk drifted on to pears and peaches, and divers other fruits,
until Jim said:

"Come, let's talk business."

Theodore opened his eyes large, and looked inquiring.

"I thought we were done with business," he said, innocently.

"Do you really mean that you withdraw your offer unless I will sign the
pledge?"

"Why certainly. I thought you understood that to be my proviso."

"But, Tode, don't you think that is forcing a fellow?"

"Not at all. You are perfectly free, of course, to do as you please. If
you please to decline a good offer, merely because you won't promise not
to drink what you say you don't drink, and not to sell what you say you
don't want to sell, why that is your own matter, of course, and I can
not help myself."

Jim mused a little.

"Well, you see," he said presently, "I do now and then take a drop of
wine, not enough to amount to much, and I'm in no danger of doing it
very often, for I honestly don't care much for it."

"No. What then?"

"Why, I'd have to stop that, of course, if I signed your pledge."

"Of course. What then?"

"Why, then," and here Jim broke down and laughed, and finally added:
"Tode, I wish you were not such an awful fanatic about this."

"But since I am, what is to be done?"

Silence fell between the two for a time, until Jim said with a little
touch of disgust:

"Tode, you're as set in your way as a stone wall."

"All right. What is the conclusion of the whole matter?"

"Oh fudge! bring on your pledge and give us a pen."

Instantly a drawer from a side table was drawn energetically out, and
pen, ink, and a veritable pledge were placed before the young man. A few
quick dashes of the pen, and "James H. McPherson" stood out in plain
relief under the strongly worded total abstinence pledge.

His companion waited with flushing cheek and eager eyes until the last
letter was written; then he sprang up with an energy that set the
arm-chair upside down, and uttered a vehement:

"Good! Jim, oh Jim, I could shout for joy. I have fairly held my breath
for fear you would not reach the point."

Jim laughed.

"What a fanatic you are!" he said in a tone of assumed carelessness.
"How do you know I won't break it to-morrow?"

"I know perfectly well. If I had not I should not have been so anxious
to have you sign to-night. You happen to be as set in _your_ way as an
acre of stone fences."

More talk ensued--eager, future plannings. Those two young men, very
unlike in many respects, yet assimilated on a few strong points.
Theodore had constantly kept a hold on his early friend--at first
because of the dear old mother, and finally because his stronger nature
drawing out and in a measure toning Jim's, the two had grown less apart
than seemed at first probable.

It wanted but twenty minutes to eight when the young men left the room
where important business not only for time, but, as it came to pass, for
eternity, had been settled, and hurried, the one to the Euclid House,
and the other around the corner toward the great dry-goods house on the
main business street. He stopped first though at the cozy little white
house, moved with eager steps up the walk, flung open the side door, and
spoke in tones full of suppressed excitement to the old lady, who was
nodding over her large print Testament, Jim's birthday gift.

"Grandma, I have a present for you." And a crisp paper was produced and
laid on the page of the open Bible. A glance showed it to be a
temperance pledge--another look, a start, a filling of the dim old eyes
with tears as the beloved name, James H. McPherson, swam before her
vision, and true to her faith her loving voice gave utterance to her
full heart:

"'While they are yet speaking I will hear.' I was just speaking to him
again, don't you think, about that very thing. Oh the Lord bless him and
help him. Now, deary, we won't be content with this, will we?"

Theodore shook his head emphatically.

"He must come over _entirely_ to the Lord's side," he said, smiling,
"now that he has come half way."

The city clock was giving the last stroke of eight as Theodore was
ushered into the private office of Mr. Stephens. That gentleman arose to
greet him with a smile of satisfaction, and then ensued another business
talk, and the drift of it can be drawn from these concluding sentences:

"Well, sir," from Mr. Stephens to Theodore, as the latter arose to go,
"how soon may I expect you? How long is it going to take you to get your
business in shape to leave? We need help as soon as possible."

"I will be on hand to-morrow morning, sir."

"What! ready for work? How is it possible that you have dispatched
matters so rapidly?"

"Why," said Theodore, "from two o'clock until eight gives one six good
hours in which to dispatch business."

And Mr. Stephens, as they went down the great store together, smiled
again and said to himself:

"I don't believe I have mistaken my man."

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVII.

TRANSLATIONS.

There was an evening party at the house of the Rev. John Birge. Not one
of those grand crushes, where every body is cross and warm and
uncomfortable generally, but a cozy little gathering of young ladies and
gentlemen, people whom the minister desired to see come into more social
contact with each other. Among the number was Miss Dora Hastings. Dora
still continued to come to Sunday-school, although she had arrived at
that mysterious age when young ladies are apt to be too old for anything
reasonable; but Dora, for some unaccountable reason, so at least her
mother thought, clung to her little girl habits, and went to
Sunday-school; so she chanced to be numbered among the guests at Mr.
Birge's party. Pliny was also invited but had chosen not to come, so Ben
Phillips had supplied his place as escort, and stood now chatting with
her when a new arrival was announced.

Mrs. Birge came to the end of the room where Dora stood, and with her a
young gentleman.

"Dora," she said, "permit me to introduce a young friend of mine--Mr.
Mallery, Miss Hastings."

Now it so happened that although Theodore had been for years a member of
the same Sabbath-school with this young lady, and had seen her sitting
in the Hastings' pew in church on every Sabbath day, still this was the
first time that he had met her face to face, near enough to speak to
her, since that evening so long ago when they conversed together on a
momentous subject. Theodore's knowledge of the world and social
distinctions had increased sufficiently to make him extremely doubtful
concerning the young lady's reception, but Dora was cordial and frank,
and said, "Good evening, Mr. Mallery," as she would have greeted any
stranger, and set him at once at his ease.

Ben Phillips good-naturedly held out his hand, and said, "How d'ye do,
Tode?" and made room for him to enter the circle. It was a curious
evening to the young man, the first in that mysterious place called
"society." Probably the young ladies and gentlemen fluttering through
the rooms had not the faintest idea how closely they were being watched
and studied by one pair of earnest eyes.

Theodore's ambition for a yellow cravat had long since given place to
more important things--given place so utterly that the subject of dress
had been almost entirely passed over. Before this evening waned he was
thoroughly conscious of his position. He discovered that his clothes
were oddly fitted and oddly made; that his boots were rough and coarse;
that his hands were gloveless; that even his hair was as curiously
arranged as possible. He discovered more than this--to many of the gay
company he was evidently a laughing-stock; a few of the more reckless
ones deliberately and openly made sport of him. Ben Phillips, who had
been cordial enough at first, found himself on the unpopular side, and
ignored the almost stranger for the remainder of the evening. In vain
did Mr. Birge try quietly to bring him inside the circle. Those of his
guests who were too cultured to make merry at the expense of this
foreign element which had come among them, yet seemed not to have
sufficient courage to welcome him to their midst; those with whom he sat
down frequently at the table of their common Lord seemed neither to know
nor to desire to know him here; and Mr. Birge's effort to assimilate the
different elements of his congregation seemed likely to prove a
disastrous failure. A merry company were gathered around Dora Hastings.
She held a book in her hand, and was struggling with the translation of
a sentiment written therein in French, and judging from the bursts of
laughter echoing from the group the attempt was either a real or
pretended failure. Theodore stood at a little distance from them,
perfectly able to hear what was said, yet as utterly alone as he would
have been out in the silent street.

"What terrible stuff she is reading," he said to himself. "I wonder if
she really _can not_ read it, or if she has any idea of what it is." As
if to answer his wondering, Dora turned suddenly toward him.

"We'll appeal for help," she said, gaily. "Mr. Mallery, do come to the
rescue. My French is defective or the translation is incorrect, probably
the latter."

Another burst of laughter followed this appeal; but Theodore, taking a
sudden resolution, stepped promptly forward.

"I conclude," he said, glancing at the book, and then looking steadily
around him, "that you really do not take in the meaning of this
sentence, any of you?"

"I am sure I do not," answered Dora, gaily. "It is about 'everlasting
eyes,' I think, or some such nonsense; but what little I once knew about
French, and little enough it was, I assure you, has utterly gone from
me, so have compassion on our ignorance if you can."

Without further comment Theodore, with quiet dignity, read the sentence:
"The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the
good." As he finished his eye caught Dora's; her face was flushed and
eager.

"You are right," she said, promptly. "We none of us understood the
sentence, or we could never have indulged in foolish jesting over so
solemn a truth."

Ben Phillips gave vent to his astonishment in words:

"Tode, how on earth did you learn French?"

Dora laughed lightly.

"He studied, I presume," she said, merrily. "And that you know is what
_you_ never would do, Ben. Mr. Mallery, suppose you come and decipher
for me the motto underneath the French scene in the further parlor."

And taking Tode's offered arm the daughter of the millionaire moved down
the long parlor by his side. Mr. Birge, coming at that moment from the
dining-room, passed the two, then turning back sought his wife to say:

"The experiment has succeeded. Theodore is promenading with Dora
Hastings."

"The _splendid_ girl!" said Mrs. Birge, energetically. "I knew she
would."

Meantime Theodore had resolved on a bold stroke for the Master.

"Do you remember anything connected with that verse, Miss Hastings?" he
asked, as the two entered the almost deserted back parlor.

"Indeed I do," Dora answered, eagerly. "I never forgot it, and your
earnest questions about it, and I could tell you so little."

"I found out a great deal about it, though, taking the information that
you gave me for a starting point, and I have reason to thank God that
you ever showed me your little card. But do you know anything more of
the matter now, experimentally I mean?"

Dora's voice trembled a little as she answered:

"I think--I--sometimes I hope I do. I am trying to learn a little,
stumbling along slowly, with oh _so_ many drawbacks; and do you know I
think my interest in these things dates back to that stormy evening in
prayer-meeting, when you asked me such queer questions? At least I
thought them queer then."

No more standing aloof during that evening for Theodore Mallery. It
mattered little how his clothes were cut or of what material they were
made; so long as Dora Hastings walked through the rooms and chatted
familiarly with him, not a girl present but stood ready to follow her
example.

Later in the evening Dora said to him, hesitatingly and almost timidly:

"Mr. Mallery, I don't like you to think that I was making sport of that
Bible verse. I truly know almost nothing about French, and I didn't
take, the sense of it in the least until you read it."

There was another thing that the young man was very anxious to know, and
that was whether her motive was mischief or kind intent when she called
on him; and like the straightforward individual that he was, he asked
her:

"What possessed you to suppose I could read it?"

"Oh," said Dora, innocently, "I knew you were a French scholar, because
Mr. Birge told me so."

Someway it was an immense satisfaction to Theodore to know that Dora's
intention had not been to make light of his supposed ignorance. As he
went home in the moonlight he laughed a little, and indulged himself in
his old habit of soliloquizing.

"It's just the matter of fine boots and gloves, and a few things of that
sort. I did decide once this evening to push the thing through, and make
my way up in spite of gloves and boots and broadcloth, and I would now
but for one thing. In fact I _have_; we braved it through together. That
one girl is worth all the rest of them, and she came to the rescue
fairly and squarely. If she had failed me I would have showed the whole
of them a few things, but she didn't, and there's no occasion for making
it such a martyrdom for any of them hereafter. On the whole, I believe
I'll manage to get dear old Grandma McPherson other work besides
tailoring after this. There is no earthly reason why I shouldn't dress
as respectable as any body. I don't know but I owe it to Mr. Stephens to
do so. Yes, sir, I've changed my mind--boots and broadcloth shall be my
servants hereafter."

Keeping in mind this new resolution, Theodore secured the first leisure
moment, and inquired of Mr. Stephens what route to take.

"Going to have a new suit of clothes?" questioned that gentleman in a
tone of polite indifference, not at all as though he had watched and
waited for the development of that very idea. "Well, let me see. I think
Barnes & Houghton will serve you quite as well as any. They are
on--wait, I will give you their address."

The hour which Theodore had chosen was not a fashionable one at the
great establishment of Barnes & Houghton, and he found some half dozen
clerks lounging about, with no more important occupation than to coax
some fun out of any material which chanced to fall in their way.

"I want to look at some business suits," began Theodore, addressing the
foremost of them, with a slight touch of hesitancy and embarrassment. It
was new business to him.

"Then I'd advise you to look at them by all means; always do as you want
to when you can as well as not, my boy," was the answer which he
received, spoken in a tone of good-humored insolence, and not a clerk
moved.

"Would you like a white vest pattern, or perhaps you would prefer
velvet?" queried a foppish little fellow. And Theodore, who was sharper
at that style of talk than any of them, and was rapidly losing his
embarrassment, replied in a tone of great good humor:

"I never pick out my goods until I see them; but then perhaps the vest
you have on is for sale? Are you the show-block?"

This question, put with great apparent innocence, produced a peal of
laughter, for the vest in question was rather too stylish to be in
keeping with the wearer's surroundings and business.

An older clerk now interposed.

"Show him something, Charlie--that's a good fellow."

"Can't," said Charlie, from his seat on the counter, "I'm too busy;
besides I don't believe we could suit him. We haven't anything in the
style his clothes are cut. There's a man right around the corner whose
father made coats for Noah's grandsons; hadn't you better go to him?"

"I say," put in he of the stylish vest, "can't you call in some other
time, when business isn't quite so pressing? You see we're just about
driven to death this morning."

Just how far this style of treatment would have been carried, or just
how long Theodore would have borne it, can not be known, for with the
conclusion of the last sentence every clerk came suddenly to a standing
posture, and two of them advanced courteously to meet a new-comer, at
the same moment that a gentleman with iron gray hair, and whom Theodore
took to be one of the proprietors, emerged from a private office, and
came forward on the same errand, and the young man nearly laughed
outright when he recognized in the new-comer Mr. Stephens. The two
gentlemen were shaking hands.

"Glad to see you again, Mr. Stephens," said he of the iron gray hair.
"How can we serve you this morning?"

"Nothing for me personally, thank you." And then Mr. Stephens turned to
Theodore.

"Do you find what you wish, Mallery? Mr. Houghton, let me make you
acquainted with this young friend of mine--Mr. Mallery, Mr. Houghton.
This young man, Mr. Houghton, is one of my confidential clerks, a very
highly valued one, and any kindness that you can show him will be
esteemed as a personal favor to me."

Mr. Houghton bowed his iron gray head very low.

"Very happy to have Mr. Mallery's patronage; trusted they could suit
him. Had he looked at goods? What should they have the pleasure of
showing him this morning? Cummings, show Mr. Mallery into the other
room, and serve him to the best of your ability."

And what shall be said of the half dozen clerks? Amazement, confusion
and consternation were each and all vividly depicted on their faces. Mr.
Stephens' clerk! a highly valued clerk! Mr. Stephens, of all men in the
city, the last to be offended! Disgrace and dismissal stared them in the
face. For a little minute Theodore was tempted--half a dozen dignified
words now, and he understood Mr. Stephens' position well enough to know
that these same clerks would not be likely to offend in the same place
again. One little moment, the next he turned on his heel and followed
Cummings, the aforesaid Charlie, whose face was blazing, into the next
room. A word, though, of private exhortation could not be amiss.

"You blundered, you see, this time," he said to Cummings, still
good-naturedly. "Wouldn't it be well not to judge a fellow _always_ by
the cut of his coat?"

"You're a brick!" burst forth the amazed Cummings. "I expected to be
blown higher than a kite, and get my walking ticket besides. You're the
best-natured fellow I ever saw."

"You're mistaken again, my friend. I lost my good nature almost
entirely, and came within a word of telling the whole story; only one
little thing hindered me."

"What was it?"

"Why I was reading in a very old book, just before I came out this
morning, and one sentence read: 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do
to you, do ye even so to them,' and I thought to try it."

"Humph!" said Cummings.

But no descendant of the royal line could have been served more royally
than was our friend Mallery at that house, by that young man, then and
thereafter.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"WINE IS A MOCKER."

Theodore, or "Mallery," which was the name grown most familiar to him,
was rushing down town belated and in haste. The business which had
called him out had taken longer than the time which had been assigned to
it, and in consequence the next appointment was likely to suffer. At the
corner he paused and considered. "Let me see--if I go down this block,
and up the track to the next corner, I shall save--one, two, three, four
blocks. Yes, it will pay; I'll do it." On he went, struck the track
presently, and moved rapidly along the iron walk. An unusual sight
suddenly presented itself to his eyes, that of a carriage and two
powerful horses coming around the curve, and making a carriage drive of
the railway track. It took but a moment of time to discover three
things, viz: that it was the Hastings' carriage, that the coachman was
beyond a doubt too much intoxicated to know what he was about, and that
the Buffalo Express was due at the distant depot in just two minutes,
and must pass over the very track on which that carriage was trundling
along. The perspiration came and stood in beads on the young man's pale
face; but there was time for no other show of emotion--he must think and
work rapidly if at all. "Could he possibly get those horses across to
the other track in time?" No, for there was a perfect network of tracks
just here, no place for a carriage at all, and a puffing engine directly
ahead, liable to start at any instant, and ready to frighten the horses,
who would probably rear, plunge, back, do _anything_ but what he wished
of them. There was a wretched gully on this side and a fence, but the
fence was low, and the gully wide enough to receive the carriage if it
could be forced down the embankment. During this planning Mallery was
running with all speed toward the carriage, and then the depot bell
began to ring, and the roar and puff of the coming train could be
distinctly heard. The horses began to plunge, and make ready to break
into a fierce run right into the jaws of the coming monster, when a firm
hand grasped their bridles. Jonas had just sense enough left to try to
resist this proceeding, and Mallery saw, with a throb of thankfulness,
the whip drop from his unsteady hand, thus preventing the horses from
being lashed into greater fury; then he applied all the strength of his
arms and his knowledge of horses to the dangerous experiment of backing
them down into the gully. They snorted and plunged, and were bent on
going forward, and were steadily, and as it seemed with super-human
strength, forced backward; and as the carriage crashed down the hill the
very rearing of the horses drew Theodore's feet from the outer rail, and
the train came thundering by. And now the affrighted horses seemed more
than ever bent on rushing forward to destruction, while the long train
shot onward. Mallery, while he battled with them, became conscious that
from the raised window of the carriage a young face, deathly in pallor,
was bent forward watching the conflict, and he renewed the determination
to save that life thus resting, so far as human help was concerned, in
his hands. Jonas had dropped the reins, and sat aghast, and sobered with
terror. Now the long train had vanished, the puffing engine on the other
track had gathered up its forces and followed after, and Theodore, by a
dint of coaxing, soothing and commanding the terror-stricken animals,
had succeeded in subduing them in part, and guiding the carriage up the
bank and quite across the network of tracks; then gathering the reins
in his hand he came to the carriage window and spoke, using in his
excitement the name familiar to him in the days when she had given him
his first lessons in writing.

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