Three People

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"Least of all, my dear fellow, should I have hid the story from you, for
from the first to the last you have been the means, under God, of my
finding him; and, Mallery, one of the longest strides I ever took toward
the 'strait gate' was that evening when you almost _made_ me sign the
pledge. Oh, we have a new name to our roll. Did I tell you? Mr. Ryan."

"Not the lawyer?"

"Yes, the lawyer. Boards at the Euclid House, you know; signed at our
last meeting. _You_ had something to do with that, hadn't you? He said
something to me in that queer way he has about meeting Habakkuk not long
ago, and finding that he had added the whole Bible to his bottle
argument."

And so it was that Theodore did not go yet after all, but sat down again
to discuss this new delight.

And thus it came to pass that he was walking rapidly down town at rather
a late hour, and overtook two persons who were stumbling and muttering
along the now nearly deserted street.

"Poor wretches," he said to himself; "poor miserable wretches! I wonder
whether the rum-hole that sent them out in this condition was gilded and
glittering, or was a veritable cellar stripped of its disguise? This is
what I used to fear for Jim, the splendid fellow! I never half did him
justice. What a boy, though, not to tell his mother. I wonder who the
dear old saint will take up for her 'most special subject' now? Jim and
Rick both gathered in. It will be Winny with twofold earnestness now, I
presume. Oh, the mansions are filling up, and I thank God that he is
letting me help to fill them. But who will I take now?"

"Le me lone," interrupted one of the poor drunkards, giving his
companion a vigorous push, "I can walk without your help, I guess; pity
if I couldn't!"

"Suppose," continued Theodore to his inner self; "suppose I should take
that poor fellow who is leaning against the post? God's mercy is great
enough for him. I want somebody to bring as a thank-offering for Jim and
Rick--yes, and for Mr. Ryan, too. I believe I'll choose him. I'll find
out who he is, and follow him up, with the Lord's help, until he chooses
one of the many mansions for himself. How shall I go to work to discover
who he is and where he belongs? I really doubt his knowledge of either
subject just at present."

Then the man embracing the post spoke for the first time.

"What you s'pose ails this confounded lamp-post? Won't stand still;
whirls round like a wind-mill or a church-steeple, or suthin. B'lieve
it's drunk, sure's you live."

Something in the manner, in the tones, thick and foolish and unnatural
though they were, brought Theodore to a full stop before the poor
fellow, and caused him to look eagerly in the upturned face, while the
blood surged violently through his veins.

"Drunk!" returned the less intoxicated companion, contemptuously.
"You're drunk yourself, that's what's the matter. You better come on now
and let that lamp-post stay where it is. I ain't going to drag you both
home, I reckon."

Meantime Theodore laid a firm steady hand on the arm of the drunken man,
and spoke in a low quiet tone, "Pliny," for he had too surely
recognized the voice, and knew now beyond the shadow of a doubt that the
"poor wretch" in question was Pliny Hastings, and that his drunken
companion was the old friend of his boyhood, Ben. Phillips. So these
three, whose lives had commenced on the same day of time, had crossed
each other's paths once more. With very little effort he persuaded the
poor bewildered fellow to desert his whirling post, and a carriage
returning empty from the midnight train came at his call, and the three
were promptly seated therein, and the order given by Theodore,
No.--Euclid Avenue. A strange ride it was for him. His companions sang
and yelled and quarreled by turns, until at last the sleepy stage came
upon them, and this but for one thing was a relief. It had been no part
of his plan to be seen by any dweller in the Hastings' mansion that
night; but if this man was to be an utterly helpless log how could he
help it? However, he comforted himself with the thought that a servant
was probably in waiting, and that they could get him quickly and quietly
to his room. So when the carriage rolled up the avenue and halted before
the door, he sprang out, and once more rang the bell and awaited
admittance to Hastings' Hall. He had not long to wait; he heard the
night-latch click sharply, and a moment thereafter the door swung open,
and he confronted not a servant but Dora, looking nearly as white and
quite as grave as she had on the day of the ride.

"Dora!" he said, in his surprise and alarm. "Why, is it you? Where is
your father?"

"Papa is in his room. Is it Pliny, Mr. Mallery?"

"Yes," said Theodore, gently. "Don't be alarmed, Miss Hastings, he is
not injured; he--it is--"

Dora interrupted him.

"I understand but too well, Mr. Mallery. Is he unconscious--asleep, or
what?"

"Asleep," answered Theodore, briefly, feeling that words were worse than
useless.

"Then could you--could we _possibly_ get him to his room without the
knowledge of any one? If we _only could_."

"We will try," the brief reply breathing sympathy and pity in every
tone. "Have you a servant whom you can trust?"

Dora shook her head in distress.

"There isn't a servant up but John, and papa rang for him not five
minutes ago."

"Never mind then--I know the driver; he is trustworthy. Be prepared to
show us the way to his room, Miss Hastings."

Swift and quiet were their movements. The driver, one of the wisest of
his set, seemed to comprehend the situation by instinct, and trod the
halls and stairs as though his feet had been shod in velvet. He was a
strong man, too, and between them they carried the slight effeminate
form with ease and laid him upon the elegant bed in his elegant room, he
still sleeping the heavy drunken sleep which Dora had learned to know so
well.

She stood now in the hall with compressed lips and one hand pressing the
throbbing veins in her forehead, waiting while Theodore turned down and
shaded the gas, and arranged the sleeper's head in a more comfortable
position on the pillow. He had with a brief low-spoken sentence
dismissed his helper the moment they had deposited their burden on the
bed. Presently he came out into the hall, and closing the door behind
him followed Dora lightly and swiftly down the stairs. Not a word passed
between them until he stood with his hand on the night-latch; then he
said:

"Can I serve you in any way to-night, Miss Hastings?"

The reply was irrelevant but very earnest:

"Mr. Mallery, I do not know how to thank you for this night's kindness."

"There is no need of thanks," he said, gently. "Take heart of grace,
Miss Hastings. God helping us we will save him yet. I had selected him
for my subject of special pleading before I knew who he was."

Dora's white lips quivered a little.

"Then there are two to pray for him!" she said, eagerly.

"Yes, and 'if two of you shall agree'--you know. Good-night."

He had one more hard task to perform. The carriage was waiting, and the
other drunken son must be conveyed to his father's house. A few moments
of rapid driving brought them to the modest white house, with its green
blinds, one of them with the slats turned so that the pale tearful
watcher at the window could see the carriage, and before Theodore had
time to ring the door was unbolted, and this time it was a gray-haired
father who received them. Grim and silent was he, but ever and anon as
they were passing up the stairs they heard a low heart-rending moan from
the poor mother, who had left the window and buried her head among the
cushions of the sofa. Theodore knew nothing about the sweet sleeping
baby who had nestled so cozily in the great rocking-chair twenty-three
years before; but the mother did, and had lived to understand that had
her precious baby Benny slept the sleep that knows no waking when in his
infancy, it would have been infinitely better than the stupor of body
and brain that held him now.

"Young man," said Mr. Phillips, as they reached the outer door again, "I
don't know who you are, but I am thankful that you have saved us from
any further disgrace by bringing him home. God grant that this night's
work may be a warning to you, and that you may never need such
disgraceful help for yourself."

He evidently mistook Theodore for one of the boon companions of his son.
The driver, overhearing the remark, chuckled softly, and remarked to
himself: "That's a good one! He's mistook his chap this time, I could
tell him;" but Theodore bowed in respectful silence, and felt a
consuming pity for that heavily stricken father.

As he entered the carriage the driver volunteered some information.

"That man sells rum himself, in his grocery over there across the
street, and he fought against the 'no license' petition like a wild
tiger last fall."

"Drive me home now, please," said Theodore aloud, in answer to this; and
to himself he said, as he sank wearily among the cushions: "Then I pray
God to have mercy on him, and not make his judgment heavier than he can
bear."

CHAPTER XX.

MRS. JENKINS' TOMMY.

There came a low tapping on the green baize door of Mr. Stephens'
private office. "Come," said Mr. Stephens from within, and a clerk
entered.

"Is Mr. Mallery in, sir? There is a queer looking personage in the store
who insists upon seeing him."

"Mallery," said Mr. Stephens, turning his head slightly, and addressing
an individual farther back behind a high desk, "are you engaged?"

"Nine seventy-two--one moment, Mr. Stephens--nine eighty-one, nine
ninety, one thousand. Now, sir, what is it?" and in a moment thereafter
Mr. Mallery emerged. The clerk repeated his statement.

"Very well," said Theodore, "I'll be out in one moment." He still held
the package of one thousand dollars which he had just counted in his
hand. "There is your money, Mr. Stephens," he said, laying it down as
the outer door closed on them.

"All right, is it?"

"All right."

"What have you done with the rest?"

"Locked it up."

"And the key?"

"In my pocket. Do you wish it, sir?"

"No," said Mr. Stephens, smiling. "Did you ever forget anything in your
life, Theodore? I did not think you had time to turn a key before you
came out."

"I turned it nevertheless," answered Theodore, significantly. "You know
I don't trust that young man, sir."

"Not yet?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I hope and trust that time will prove you wrong and me right."

"I hope so, certainly," answered Theodore, dryly.

"But you don't believe it." And Mr. Stephens laughed a little as he
added: "Now, Mallery, if you _should_ happen to be mistaken this time!"

Theodore answered him only by a grave smile as he went out of the room.
It was a busy spot outside--clerks and cash boys were flying hither and
thither, and customers were many and impatient. Making his way through
the crowd, bowing here and there to familiar faces, Theodore sought for
the person who awaited him.

"A queer looking personage," the clerk had said, and over by one of the
windows stood a meek-faced old woman, attired in a faded dress and
shawl, and a rather startling bonnet as regarded shape. She looked as if
she might be waiting or watching for somebody--at least she was not
looking around with the air of a purchaser, and she was being rudely
jostled every moment by thoughtless people or hurried clerks. Theodore
resolved to discover for himself if this were the one in waiting, and
advanced to her side.

"Can I do anything for you, madam?" he asked, with as respectful a tone
as he would have used to Miss Hastings herself.

The woman turned a pair of startled eyes upon him; then seeming to be
reassured, asked suddenly:

"Be you Mr. Mallery?"

"That is my name. What can I do for you?"

The old lady dropped him a very low, very odd little courtesy ere she
answered:

"And I'm the widow Jenkins, and I've come--well, could I possibly see
you alone for a bit of a moment? My head is kind of confused like with
all this noise and running about; them little boys act as if they was
most crazy anyhow, hopping about all over. I didn't know they allowed no
playing in these big stores; but then you see I'm from the country, and
things is queer all around; but if I only could see you all alone I
wouldn't take a mite hardly of your time."

"You may come with me," answered Theodore, not stopping to explain the
mystery of the cash boys, and show how very little like play their
hopping about was after all. He led the way to a room opening off the
private office, and giving the old lady one of the leathern arm-chairs,
stood before her, and again inquired kindly:

"Now what can I do for you?"

"Well," began Mrs. Jenkins, her voice trembling with eagerness, "it's
about my Tommy. He's the only boy I've got, and I'm a widow, and he
lives at the Euclid House--works there, you know, and sleeps there, and
all; and he's a good-natured, coaxy boy; he kind of wants to do just as
everybody says; and he's promised me time and again that he wouldn't
drink a mite of their stuff that they live on there, and he doesn't mean
to, but they offer it to him, and the other boys they laugh at him, and
kind of lead him along--and the long and short of it is, the habit is
coming on him, Mr. Mallery, coming on fast. I've coaxed Tommy, and he
means all right, only he don't do it; and I've been down there to Mr.
Roberts, and talked to him, and he's just as smooth as glass, and the
difference between him an' Tommy is that he don't mean it at all, not a
word of it, any of the time. I see it in his eyes, and I've tried to
coax Tommy away from there, but he thinks he can't find anything else to
do, and they are good to him there, and he's kind of bent on staying,
and I've done every blessed thing I could think of, and now I am at my
wits' ends."

And the voluble little woman paused long enough to wipe two glistening
tears from her withered cheeks, while her listener, roused and
sympathetic, asked in earnest tones:

"And what is it you would like to have me do? Tommy is in danger, that
is evident. I do not wonder that you are alarmed, and I am ready to help
you in any possible way. Have you any plan in view in which you would
like my assistance?"

Before Mrs. Jenkins answered she bestowed a look of undisguised
admiration on the earnest face before her, as she said:

"They told me you'd do it. Jim said--says he, 'if that man can't help
you no man can, and if he _can_ he will. He told my Katie that last
night, and I made up my mind to come right straight to you." And then
she dashed eagerly into the important part of her subject. "I've laid
awake nights, and I've thought and thought, and planned. Now that Mr.
Roberts, he's a slippery man, and when you talk to him he says he's
under orders, and he does just as he is directed. Now, according to my
way of thinking, it ain't no ways likely that Mr. Hastings goes and
orders him to feed them boys on rum. But then it flashed on me last
night about that Mr. Hastings--why he must be a good kind of a man, he
give five hundred dollars to the Orphans' Home only last week."

"He ought to," interrupted Mallery. "He helps to manufacture the
orphans."

"Well, that's true, too; but then like enough he don't stop and think
what he is about--that's the way with half the folks in this world,
anyhow; he may be willing to kind of help to keep them boys from ruin,
and save his rum at the same time, and I was just thinking if somebody
would just go and have a good kind plain talk with him, like enough he
would promise to send Mr. Roberts word not to let them boys have any
more drink, and that would help along the other boys as well as mine."

Theodore could scarcely restrain a smile at the poor woman's simple
faith in human nature; he almost dreaded to explain to her how utterly
improbable he felt it to be that Mr. Hastings would listen to any such
plea as the one proposed.

"Why don't you go to him?" he questioned suddenly, as the eager eyes
were raised to his awaiting his answer.

"Oh _dear me_!" she answered in consternation, "I should be flustered
all out of my head entirely. I never spoke to such a man in my life. I
shouldn't know what to say at all, and it wouldn't do any good if I did.
Jim, he said if you couldn't do it nobody need try."

"Jim overestimates my powers in this direction as in all others,"
Theodore said, smiling. "I have perhaps less influence with Mr. Hastings
than with any other person, and I haven't the slightest hopes that--"
And here he stopped and listened to his thoughts. "After all," they said
to him, "perhaps you misjudge the man--perhaps he really does not think
what an injury he is doing to those boys simply by his good-natured
carelessness. Suppose you should go to him and state the case plainly?
You really have some curiosity to see how he will meet the question;
besides, it will at least be giving him a chance to do what is right if
the trouble arises from carelessness; and, moreover, how can you be
justified in disappointing this poor old mother? At least it would do no
harm to gratify her, if it did no good."

"Well," he said aloud, "I will make the attempt, although I am afraid it
will be a failure; but we will try it. I will see Mr. Hastings at the
earliest possible moment, and will do what I can; but, in the meantime,
are you doing _all_ you can for your boy? Do you take him to God in
prayer every day?"

The mother's eyes drooped, a little flush crept into the faded cheek, a
little silence fell between them, until at last she said with low and
faltering voice:

"That's a thing I never learned to do. I don't know how to do it for
myself."

"Then you must remember that there is one all-important thing which you
have left undone. My mother's prayer saved me from a drunkard's life. I
know of no more powerful aid than that."

Very grave and sorrowful looked the poor mother; evidently she knew
nothing about the compassionate Savior, who was ready and willing to
help her bear her burden. Well for her that the young man in whom she
trusted leaned on an arm stronger than his own. The mother had one more
request to make of him.

"Could you _possibly_ go to see my Tommy?" she asked, with glistening
eyes. "If you only could know him, and kind of coax him, he would take a
notion to you like enough, and then he would go through fire and water
to please you; he's always so when he takes notions, Tommy is."

Theodore promised again, and finally walked with the old lady down the
long bewildering store to the very door, and bowed her out, she meantime
looking very happy and hopeful.

Being familiar of old with the habits of the Euclid House, Theodore
chose next day the hour when he judged that Tommy would be most at
leisure, and sought him out. The landlord was a trifle grayer, decidedly
more portly, but was in other respects the same smooth-tongued, affable
host that he was when Tode Mall ran hither and thither to do his
bidding. Theodore attempted nothing with him further than to beg a few
minutes' chat with Tommy. He was directed to the identical little room
with its patch of red and yellow carpet, upon which he found Tommy
seated, mending a hole in his jacket pocket.

"So you're a tailor, are you?" asked Theodore, cheerily, seating himself
familiarly on one corner of the little bed, and having a queer feeling
come over him that the room belonged to him, and that Tommy was quite
out of place sitting on his piece of carpet.

The young tailor looked up and laughed good-humoredly.

"Queer tailor I'd make!" he said, gaily. "Mother, she does them jobs for
me generally, but this is a special occasion. I've lost ten cents and a
jack-knife to-day, and I reckoned it was time for me to go to work."

"I used to live here," said Theodore, confidentially. "This was my room.
I used to have the table in that corner though, and I've always intended
to come back here and have a look at the old room, but I never have
until this afternoon."

Tommy suspended his work, and took a good long look at his visitor
before he asked his next question.

"Be you the chap who made the row about the bottles?"

"The very chap, I suspect," answered Theodore, laughing.

Tommy sewed away energetically before he exploded his next remark.

"I wish you had _rowed_ them out of this house, I vum I do. Mother, she
don't give me no peace of my life with talkings and cryings, and one
thing and another, and a fellow don't know what to do."

The subject was fairly launched at last quite naturally, and what was
better still, by Tommy himself; and then ensued a long and earnest
conversation--and in proof that the visit had been productive of one
effect that the mother had hoped for and prophesied, Tommy stood up and
fixed earnest, admiring eyes on his visitor as he was about to leave,
and said eagerly:

"There isn't much a fellow couldn't do to please you if he should set
out."

"And how much to please the dear mother, whose only son he is?" answered
Theodore, quickly.

Tommy's eyes drooped, and his cheeks grew very red.

"I do mean to," he said at last. "I mean to all over, every day; but the
fellows giggle and--and--well I don't know, it all gets wrong before I
think."

On the whole Theodore understood his subject very well--a good-natured,
well-meaning, easily-tempted boy, not safe in a house where liquor was
sold or used, _certainly_ not safe where it was freely offered and its
refusal laughed at. He even hesitated about going to Mr. Hastings', so
sure was he that even with the most favorable results from the call,
Tommy would be unsafe in the Euclid House; but then there were other
boys who might be reached in this way, and there was his promise to the
old lady, and there was besides his eager desire to see what Mr.
Hastings would do or say. On the whole he decided to go.

"I _do_ manage to have the most extraordinary errands to this house," he
soliloquized, while standing on the steps of Hastings' Hall awaiting the
answer to his ring. "I wonder how circumstances will develop this
evening?"

He had not long to wait; he had taken the precaution to write on his
card under his name, "Special and important business," and Mr. Hastings
stared at it and frowned, and finally ordered his caller to be admitted
to his library. It was in all respects a singular interview. Mr.
Hastings was at first stiffly, and afterward ironically polite; listened
with a sort of sneering courtesy to all that the young man had to say
concerning Tommy and his companions, and when Theodore paused for a
reply delivered himself of the following smooth sentences:

"This is really the most extraordinary of your many extraordinary ideas,
Mr. Mall--I beg your pardon (referring to the card which he held in his
hand), Mallery, I believe your name is _now_. I did not suppose I was
expected to turn spy, and call to account every drop of wine that
chances to be used in my buildings; it would be such utterly new
business to me that I feel certain of a failure, and _we business_ men,
Mr. Mall, do not like to fail in our undertakings. You really will have
to excuse me from taking part in such a peculiar proceeding. If we have
such a poor weak-minded boy in our employ as you describe, I feel very
sorry for him, and would recommend his mother to take him home and keep
him in her kitchen."

Theodore arose immediately, and the only discourteous word that he
permitted himself to utter to Dora's father was to say with marked
emphasis:

"Thank you, Mr. Hastings, I will suggest your advice to Mrs. Jenkins;
and as she is a feeble old lady, I presume if her son becomes a drunkard
and breaks her heart you will see that his sisters are comfortably
provided for in the Orphans' Home. Good-evening, sir."

"Don Quixote!" Mr. Stephens called him, laughing immensely as his clerk
related the story of his attempt and failure.

"I only gave him a chance to carry out some of his benevolent ideas, and
save a capable waiter at the same time," answered Theodore, dryly. "But
he is evidently too much engrossed with his Orphans' Home to be alive to
his own interests."

"So you contemplate a speedy removal of Tommy from the Euclid House, do
you?" said Mr. Stephens, reflectively.

"Yes, sir. Just as soon as I can secure him a position elsewhere."

"Can McPherson take him?"

"Hardly. He has a case now not unlike Tommy's in which he is deeply
interested, and which occupies all his leisure time."

"Can you make him useful here?" said Mr. Stephens, thoughtfully,
balancing his pen on his finger.

"Useful? No, sir, I fear not--at least not just at present."

"Can you keep him busy then?"

"Yes, sir, certainly."

"Then send for him," said Mr. Stephens, briefly, resuming his writing.

Theodore turned suddenly and bestowed a delightful look on his employer
as he said eagerly:

"If there were only a few more people actuated by your principles we
should need fewer Orphans' Homes."

"Confound that fellow and his impudence!" said the irate Mr. Hastings,
as he finished detailing an account of Tommy's exit from the Euclid
House under the supervision and influence of Mr. Mallery.

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