Part 3

He would have turned and gone back to his room, but the sound of shouts, laughter, and the tum-tum of a musical instrument drew him on down the street. At the turn of a corner, the place from which the noise emanated met his eyes. It was a rude frame building, low and unpainted. The panes in its windows whose places had not been supplied by sheets of tin were daubed a dingy red. Numerous kegs and bottles on the outside attested the nature of the place. The front door was open, but the interior was concealed by a gaudy curtain stretched across the entrance within. Over the door was the inscription, in straggling characters, “Sander’s Place;” and when he saw half-a-dozen Negroes enter, the minister knew instantly that he now beheld the colored saloon which was the frequenting-place of his hostess’s son ’Lias; and he wondered, if, as the mother said, her boy was not bad, how anything good could be preserved in such a place of evil.

The cries and boisterous laughter mingled with the strumming of the banjo and the shuffling of feet told him that they were engaged in one of their rude hoe-down dances. He had not passed a dozen paces beyond the door when the music was suddenly stopped, the sound of a quick blow followed, then ensued a scuffle, and a young fellow half ran, half fell through the open door. He was closely followed by a heavily built ruffian who was striking him as he ran. The young fellow was very much the weaker and slighter of the two, and was suffering great punishment. In an instant all the preacher’s sense of justice was stung into sudden life. Just as the brute was about to give his victim a blow that would have sent him into the gutter, he felt his arm grasped in a detaining hold and heard a commanding voice,—“Stop!”

He turned with increased fury upon this meddler, but his other wrist was caught and held in a vice-like grip. For a moment the two men looked into each other’s eyes. Hot words rose to the young man’s lips, but he choked them back. Until this moment he had deplored the possession of a spirit so easily fired that it had been a test of his manhood to keep from “slugging” on the football field; now he was glad of it. He did not attempt to strike the man, but stood holding his arms and meeting the brute glare with manly flashing eyes. Either the natural cowardice of the bully or something in his new opponent’s face had quelled the big fellow’s spirit, and he said doggedly: “Lemme go. I wasn’t a-go’n’ to kill him nohow, but ef I ketch him dancin’ with my gal anymo’, I’ll—” He cast a glance full of malice at his victim, who stood on the pavement a few feet away, as much amazed as the dumfounded crowd which thronged the door of “Sander’s Place.” Loosing his hold, the preacher turned, and, putting his hand on the young fellow’s shoulder, led him away.

For a time they walked on in silence. Dokesbury had to calm the tempest in his breast before he could trust his voice. After a while he said: “That fellow was making it pretty hot for you, my young friend. What had you done to him?”

“Nothin’,” replied the other. “I was jes’ dancin’ ’long an’ not thinkin’ ’bout him, when all of a sudden he hollered dat I had his gal an’ commenced hittin’ me.”

“He’s a bully and a coward, or he would not have made use of his superior strength in that way. What’s your name, friend?”

“’Lias Gray,” was the answer, which startled the minister into exclaiming,—

“What! are you Aunt Caroline’s son?”

“Yes, suh, I sho is; does you know my mothah?”

“Why, I’m stopping with her, and we were talking about you last night. My name is Dokesbury, and I am to take charge of the church here.”

“I thought mebbe you was a preachah, but I couldn’t scarcely believe it after I seen de way you held Sam an’ looked at him.”

Dokesbury laughed, and his merriment seemed to make his companion feel better, for the sullen, abashed look left his face, and he laughed a little himself as he said: “I wasn’t a-pesterin’ Sam, but I tell you he pestered me mighty.”

Dokesbury looked into the boy’s face,—he was hardly more than a boy,—lit up as it was by a smile, and concluded that Aunt Caroline was right. ’Lias might be ’ca’less,’ but he wasn’t a bad boy. The face was too open and the eyes too honest for that. ’Lias wasn’t bad; but environment does so much, and he would be if something were not done for him. Here, then, was work for a pastor’s hands.

“You’ll walk on home with me, ’Lias, won’t you?”

“I reckon I mout ez well,” replied the boy. “I don’t stay erroun’ home ez much ez I oughter.”

“You’ll be around more, of course, now that I am there. It will be so much less lonesome for two young people than for one. Then, you can be a great help to me, too.”

The preacher did not look down to see how wide his listener’s eyes grew as he answered: “Oh, I ain’t fittin’ to be no he’p to you, suh. Fust thing, I ain’t nevah got religion, an’ then I ain’t well larned enough.”

“Oh, there are a thousand other ways in which you can help, and I feel sure that you will.”

“Of co’se, I’ll do de ve’y bes’ I kin.”

“There is one thing I want you to do soon, as a favour to me.”

“I can’t go to de mou’nah’s bench,” cried the boy, in consternation.

“And I don’t want you to,” was the calm reply.

Another look of wide-eyed astonishment took in the preacher’s face. These were strange words from one of his guild. But without noticing the surprise he had created, Dokesbury went on: “What I want is that you will take me fishing as soon as you can. I never get tired of fishing and I am anxious to go here. Tom Scott says you fish a great deal about here.”

“Why, we kin go dis ve’y afternoon,” exclaimed ’Lias, in relief and delight; “I’s mighty fond o’ fishin’, myse’f.”

“All right; I’m in your hands from now on.”

’Lias drew his shoulders up, with an unconscious motion. The preacher saw it, and mentally rejoiced. He felt that the first thing the boy beside him needed was a consciousness of responsibility, and the lifted shoulders meant progress in that direction, a sort of physical straightening up to correspond with the moral one.

On seeing her son walk in with the minister, Aunt ‘Ca’line’s’ delight was boundless. “La! Brothah Dokesbury,” she exclaimed, “wha’d you fin’ dat scamp?”

“Oh, down the street here,” the young man replied lightly. “I got hold of his name and made myself acquainted, so he came home to go fishing with me.”

“’Lias is pow’ful fon’ o’ fishin’, hisse’f. I ’low he kin show you some mighty good places. Cain’t you, ’Lias?”

“I reckon.”

’Lias was thinking. He was distinctly grateful that the circumstances of his meeting with the minister had been so deftly passed over. But with a half idea of the superior moral responsibility under which a man in Dokesbury’s position laboured, he wondered vaguely—to put it in his own thought-words—“ef de preachah hadn’t put’ nigh lied.” However, he was willing to forgive this little lapse of veracity, if such it was, out of consideration for the anxiety it spared his mother.

When Stephen Gray came in to dinner, he was no less pleased than his wife to note the terms of friendship on which the minister received his son. On his face was the first smile that Dokesbury had seen there, and he awakened from his taciturnity and proffered much information as to the fishing-places thereabout. The young minister accounted this a distinct gain. Anything more than a frowning silence from the “little yaller man” was gain.

The fishing that afternoon was particularly good. Catfish, chubs, and suckers were landed in numbers sufficient to please the heart of any amateur angler.

’Lias was happy, and the minister was in the best of spirits, for his charge seemed promising. He looked on at the boy’s jovial face, and laughed within himself; for, mused he, “it is so much harder for the devil to get into a cheerful heart than into a sullen, gloomy one.” By the time they were ready to go home Harold Dokesbury had received a promise from ’Lias to attend service the next morning and hear the sermon.

There was a great jollification over the fish supper that night, and ’Lias and the minister were the heroes of the occasion. The old man again broke his silence, and recounted, with infinite dryness, ancient tales of his prowess with rod and line; while Aunt ‘Ca’line’ told of famous fish suppers that in the bygone days she had cooked for “de white folks.” In the midst of it all, however, ’Lias disappeared. No one had noticed when he slipped out, but all seemed to become conscious of his absence about the same time. The talk shifted, and finally simmered into silence.

When the Rev. Mr. Dokesbury went to bed that night, his charge had not yet returned.

The young minister woke early on the Sabbath morning, and he may be forgiven that the prospect of the ordeal through which he had to pass drove his care for ’Lias out of mind for the first few hours. But as he walked to church, flanked on one side by Aunt Caroline in the stiffest of ginghams and on the other by her husband stately in the magnificence of an antiquated “Jim-swinger,” his mind went back to the boy with sorrow. Where was he? What was he doing? Had the fear of a dull church service frightened him back to his old habits and haunts? There was a new sadness at the preacher’s heart as he threaded his way down the crowded church and ascended the rude pulpit.

The church was stiflingly hot, and the morning sun still beat relentlessly in through the plain windows. The seats were rude wooden benches, in some instances without backs. To the right, filling the inner corner, sat the pillars of the church, stern, grim, and critical. Opposite them, and, like them, in seats at right angles to the main body, sat the older sisters, some of them dressed with good old-fashioned simplicity, while others yielding to newer tendencies were gotten up in gaudy attempts at finery. In the rear seats a dozen or so much beribboned mulatto girls tittered and giggled, and cast bold glances at the minister.

The young man sighed as he placed the manuscript of his sermon between the leaves of the tattered Bible. “And this is Mt. Hope,” he was again saying to himself.

It was after the prayer and in the midst of the second hymn that a more pronounced titter from the back seats drew his attention. He raised his head to cast a reproving glance at the irreverent, but the sight that met his eyes turned that look into one of horror. ’Lias had just entered the church, and with every mark of beastly intoxication was staggering up the aisle to a seat, into which he tumbled in a drunken heap. The preacher’s soul turned sick within him, and his eyes sought the face of the mother and father. The old woman was wiping her eyes, and the old man sat with his gaze bent upon the floor, lines of sorrow drawn about his wrinkled mouth.

All of a sudden a great revulsion of feeling came over Dokesbury. Trembling he rose and opened the Bible. There lay his sermon, polished and perfected. The opening lines seemed to him like glints from a bright cold crystal. What had he to say to these people, when the full realisation of human sorrow and care and of human degradation had just come to him? What had they to do with firstlies and secondlies, with premises and conclusions? What they wanted was a strong hand to help them over the hard places of life and a loud voice to cheer them through the dark. He closed the book again upon his precious sermon. A something new had been born in his heart. He let his glance rest for another instant on the mother’s pained face and the father’s bowed form, and then turning to the congregation began, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me: for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.” Out of the fulness of his heart he spoke unto them. Their great need informed his utterance. He forgot his carefully turned sentences and perfectly rounded periods. He forgot all save that here was the well-being of a community put into his hands whose real condition he had not even suspected until now. The situation wrought him up. His words went forth like winged fire, and the emotional people were moved beyond control. They shouted, and clapped their hands, and praised the Lord loudly.

When the service was over, there was much gathering about the young preacher, and hand-shaking. Through all ’Lias had slept. His mother started toward him; but the minister managed to whisper to her, “Leave him to me.” When the congregation had passed out, Dokesbury shook ’Lias. The boy woke, partially sobered, and his face fell before the preacher’s eyes.

“Come, my boy, let’s go home.” Arm in arm they went out into the street, where a number of scoffers had gathered to have a laugh at the abashed boy; but Harold Dokesbury’s strong arm steadied his steps, and something in his face checked the crowd’s hilarity. Silently they cleared the way, and the two passed among them and went home.

The minister saw clearly the things which he had to combat in his community, and through this one victim he determined to fight the general evil. The people with whom he had to deal were children who must be led by the hand. The boy lying in drunken sleep upon his bed was no worse than the rest of them. He was an epitome of the evil, as his parents were of the sorrows, of the place.

He could not talk to Elias. He could not lecture him. He would only be dashing his words against the accumulated evil of years of bondage as the ripples of a summer sea beat against a stone wall. It was not the wickedness of this boy he was fighting or even the wrong-doing of Mt. Hope. It was the aggregation of the evils of the fathers, the grandfathers, the masters and mistresses of these people. Against this what could talk avail?

The boy slept on, and the afternoon passed heavily away. Aunt Caroline was finding solace in her pipe, and Stephen Gray sulked in moody silence beside the hearth. Neither of them joined their guest at evening service.

[Illustration: “AUNT CAROLINE WAS FINDING SOLACE IN THE PIPE.”]

He went, however. It was hard to face those people again after the events of the morning. He could feel them covertly nudging each other and grinning as he went up to the pulpit. He chided himself for the momentary annoyance it caused him. Were they not like so many naughty, irresponsible children?

The service passed without unpleasantness, save that he went home with an annoyingly vivid impression of a yellow girl with red ribbons on her hat, who pretended to be impressed by his sermon and made eyes at him from behind her handkerchief.

On the way to his room that night, as he passed Stephen Gray, the old man whispered huskily, “It’s de fus’ time ’Lias evah done dat.”

It was the only word he had spoken since morning.

A sound sleep refreshed Dokesbury, and restored the tone to his overtaxed nerves. When he came out in the morning, Elias was already in the kitchen. He too had slept off his indisposition, but it had been succeeded by a painful embarrassment that proved an effectual barrier to all intercourse with him. The minister talked lightly and amusingly, but the boy never raised his eyes from his plate, and only spoke when he was compelled to answer some direct questions.

Harold Dokesbury knew that unless he could overcome this reserve, his power over the youth was gone. He bent every effort to do it.

“What do you say to a turn down the street with me?” he asked as he rose from breakfast.

’Lias shook his head.

“What! You haven’t deserted me already?”

The older people had gone out, but young Gray looked furtively about before he replied: “You know I ain’t fittin’ to go out with you—aftah—aftah—yestiddy.”

A dozen appropriate texts rose in the preacher’s mind, but he knew that it was not a preaching time, so he contented himself with saying,—

“Oh, get out! Come along!”

“No, I cain’t. I cain’t. I wisht I could! You needn’t think I’s ashamed, ’cause I ain’t. Plenty of ’em git drunk, an’ I don’t keer nothin’ ’bout dat”—this in a defiant tone.

“Well, why not come along, then?”

“I tell you I cain’t. Don’t ax me no mo’. It ain’t on my account I won’t go. It’s you.”

“Me! Why, I want you to go.”

“I know you does, but I mustn’t. Cain’t you see that dey’d be glad to say dat—dat you was in cahoots wif me an’ you tuk yo’ dram on de sly?”

“I don’t care what they say so long as it isn’t true. Are you coming?”

“No, I ain’t.”

He was perfectly determined, and Dokesbury saw that there was no use arguing with him. So with a resigned “All right!” he strode out the gate and up the street, thinking of the problem he had to solve.

There was good in Elias Gray, he knew. It was a shame that it should be lost. It would be lost unless he were drawn strongly away from the paths he was treading. But how could it be done? Was there no point in his mind that could be reached by what was other than evil? That was the thing to be found out. Then he paused to ask himself if, after all, he were not trying to do too much,—trying, in fact, to play Providence to Elias. He found himself involuntarily wanting to shift the responsibility of planning for the youth. He wished that something entirely independent of his intentions would happen.

Just then something did happen. A piece of soft mud hurled from some unknown source caught the minister square in the chest, and spattered over his clothes. He raised his eyes and glanced about quickly, but no one was in sight. Whoever the foe was, he was securely ambushed.

“Thrown by the hand of a man,” mused Dokesbury, “prompted by the malice of a child.”

He went on his way, finished his business, and returned to the house.

“La, Brothah Dokesbury!” exclaimed Aunt Caroline, “what’s de mattah ’f yo’ shu’t bosom?”

“Oh, that’s where one of our good citizens left his card.”

“You don’ mean to say none o’ dem low-life scoun’els—”

“I don’t know who did it. He took particular pains to keep out of sight.”

“’Lias!” the old woman cried, turning on her son, “wha’ ’d you let Brothah Dokesbury go off by hisse’f fu’? Whyn’t you go ’long an’ tek keer o’ him?”

The old lady stopped even in the midst of her tirade, as her eyes took in the expression on her son’s face.

“I’ll kill some o’ dem damn—”

“’Lias!”

“’Scuse me, Mistah Dokesbury, but I feel lak I’ll bus’ ef I don’t ’spress myse’f. It makes me so mad. Don’t you go out o’ hyeah no mo’ ’dout me. I’ll go ’long an’ I’ll brek somebody’s haid wif a stone.”

“’Lias! how you talkin’ fo’ de ministah?”

“Well, dat’s whut I’ll do, ’cause I kin out-th’ow any of ’em an’ I know dey hidin’-places.”

“I’ll be glad to accept your protection,” said Dokesbury.

He saw his advantage, and was thankful for the mud,—the one thing that without an effort restored the easy relations between himself and his protégé.

Ostensibly these relations were reversed, and Elias went out with the preacher as a guardian and protector. But the minister was laying his nets. It was on one of these rambles that he broached to ’Lias a subject which he had been considering for some time.

“Look here, ’Lias,” he said, “what are you going to do with that big back yard of yours?”

“Oh, nothin’. ’Tain’t no ’count to raise nothin’ in.”

“It may not be fit for vegetables, but it will raise something.”

“What?”

“Chickens. That’s what.”

Elias laughed sympathetically.

“I’d lak to eat de chickens I raise. I wouldn’t want to be feedin’ de neighbourhood.”

“Plenty of boards, slats, wire, and a good lock and key would fix that all right.”

“Yes, but whah’m I gwine to git all dem things?”

“Why, I’ll go in with you and furnish the money, and help you build the coops. Then you can sell chickens and eggs, and we’ll go halves on the profits.”

“Hush, man!” cried ’Lias, in delight.

So the matter was settled, and, as Aunt Caroline expressed it, “Fu’ a week er sich a mattah, you nevah did see sich ta’in’ down an’ buildin’ up in all yo’ bo’n days.”

’Lias went at the work with zest, and Dokesbury noticed his skill with tools. He let fall the remark: “Say, ’Lias, there’s a school near here where they teach carpentering; why don’t you go and learn?”

“What I gwine to do with bein’ a cyahpenter?”

“Repair some of these houses around Mt. Hope, if nothing more,” Dokesbury responded, laughing; and there the matter rested.

The work prospered, and as the weeks went on, ’Lias’ enterprise became the town’s talk. One of Aunt Caroline’s patrons who had come with some orders about work regarded the changed condition of affairs, and said, “Why, Aunt Caroline, this doesn’t look like the same place. I’ll have to buy some eggs from you; you keep your yard and hen-house so nice, it’s an advertisement for the eggs.”

“Don’t talk to me nothin’ ’bout dat ya’d, Miss Lucy,” Aunt Caroline had retorted. “Dat ’long to ’Lias an’ de preachah. Hit dey doin’s. Dey done mos’ nigh drove me out wif dey cleanness. I ain’t nevah seed no sich ca’in’ on in my life befo’. Why, my ’Lias done got right brigity an’ talk about bein’ somep’n’.”

Dokesbury had retired from his partnership with the boy save in so far as he acted as a general supervisor. His share had been sold to a friend of ’Lias, Jim Hughes. The two seemed to have no other thought save of raising, tending, and selling chickens.

Mt. Hope looked on and ceased to scoff. Money is a great dignifier, and Jim and ’Lias were making money. There had been some sniffs when the latter had hinged the front gate and whitewashed his mother’s cabin, but even that had been accepted now as a matter of course.

Dokesbury had done his work. He, too, looked on, and in some satisfaction.

“Let the leaven work,” he said, “and all Mt. Hope must rise.”

It was one day, nearly a year later, that “old lady Hughes” dropped in on Aunt Caroline for a chat.

“Well, I do say, Sis’ Ca’line, dem two boys o’ ourn done sot dis town on fiah.”

“What now, Sis’ Lizy?”