"I'm very sorry," said Mr Piper, "but we have not a drop of spirits or wine in the house. Did you not hear that we have become abstainers? I thought that all our friends had heard it."
The Deacon could only answer with a look,—a look of pity not unmingled with contempt.
"The fact is," continued Mr Piper, "we were so appalled when our cousin, poor Ned Venters, while under the influence of drink, murdered his wife, that we took the pledge at once."
"Your cousin's vile disposition," said the Deacon, in feeble tones, "was the cause of the crime,—not the drink, unless it was bad. Good sound whisky can't make a man a murderer. It makes him more amiable."
"As Christians," said Mr Piper, "we felt that we were bound to give up strong drink, which causes our brother to err."
"As Christians," retorted the Deacon, still feebly, "we are commanded to celebrate the communion, and while celebrating the communion, we are commanded to drink wine. Your appeal to Christianity won't hold water."
"Come, come, Deacon," said Mr Piper, "have a cup of tea. It will do you more good than brandy, and then you'll go to bed and you'll be all right in the morning."
"No bed for me," murmured the Deacon. "If I was to try to sleep here in my present condition, there would be a corp in your house before morning. I'll go home. Come, Sam, we'll find the needed medicine in some humble change-house by the wayside." So saying, the Deacon rose, got his hat, and in a dignified, but (it must be confessed) rather a staggery manner, went out of the house, closely followed by Sam.
Next morning the Deacon awoke with the feeling that he was in unknown quarters. He opened his eyes, and saw that he was in a strange room. For a moment the thought flashed through his brain, "Can this be me?" But the sight of his well-known pantaloons lying on a chair, and in a rather muddy plight, restored his consciousness of personal identity. He rose and looked out at the window, but saw nothing except a few outhouses and a strip of garden, all of which were unfamiliar. He dressed himself hastily, and opened the door of the room, but found himself in a passage where there was no sight or sound of anybody. He crept quietly along, and finding a room door open, entered it. There was no one in it. It was evidently a parlour, bright and comfortable, with a clear fire in the grate, and with the walls covered with numerous pictures and sketches. And what was this paper on the table? It was a sketch of a figure. He took it up; and, could he believe his eyes? Yes! rough and hasty though it was, it was a representation of himself in a state of stupor—hair dishevelled, eyes swollen and closed, features distorted, mouth open, jaw hanging down; and underneath it was written "A Drunken Sot." Could this be the countenance of which he was so proud, and which, his admirers said, was the embodiment of respectability? As he looked at it, he felt that his good name was gone, and the perspiration fell in drops from his forehead. What enemy could have done this?
He was still wondering, when steps were heard approaching, and he had just time to push away the picture, when there stood in the doorway the very last man whom at that moment he would have wished to see—the Rev. Mr Patullo. And this gentleman behaved in an extraordinary manner. Not a smile of recognition did he give. Not a word did he utter. He merely sat down and gazed sorrowfully on the Deacon. His feelings were evidently too strong for words. The silence continued for about a minute. It was an awful minute for the Deacon. He felt that he ought to speak; but he really could not do it till he knew where he was; and it would be a most humiliating question to ask, "Where am I?"