“It ’lows a man to say the unproper words in the hearin’ of the angel, afore he’s shot; so it won’t prevent 41 her ears from being ’fended. Can’t we fix it some way, so that she shan’t hear ’em at all?”
“There’s no trouble about that,” solemnly remarked Budge Isham from his seat at the further end of the room; “You have only to find out when a fellow has made up his mind to use improper language in the presence of the child, and then shoot him before he can say the words.”
“But how shall we know he’s going to say ’em?” inquired the chairman, who in the earnestness of his feelings felt no suspicion of the honesty of his friend.
“You will have to judge that by the expression of his countenance. I think when a fellow has made up his mind to swear his looks give notice of what is coming. The rest of us must be on the alert and pick him off before the words get out of his mouth. And yet I am sorry to say,” added Budge gravely rising to his feet, “that there is one serious drawback to my proposition.”
“The chairman is anxious to hear it.”
“There might be mistakes made. A man’s expression is not always an index of his thoughts. He might be suffering from some inward pain, and be in the act of uttering some expression, but his face could have so mean a look that if our law was in force, he would be shot on sight. For instance, studying these faces all turned toward me, I should say, speaking on general 42 principles, that all except one or two deserve, not shooting, but hanging, and if looks were to determine a man’s depth of infamy, mighty few of you would live five minutes.”
Budge sank gravely into his seat and resumed smoking, while his friends, understanding his trifling character, contemptuously refused attention to his disrespectful remarks. In the general discussion which followed, several insisted that the only proper punishment for the grave offence was death; but the sentiment crystallized into the feeling that that penalty was somewhat severe for the first breaking of the law. It was proper enough for the second crime, but a man who had been accustomed to picturesque and emphatic words was liable to err once at least while on the road to reformation. The agreement finally reached was that the offender should be heavily fined, compelled to fast several days, or, more frightful than all, be deprived of the privileges of the bar for the same length of time. When the last penalty was fixed there were several suppressed groans and a general setting of lips, with the unshakable resolve to steer clear of that appalling punishment.
Everything was serene for several days, when, as might have been anticipated, the explosion came. Al Bidwell, in coming out of the Heavenly Bower, caught the toe of one of his boots and fell forward on his hands and knees. Two of his friends seeing him naturally 43 laughed, whereupon, as he picked himself up, he demanded in the name of the presiding genius of hades, what they saw to laugh at. By way of answer, one of them pointed to Nellie Dawson, who ran forward to help him to his feet.
“Did you hurt yourself, Mr. Bidwell? I’s so sorry.”
“You may well be, little one,” was the bitter response, as he realized his awful offence; “for this will play thunder with me––there it goes agin! Please don’t say another word,” he exclaimed desperately, striding down the street to save himself from piling up a mountain of unpardonable crimes.