Bayard sent for a doctor, who prescribed chloral, and said the case was serious. Mari put on a clean apron, and dusted up the rooms, and reinforced the minister, who proceeded to nurse Job for thirty-six hours. Captain Hap went home. He said he’d rather tie a slipknot round the fellar’s neck, and drawr it taut.
But when Job came to himself, poor fellow, the truth came with him. Job had been the blameless victim of one of those incredible but authenticated plots which lend blackness to the dark complexion of the liquor trade.
Job was working ashore, it seemed, for a week, being out of a chance to ship; and he had been upon the wharves, salting down fish, and came out at his nooning, with the rest, for his lunch. There was a well, in a yard, by the fish-flakes, and a dipper, chained, hung from the pump.
It came Job’s turn to drink from the dipper. And when he had drunk, the devil entered into him. For the rim of the dipper had been maliciously smeared with rum. Into the parched body of the “reformed man” the fire of that flavor ran, as flame runs through stubble in a drought.
The half-cured drunkard remembered putting down his head, and starting for the nearest grogshop on a run, with a yell. From that moment till Bayard found him, Job remembered nothing more. Such episodes of the nether world are not rare enough to be doubted, and this one is no fiction.
“I’m in for it, now,” groaned Job. “Might as well go to h—— and done with it.”
Then Bayard, haggard from watching, turned and looked on Job. Job put his hands before his face.
“Oh, sir!” he cried. “But you see, there ain’t a wharf-rat left in Windover as ’u’d trust me now!”
“Take my hand, Job,” said the minister slowly.
Job took it, sobbing like a baby.