Weeks of drinking, followed by the revelry of Christmas, brought John to such a condition that when the bar-room closed on Saturday night he was turned out of the house, and a little later dragged out of a corner of the drive-shed, and told to "get clean away" from the premises.
There was a strange look about the man on this particular Saturday night—a wild, almost savage appearance. He stood a moment on the sidewalk as if uncertain of his whereabouts, and then turned and walked in the direction of the Manse.
The minister answered the door-bell, and without a word John walked right in and through the hall to the study. At last he spoke. "You—told—me—to—come—any—time. I—want—to—stay—here—to-night." Then, with body bent, and as if in pain, with arms crossed, he rocked himself to and fro. "Oh, God! but I'm sick; three days nothing but whiskey: I've got it to-night for sure."
After much persuading the minister had the man in bed. The mistress of the Manse had prepared strong coffee as fast as her trembling body would let her. Once before she had passed through a night such as she feared this would be, and the prospect might well make her timorous. But the Manse and its furniture had three years ago been pledged to His service, and she murmured not.
The doctor had been sent for, but he was on a country call, and was not expected back until eleven.
At one end of the bedroom the minister sat watching John Gage. In some way the drink-inflamed man had placed under his pillow an old revolver and a short stiletto. After a time the hands clasped these with a vice-like grip. Suddenly standing out on the carpet he looked at the preacher, and said, "Why in the devil don't you go home? D'you want a fight? Say! I could rip you so's they'd have to pick you up in baskets."
A little later he imagined he was once more on the South African battle-field. With a sickening shudder he pointed to where his deluded eyes saw again the wounded and bleeding. "My God! see that poor devil with his leg nearly off! Look! ain't that awful. See that one squirming!—him yonder with his head half open!" Then straightening himself, he said, as if addressing some audience, "Friends, I say, and I know, war is hell!"
From time to time, under persuasion, he would return to his bed. Once he imagined he was driving down the old concession road near his grandfather's farm as in boyhood days. The sheets were jerked and handled as if reins. "Well, now, this is a slow horse. It will, ladies and gentlemen, be quite appropriate to sing we won't get home till morning.' I tell you what I'll do—I'll put the horse in the rig, and I'll get in the shafts, and then there'll be a horse in the buggy and an ass in the shafts, but we'll make better time." Then followed a weird burst of laughter.
The doctor arrived about midnight. For a couple of hours he watched the effect of his treatment, but rest would not come to the occupant of the guest-room. The eyes would appear to be closing in sleep, and then would suddenly open wide as if their owner were in terror of some impending disaster. Then the danger spot seemed to have been located, and with a series of jerks the head was raised higher and higher until John was sitting up in bed. Never once did the gaze leave the corner of the room. With the utmost stealth, first one foot and then the other was pushed from under the bedclothes to the floor. Very slowly and noiselessly, with knife still gripped, the demon-possessed man glided toward the corner. With great caution, as if measuring the distance, he bent the left knee, and at the same time lifted the right hand ready to strike. Then with blasphemous exclamations he stabbed the imaginary monstrosities. Again and again he seemed hurled back as by some real enemy in the fight. At last the knife went deep into the floor, and he seemed to have conquered. Never once taking his gaze from where the knife stood he backed slowly toward the bed. "Ah! I got him that time! See him! see him!" Then followed a blood-chilling burst of profanity at the wriggling object of his delirium. "But he can't get up! No! no! no! it's through his neck."
And so the long night wore on, and the wearied preacher, looking upon what drink could do with "God's Masterpiece," vowed anew to fight the cursed traffic in intoxicants as long as life lasted, and never knowingly to have his home defiled by such a life-blasting beverage.