There were days when the sting in some of the taunts was hard to bear—days when only One knows the conflict in that will that had become enfeebled by sin. But John Gage was steadily gaining the victory, and the visits to the Manse and the new friends around the church were displacing the former associations.
Signs of a material prosperity that John had never before known were gradually appearing. The village tailor took particular pride one morning in showing the minister a piece of blue serge, "as fine a bit of goods as is imported. I'm cutting a suit out of it for John Gage, and it will be as good as I can make it. Did you ever think how much the tailor can co-operate with God in fixing a man up?"
But not all the villagers were desirous of co-operating with God in the reformation of John Gage. A little crowd had gathered one night in McKee's barber shop, and the minister of St. Andrew's was being harshly criticized for his frequent attacks on the liquor traffic. The proprietor of the pool-room, who attended St. Andrew's at the time of the Lodge annual parade, announced his intention of absenting himself unless the minister "minded his own business." Others made similar threats, which in the aggregate might bring the minister to the proper frame of mind which became one who "received his bread and butter from some of the very people he had been abusing."
Then the case of John Gage was discussed, and uncomplimentary terms were freely applied. McKee thought "it would be a d——d good joke on the Presbyterian preacher if John could be made as full as a goat, and then sent to the Manse." To the lasting disgrace of the barber, he attempted to perpetrate the "joke."
Bud Jenks was a willing tool of anybody who would reward him with a whiskey, and when McKee offered him all he could take at one standing if he got Gage to take a drink, he was ready to at least make the attempt. And so on a day when John had shovelled coal from car to waggon and waggon to cellar for eight hours, and was warm, tired and thirsty, Bud appeared with a little pail, as if coming from the town pump. John was at the grating tramping the coal further into the cellar, and his head was about on a level with the sidewalk. "Good-day, Bud," he called up as Bud stood for a moment.
"Good-day, John; warm job, eh?"
"You bet it's warm," was the reply, as the coal-begrimed brow was wiped.
"Take a drink o' water?" asked Bud.
"Sure I will, and thank you," answered the thirsty toiler with hand extended to the pail, which was placed on the sidewalk. Quickly Bud removed the lid, and gave the pail a tilt as the rim came near John's face. Just a touch of froth from the lager beer was carried to John's lips, but instantly he pushed back the pail with an exclamation almost of pain. At the same moment he slid further into the cellar, and kneeling on the coal, with hands clasped against the wall, cried out again and again, "Oh, my God, help me, help me, help me!"
Bud peered into the darkness and called several times to John. At last John approached the grating again. "Bud," he said quietly, "for God's sake go away and leave me alone; I'd rather drop dead than put another drop of that to my lips."