After that Bunley ran to seed, to use an expression common in Barton. How he lived during the twenty years which followed was not well understood. His wife died, and it was understood that he married some money the second time; but it was none the less whispered about town that Bunley had been seen at night to borrow at woodpiles whose owners he had not consulted. He went upon mighty sprees, and carried the bouquet of liquor wherever he went. He started a small groggery of his own, in which many bright boys learned to drink. He had long since ruined the credit which he obtained on the strength of his second wife’s property, for he never paid an account.
And yet the most aggrieved of Bunley’s creditors could not help being soft-hearted when they saw the old man in church, as he was every Sunday morning with his two boys. The gentleman which was in old Bunley then showed itself in his face and manner, and it did seem too bad that any one who could look and act so much like a man should not be trusted to the extent of a dollar’s worth of sugar or a hundred pounds of flour. Squire Tomple had thought so one Sunday, and as the Squire strove to keep worldly thoughts out of his mind on the Lord’s day, his mind became filled with old Bunley—so much so, that on the following Monday he decoyed Bunley into his store, and talked so pleasantly to him that the old gentleman actually made the request for which the Squire hoped. He bought rather more than the Squire had meant to sell him on credit, but his promise of early payment was so distinct and emphatic that the Squire’s doubt was not fairly established for many months. This story in all its details was told by the Squire to Mr. Crupp, after that gentleman announced to him that something should be done for old Bunley.
“That was because you didn’t go about the job in the right way,” said Crupp. “He’s got just enough conceit to suppose that he’s going to pay all his bills some day, and he feels that when the time comes your profit’ll pay for your kindness. That conceit of his is just what needs to be taken down—it’s got to be done kindly—so that he understands that whatever he gets comes out of pure charity and the desire to make him comfortable, even at a loss. Now, he and his little family can live on about a dollar a day. I’ll stand half the expense of supporting him for three months if you’ll do the other half, and we’ll talk plain, good-natured English to him, and let him understand he’s a pauper. That’ll put him on his mettle. What do you say?”
The Squire looked grave at once—as grave as he had appeared when an uninsured hogshead of sugar belonging to him had fallen from a steamboat gang-plank into the river, and melted. The proposition seemed to take his breath away, in fact; but in a moment or two he regained it.
“Look here, Crupp,” said he, “temperance is all very well; but I don’t think it’s my business to stand part of the expenses of reforming everybody, when I haven’t had anything to do with making drunkards. With you the case is different. You say your liquors were always good; but, like enough, that made men all the fonder of drinking the infernal things. You’re a public-spirited citizen, but you can’t deny that you’ve had a thousand times more to do with making drunkards than I have. The very fact that you are a decent fellow yourself has made drinking halfway respectable in Barton. The crime’s right at your own door, and you ought to pay for it. You——”
The Squire paused. Mr. Crupp’s face was very white and his teeth were tightly set. Mr. Crupp had been known to throw a disorderly visitor at his bar halfway across the street; and although the Squire knew that his own avoirdupois was too great to be treated so contemptuously, he had no desire to feel the weight of Crupp’s fist. Besides, Crupp was a customer who bought a great deal and paid promptly, and the Squire did not like to offend him and lose his custom. So the Squire paused.
“Go right on,” said Mr. Crupp very quietly. “I’ll not bear any malice. I’ve said a great many worse things to myself. Don’t hold in anything you’ve got on your mind.”
“I’m done,” said the Squire, looking relieved and extending his hand. “Crupp, I think a good deal of you, and I’m ashamed of myself for boiling over as I did. But folks talk to me as if I was made of money. I paid out a good deal on the expense of the meeting; the parson’s been at me to help every lazy drunkard to get work; George Doughty wants more pay or less work, so he won’t have such a hankering after liquor; and now to be asked to help old Bunley, that’s owed me money a long time and never paid it, that came near helping one of my boys to a taste for liquor, that helps himself at my woodpile—it’s too much, that’s all.”
“Squire,” said Crupp, “isn’t there something in your Bible that’s not complimentary to men who say to the needy, ‘Depart: be ye warmed and fed,’ but don’t put their hands into their pockets to help the poor wretches along? I tell you that a man that’s got the love of drink fixed in every muscle in his body and every drop of his blood is worse off than any cold and hungry man you ever saw. Such men sometimes help themselves out of their trouble, and stick to cold water; but the man that does it is more of a hero, and he’s got better stuff in him, than any other sort of sinner that ever repents. He’s got to be helped just like drowning men have to be, and you’ve got to take hold of him just as you do of a drowning man, by whatever part you can get the tightest grip on. Bunley’s pride’s the only handle you can find on him, and you can’t get at that except by showing that you think enough of him to sink money in him.”
The Squire cast about in his mind for some argument in defense of his money; but, as he found none, he acted like a good diplomatist, and started to talk against time by uttering some promising generalizations.