Johnson shook his head sorrowfully.
“I mustn’t; Alice wouldn’t let me. I can’t; the drink’s more to me nor meat, and clothes, and everything. I durstn’t, for my old pals at the ‘George’ would chaff me to death with their jeers and their jokes. I couldn’t face them for shame.”
“Oh, Thomas,” cried Ned, “what a slave the drink’s made of you:— mustn’t! can’t! durstn’t!—what! ain’t you a man? haven’t you got a will of your own?”
“No, Ned, that’s just it; I haven’t a will of my own: the old lad’s got it off me long since.”
“Ay, but, Thomas, you must get it back again,” exclaimed Brierley’s wife; “you must go to Jesus, and he’ll help you.”
Johnson fidgeted uneasily in his chair; at last he said,—
“I can’t do without my beer; I haven’t strength to work without it.”
“You’ve taken plenty of it, I reckon,” remarked Ned, “and you don’t seem to thrive much on’t.”
“I’ve taken too much,” said the other, “but I can’t do without a little.”
“You can’t do with a little, I fear. It’s first only a pint, and then it’s only a quart, and then it’s only a gallon, till at last it’s only a fuddled head and an empty pocket. Come, join us, Thomas; take the first step boldly like a man, and then just pray for grace, and you’ll not fear what other folks can do to you.”