Chapter Twenty Four.
Found.
Four years had passed away since Jacob Poole raised the old knife-grinder from his fall in the street in Bolton. All that time he had made his abode with the old man, traversing the streets of many a town and village far and near, and ever returning with gladness to his new home. His aged friend had never so far recovered from his accident as to be able to resume his work. He would occasionally go out with Jacob, and help him in some odd jobs, but never again took to wheeling out the machine himself. He was brighter, however, than in even more prosperous days, and had come to look upon Jacob as his adopted son. It was understood, also, that Deborah would ere long become the wife of the young knife-grinder. There was one employment in which the old man delighted, and that was the advocating and forwarding, in every way in his power, the cause of Christian total abstinence. For this purpose he would carry suitable tracts with him wherever he went, and would often pause in fine weather, when he accompanied Jacob Poole on his less distant expeditions; and, sitting on a step or bank, as the case might be, while the wheel was going round, would gather about him old and young, and give them a true temperance harangue. Sometimes he met with scoffs and hard words, but he cared little for them; he had his answer ready, or, like his Master, when reviled he opened not his mouth. Some one called him “a canting old hypocrite.”
“Nay, friend,” he replied, “you’re mistaken there. I’m not a hypocrite. A hypocrite’s a man with two faces. Now, you can’t say you have ever seen me with two faces. I’ve seen many a drunkard with two faces—t’one as makes the wife and childer glad, and t’other as makes their hearts ache and jump into their mouths with fear. But you’ve ne’er seen that in a gradely abstainer.”
“You’re a self-righteous old sinner,” said another.
“I’m a sinner, I know,” was Old Crow’s reply; “but I’m not self-righteous, I hope. I don’t despise a poor drunkard; but I cannot respect him. I want to pull him out of the mire, and place him where he can respect hisself.”
But generally he had ready and attentive listeners, and was the means of winning many to the good way; for all who really knew him respected him for his consistency. And Jacob was happy with him, and yet to him there was one thing still wanting. He had never in all his wanderings been able to discover the least trace of those whom he was seeking, and the desire to learn something certain about them increased day by day. At last, one fine July evening, he said to his old companion,—
“Ould Crow, I can’t be content as I am. I must try my luck further off. If you’ve nothing to say against it, I’ll just take the cart with me for a month or six weeks, and see if the Lord’ll give me success. I’ll go right away into Shropshire, and try round there; and through Staffordshire and Derbyshire.”