The Bishop’s hopeful soul saw a chance for the cracker’s reclamation. So he spoke solemnly to him, warning him against perilling his future by relapsing into his old courses in Charleston. Nothing could exceed Demming’s bland humility. He filled every available pause in the exhortation with “Thet’s so,” and “Shoo ’s yo’ bawn!” and answered, “I’m gwine ter be ’s keerful ’s a ole coon thet ’s jes’ got shet o’ the dogs. You nevah said truer words than them thar, an’ don’ you forget it! I’m gwine ter buy mo’ lan’, an’ raise hogs, an’ keep th’ ole ’ooman like a lady. Don’ ye be ’feard o’ me gwine on no’ mo’ tears. No, sir, none o’ thet in mine. ’Twuz on’y ’cause I wuz so low in my min’ I evah done it, onyhow. Now, I’m gwine ter be ’s sober ’s a owl!”
Notwithstanding these and similar protestations, hardly an hour was gone before Demming was the glory of the saloon, haranguing the crowd on his favorite topic, the Bishop’s virtues. “High-toned gen’leman, bes’ man in the worl’, an’ nobody’s fool, either. I’m proud to call him my frien’, an’ Aiken ’s put in its bes’ licks w’en it cured him. Gen’lemen, he ’vised me ter fight shy o’ you all. I reckon as how I mought be better off ef I’d allus have follered his ammonitions. Walk up, gen’lemen, an’ drink his health! My ’xpens’.”
The sequel to such toasts may readily be imagined. By six o’clock, penniless and tipsy, Demming was apologizing to the Bishop on the hotel piazza. He had the grace to seem ashamed of himself. “Wust o’ ’tis flingin’ away all thet money; but I felt kinder like makin’ everybody feel good, an’ I set ’em up. An’ ’t ’appened, somehow, they wuz a right smart chance o’ people in, jes’ thet thar minit,—they gen’rally is a right smart chance o’ people in when a feller sets ’em up! an’ they wuz powerful dry,—they gen’rally is dry, then; an’ the long an’ short o’ ’tis, they cleaned me out. An’ now, Bishop, I jes’ feel nashuated with myself. Suah ’s yo’ bawn, Bishop, I’m gwine ter reform. ‘Stop short, an’ nevah go on again,’ like thet thar clock in the song. I am, fur a fac’, sir. I’m repentin’ to a s’prisin’ extent.”
“I certainly should be surprised if you were repentant,” the Bishop said, dryly; then, after a pause, “Well, Demming, I will help you this once again. I will buy you a ticket to Charleston.”
Some one had come up to the couple unperceived; this person spoke quickly: “Please let me do that, Bishop. Demming has afforded me enough entertainment for that.”
“You don’ think no gre’t shakes o’ me, do you, Cunnel?” said Demming, looking at Talboys half humorously, yet with a shade of something else in his expression. “You poke fun at me all the time. Well, pleases you, an’ don’ hurt me, I reckon. Mahnin’, Bishop; mahnin’, Cunnel. I’ll be at th’ deppo.” He waved his hand and shambled away. Both men looked after him.
“I will see that he gets off,” said Talboys. “I leave Aiken, myself, in the morning.”
“Leave Aiken?” the Bishop repeated. “But you will return?”
“I don’t expect to.”
“Why, I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Talboys,—truly sorry.” The Bishop took the young man’s hand and pressed it. “I am just beginning to know you; I may say, to like you, if you will permit the expression. Won’t you walk in with me now, and say good-by to my daughter?”