them.

On Sunday Father Ingoldsby advised his people to prepare their souls
for the visit of the Angel of Death, who was every night knocking at
their doors. There were many, he said, whose faces he had never seen
at the rails since he came to Joliet; and what answer would they give
to the summons which called them to appear without delay before the
judgment seat of God? What doom could they expect but that of
damnation and eternal death?

The sermon needed no translation for the men of many nations who were
present. Irishmen and Englishmen, Highlanders and Belgians, French
and Germans, Mexicans and Canadians, could interpret the meaning of
the flashing eye which roamed to every corner of the church, singling
out each miserable sinner; the fierce frown, the threatening gesture,
the finger first pointing to the heaven above, and then down to the
depths of hell.

Some stayed to pray and to confess their sins; others hardened their
hearts and went home unrepentant. Michael Mangan went to Belz's
grocery near the canal. He said he felt pains in his interior, and
drank a jigger of whisky. Then he bought half-a-gallon of the same
remedy to take home with him. It was a cheap prescription, costing
only twelve and a half cents, but it proved very effective. Old Belz
put the stuff into an earthenware bottle, which he corked with a
corncob. Michael started for home by the zigzag path which led up
the steep limestone bluff, but his steps were slow and unsteady; he
sat down on a rock, and took another dose out of his bottle. He
never went any further of his own motion, and we buried him next day.
We were of different opinions about the cause of his death; some