rebuke; but Davis hung his head, and began to fumble for a pipe in his
sagging coat pocket; with clumsy fingers, scattering the tobacco from his
little bag, he tried to fill it.

"Tom," the preacher said, at last, "I want you to come home with me, now.
And Jim, you will give me that bottle."

"I can't go home, preacher. I've got to buy some things. She said I was
to buy some things for the brats."

"Have you bought them?" John asked. Tom gave a silly laugh.

"Not yet, preacher, not yet."

"Listen, men," John said, with sudden sternness. "You have let this child
see you on the road to hell. If he can remember this sight, it will save
his soul."

Tom Davis shrank as the preacher said "hell." He gave a maudlin cry, and
almost whimpered, "No, sir, no, preacher, I am a-goin' to reform." John
had known what note to touch in this debased nature. Not love, nor hope,
nor shame, would move Tom Davis, but fear stung him into a semblance of
sobriety. "I'll come along wi' you," he went on, swaying back and forth,
and steadying himself with a hand on the lumber against which he had been
leaning. "This is the last time, preacher. You won't see me this way no
more."

Here he hiccoughed, and then laughed, but remembering himself instantly,
drew his forehead into a scowl.