Jim Braddock’s Pledge
by
“YOU’LL sign it, I’m sure,” said a persevering Washingtonian, who had found his way into a little village grogshop, and had there presented the pledge to some three or four of its half-intoxicated inmates. The last man whom he addressed, after having urged the others to no effect, was apparently about thirty years of age, and had a sparkling eye, and a good-humoured countenance, that attracted rather than repelled. The marks of the destroyer were, however, upon him, showing themselves with melancholy distinctness.
“You’ll sign, I’m sure, Jim.”
“O, of course,” replied the individual addressed, winking, as he did so to the company, as much as to say–“Don’t you want to see fun?”
“Yes, but you will, I know?”
“Of course I will. Where’s the document?”
“Here it is,”–displaying a sheet of paper with sundry appropriate devices, upon which was printed in conspicuous letters,
“We whose names–,” etc.
“That’s very pretty, aint it, Ike?” said Jim, or James Braddock, with a mock seriousness of tone and manner.
“O, yes–very beautiful.”
“Just see here,” ran on Jim, pointing to the vignette over the pledge.–“This spruce chap, swelled out with cold-water until just ready to burst, and still pouring in more, is our friend Malcom here, I suppose.”
A loud laugh followed this little hit, which seemed to the company exceedingly humorous. But Malcom took it all in good part, and retorted by asking Braddock who the wretched looking creature was with a bottle in his hand, and three ragged children, and a pale, haggard, distressed woman, following after him.
“Another cold-water man, I suppose, “Jim Braddock replied; but neither his laugh nor the laugh of his cronies was so hearty as before.
“O, no. That’s a little mistake into which you have fallen, “Malcom said, smiling. “He is one of your firewater men. Don’t you see how he has been scorched with it, inside and out. Now, did you ever see such a miserable looking creature? And his poor children–and his wife! But I will say nothing about them. The picture speaks for itself.”
“Here’s a barrel, mount him up, and let us have a temperance speech!” cried the keeper of the grog-shop, coming from behind his counter, and mingling with the group.
“O, yes.–Give us a temperance speech!” rejoined Jim Braddock, not at all sorry to get a good excuse for giving up his examination of the pledge, which had revived in his mind some associations of not the pleasantest character in the world.
“No objection at all,” replied the ready Washingtonian, mounting the rostrum which the tavern-keeper had indicated, to the no small amusement of the company, and the great relief of Jim Braddock, who began to feel that the laugh was getting on the wrong side of his mouth, as he afterwards expressed it.
“Now for some rare fun!” ejaculated one of the group that gathered around the whiskey-barrel upon which Malcom stood.
“This is grand sport!” broke in another.
“Take your text, Mr. Preacher!” cried a third.
“O yes, give us a text and a regular-built sermon!” added a fourth, rubbing his hands with great glee.
“Very well,” Malcom replied, with good humour. “Now for the text.”
“Yes, give us the text,” ran around the circle.
“My text will be found in Harry Arnold’s grog-shop, Main street, three doors from the corner. It is in these words:–‘Whiskey-barrel.’ Upon this text I will now, with your permission, make a few remarks.”
Then holding up his pledge and laying his finger upon the wretched being there represented as the follower after strong drink, he went on–
“You all see this poor creature here, and his wife and children–well, as my text and his fall from happiness and respectability are inseparably united, I will, instead of giving you a dry discourse on an empty whiskey-barrel, narrate this man’s history, which involves the whiskey-barrel, and describes how it became empty, and finally how it came here. I will call him James Bradly–but take notice, that I call him a little out of his true name, so as not to seem personal.