He had lived one splendid year; he had done one glorious thing; he had achieved that for which better men than he should take off their hats to him. And there--Bayard looked at him once, and covered his face. Job recognized him, and, frenzied as he was, sunk upon his knees in the mud, and crawled towards the minister, piteously holding up his hands. One must have been in Job’s place, or in Bayard’s, to understand what that moment was to these two men. In the paltry scenes of what we call the society of the world, there are no actors who should criticise, as there are few who can comprehend the rôles of this plain and common tragedy. With the eyes of a condemning angel, Bayard strode into the group, and took Job home. “It’s clear D. T.,” said Captain Hap between his teeth. Bayard sent for a doctor, who prescribed chloral, and said the case was serious. Mari put on a clean apron, and dusted up the rooms, and reinforced the minister, who proceeded to nurse Job for thirty-six hours. Captain Hap went home. He said he’d rather tie a slipknot round the fellar’s neck, and drawr it taut. But when Job came to himself, poor fellow, the truth came with him. Job had been the blameless victim of one of those incredible but authenticated plots which lend blackness to the dark complexion of the liquor trade. Job was working ashore, it seemed, for a week, being out of a chance to ship; and he had been upon the wharves, salting down fish, and came out at his nooning, with the rest, for his lunch. There was a well, in a yard, by the fish-flakes, and a dipper, chained, hung from the pump. It came Job’s turn to drink from the dipper. And when he had drunk, the devil entered into him. For the rim of the dipper had been maliciously smeared with rum. Into the parched body of the “reformed man” the fire of that flavor ran, as flame runs through stubble in a drought. The half-cured drunkard remembered putting down his head, and starting for the nearest grogshop on a run, with a yell. From that moment till Bayard found him, Job remembered nothing more. Such episodes of the nether world are not rare enough to be doubted, and this one is no fiction. “I’m in for it, now,” groaned Job. “Might as well go to h---- and done with it.” Then Bayard, haggard from watching, turned and looked on Job. Job put his hands before his face. “Oh, _sir_!” he cried. “But you see, there ain’t a wharf-rat left in Windover as ’u’d trust me now!” “Take my hand, Job,” said the minister slowly. Job took it, sobbing like a baby. “Now climb up again, Job!” said Bayard in a strong voice. “I’m with you!” Thus went the words of the shortest sermon of the minister’s life. To the end of his days, Job Slip will think it was the greatest and the best.