Through the whole course of the meeting good Pastor Wedgewell sat expectantly on the extreme end of the pulpit sofa, his body inclined a little forward, his hands upon his knees, his eyes gleaming brightly through polished glasses, and his whole pose suggesting the most intense earnestness. He discerned a telling point before its verbal expression was fully completed, his hands commenced to applaud the moment the point was announced; his varnished boots and well-stored head beat time alike to “Lily Dale,” the march from “Norma,” “Sweet Spirit, hear my prayer,” and such other airs as the band was not ashamed to play in public; he sprang from his seat and approvingly patted the youthful backs of the pretended drunkard and his mother, he laughed almost hysterically at the wit of the lecturer, and moistened handkerchief after handkerchief as the able speaker depicted the sad results of drunkenness. While the pledges were being circulated, the reverend man occupied a position which raked the house, and he was the first to announce to the faithful in the front seats the capture of any drinking man. He intercepted Tom Lyker, a tin-shop apprentice, who had signed the pledge, in the aisle, immediately after the audience was dismissed, and suggested that they should together hold a season of prayer in the study attached to the church; and the rather curt manner in which the repentant but not altogether regenerate Thomas declined the invitation did not abash the holy man in the least; for, as the audience finally dispersed, he secured a few faithful ones, with whom he adjourned to the study, and enjoyed what he afterward referred to as a precious season. Mrs. Wedgewell, who rendered but feeble reverence unto him who was at once her spouse and her spiritual adviser, had been known to say that when the old gentleman was wound up there was no knowing when he would run down again; and all who saw the good man on the morning after the meeting, admitted that his wife’s simile was an uncommonly apt one. Squire Tomple believed so fully in the advantages of the early bird over all others in search of sustenance, that his store was always opened at sunrise; yet George Doughty had just taken the third shutter from the front window, when a gentle tap on the shoulder caused him to drop the rather heavy board upon his toes. As he wrathfully turned himself, he beheld the approving countenance and extended congratulatory hand of the Reverend Wedgewell. “George, my dear, my noble young friend,” said he, as the irate youth squeezed his agonized toes, “you have performed a most noble and meritorious action--an action which you will never have cause to regret.” For a moment or two the young man’s face said many things not seemly to express in appropriate words to a clergyman; but he finally recovered his sense of politeness, and replied: