Chapter III

Jim Scroggins recovered from his debauch; but the first thing he saw when he came into the kitchen, in the morning, was the case containing the two daguerreotypes, which lay open on the table.

He picked it up, and started back in confusion, when he recognized his own distorted features in one of the pictures.

He examined the other. It was the counterpart of the first, with the eyes open, and looking ten times more hideous than the sleeping picture.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed he; “did I ever look so infarnal homely as that?” and he proceeded to scrutinize the pictures a second time.

“Hang me! if I thought I ever looked so cussed mean as that, I’d go down and jump into the river.”

“I’ve seen men though, that looked just like that ’ere,” continued he; “but them was drunkards. Now, I an’t a drunkard, though I sometimes git a little sizzled. I never lit my pipe at the pump, though. Howsomever, them was took for me, though when or where I’ve no kind o’ notion. There’s the old hat, and that’s the old coat—no mistake.”

The footsteps of his wife caused him to drop the pictures, and he hastened out of the house to avoid the tempest which he thought his wickedness would call down upon his head.

It is a notable fact that he omitted his morning dram on this occasion, and his wife took courage. Like a prudent woman, as she was, she did not say a word about the occurrences of yesterday, and permitted him to eat his breakfast in peace.

He got through that day without drinking a drop; but on the following day the old appetite clamored for the usual dram, and in the afternoon, while his wife was in the sitting room, he went to the closet where he kept the bottle.

But the first thing that met his gaze was the two daguerreotypes resting against the black bottle. There was Jim Scroggins drunk asleep, and Jim Scroggins drunk awake.

“Them cussed dogerytypes!” muttered he, starting back in confusion, at the miserable-looking object they so faithfully shadowed to him.

Jim stopped to think. He fully resolved never again to be the loathsome being they represented him to be. Taking the black bottle, he went to the door with it, and with right good will hurled it on the door stone, where it was smashed into a thousand fragments, and the delectable stuff irretrievably lost.

“Halloo! what are you about?” said a young man, entering the yard.

“Smashing my rum bottle,” replied Jim, with admirable coolness.

“Bravo! I commend your resolution,” replied the young man.

“You are the dogerytype man, an’t you?” said Jim.

“I am.”

“Walk in, if you please;” and Jim ushered Mr. Shadow into the sitting room, where his wife and daughter were.

“Wife,” said he, “you had them picters taken?”

“I did, James.”

“I’ve broke the bottle; and as to looking like them creturs, I never will again.”

“Thank God, James; I hope you never will.”

“Here is the pledge,” said Mr. Shadow, who was a temperance man in theory as well as practice.

“I’ll sign it, by mighty!” and Jim did sign it.

“Now, wife, will you rub them things out?”

“Certainly, James,” and Mrs. Scroggins went for the pictures.

“And now, Mr. Scroggins, if you will walk over to my saloon, I shall be happy to take the real man as God made him.”

“I’ll do it; and, Betsey, you shall come, too; and Susey.”

Susey went with her father and mother, though her picture had been taken. On the way Mr. Shadow walked by her side, and said a great many silly things, with which I will not trouble the reader.

The daguerreotypes were taken, and Jim was surprised at the difference between the picture of a drunken man and that of a sober man.

He drank no more liquor; and though this incident happened three years ago, he is still a sober and reputable man in the village. The little place is all paid for, and Mrs. Scroggins is superlatively happy.

Susan, in less than a year, became the wife of Mr. Shadow, who, notwithstanding his name, is a man of substance, and loves his wife all the more because he was instrumental in saving her from the degradation of being a drunkard’s daughter.