Here he deposited the venerable tile with its precious contents on the
floor in front of the deacon. The old man looked at it, and his eyes
filled afresh, as he exclaimed:

"God bless you! I wish I could do something for you in return."

"Don't mention it," said Boston Ben, "unless--you--You _couldn't_ make
up your mind to a match with English Sam, could you?"

"Come, boys," interrupted Stumpy Flukes; "its my treat--name your
medicine--fill high--all charged?--now then--bottom up, to 'The meanest
man at Blugsey's'!"

"That _did_ mean _you_, deacon!" exclaimed Tom; "but I claim it myself
now, so--so I won't drink it."

The remainder of the crowd clashed glasses, while Tom and his
father-in-law bowed profoundly. Then the whole crowd went out to steal
horses for the two men, and had them on the trail within an hour. As
they rode off, Stumpy Flukes remarked:

"There's a splendid shot ruined for life."

"Yes," said Boston Ben, with a deep sigh struggling out of his manly
bosom, "an' a bully rassler, too. The Church has got a good deal to
answer fur, fur sp'ilin' that man's chances."

[Illustration]

DEACON BARKER'S CONVERSION.

Of the several pillars of the Church at Pawkin Centre, Deacon Barker was
by all odds the strongest. His orthodoxy was the admiration of the
entire congregation, and the terror of all the ministers within easy
driving distance of the Deacon's native village. He it was who had
argued the late pastor of the Pawkin Centre Church into that state of
disquietude which had carried him, through a few days of delirious
fever, into the Church triumphant; and it was also Deacon Barker whose
questions at the examination of seekers for the ex-pastor's shoes had
cast such consternation into divinity-schools, far and near, that soon
it was very hard to find a candidate for ministerial honors at Pawkin
Centre.

Nor was his faith made manifest by words alone. Be the weather what it
might, the Deacon was always in his pew, both morning and evening, in
time to join in the first hymn, and on every Thursday night, at a
quarter past seven in winter, and a quarter before eight in summer, the
good Deacon's cane and shoes could be heard coming solemnly down the
aisle, bringing to the prayer-meeting the champion of orthodoxy. Nor did
the holy air of the prayer-meeting even one single evening fail to
vibrate to the voice of the Deacon, as he made, in scriptural language,
humble confessions and tearful p