The people in Pinchbrook said he was a good man, but, they used to add, with a shrug of the shoulders, "pity he drinks." It was a sad pity, but he seemed to have no power over his appetite.

The allusion of Ben to his besetting sin was cruel and mortifying, for the old man had certainly tried to reform, and since the regiment left Boston, he had not tasted the intoxicating cup.

He had declared before the mess that he had stopped drinking; so his resolution was known to all his companions, though none of them had much confidence in his ability to carry it out.
"I didn't speak to you, Tom Somers," said Ben, sharply.
"You said a mean thing in my presence." "By and by we shall be having a prayer meeting in our tent every night." "If you are invited I hope you will come," added Tom, "for if prayers will do any body any good, they won't hurt you." "If you will take care of yourself, and let me alone, it's all I ask of you." "I'm agreed." This was about the last of the skirmishing between Tom and Ben.

The latter was a little disposed to be bully; and from the time the company left Pinchbrook, he had been in the habit of calling Tom a baby, and other opprobrious terms, till the subject of his sneers could endure them no longer.

Tom had come to the conclusion that he could obtain respectful treatment only by the course he had adopted.