All Lockhaven loved and feared John Ward.
John had not spoken, even though a little boy, building block houses on a heap of sawdust near the men, had come up and taken his hand with a look of confident affection.
The man who had saved the whiskey stumbled to his feet, and leaning against a pile of lumber stood open-mouthed, waiting for the preacher's rebuke; but Davis hung his head, and began to fumble for a pipe in his sagging coat pocket; with clumsy fingers, scattering the tobacco from his little bag, he tried to fill it.
"Tom," the preacher said, at last, "I want you to come home with me, now.
And Jim, you will give me that bottle." "I can't go home, preacher.

I've got to buy some things.

She said I was to buy some things for the brats." "Have you bought them ?" John asked.

Tom gave a silly laugh.
"Not yet, preacher, not yet." "Listen, men," John said, with sudden sternness.

"You have let this child see you on the road to hell.