If he can remember this sight, it will save his soul." Tom Davis shrank as the preacher said "hell." He gave a maudlin cry, and almost whimpered, "No, sir, no, preacher, I am a-goin' to reform." John had known what note to touch in this debased nature.

Not love, nor hope, nor shame, would move Tom Davis, but fear stung him into a semblance of sobriety.

"I'll come along wi' you," he went on, swaying back and forth, and steadying himself with a hand on the lumber against which he had been leaning.

"This is the last time, preacher.

You won't see me this way no more." Here he hiccoughed, and then laughed, but remembering himself instantly, drew his forehead into a scowl.
The other men slunk away, for the minister had taken the bottle, and Tom Davis was following him through the narrow passages between the great piles of boards, towards his house.
The boy had gone back to his block house; the pile of sawdust in the sheltered corner was more comfortable and not more cheerless than his own home.
John left Davis at his door.