The orator was certainly very well informed, logical and convincing, besides being quite witty.  He proved to the satisfaction of all present that alcohol was not nutritious; that it awakened a general and unhealthy physical excitement; and that it hardened the tissues of the brain.  He proved by reports of analyses, that adulteration, and with harmful materials, was largely practiced.  He quoted from reports of police, prison and almshouse authorities, to prove his statement that alcohol made most of our criminals.  He unrolled a formidable array of statistics, and showed how many loaves of bread could be bought with the money expended in the United States for intoxicating liquors; how many comfortable houses the same money would build; how many schools it would support; and how soon it would pay the National Debt.

Then he drew a moving picture of the sorrow of the drunkard’s family and the awfulness of the drunkard’s death, and sat down amid a perfect thunder of applause.

The faithful beamed upon each other with glowing and expressive countenances; the Cornet Quartette played “Don’t you go, Tommy”; the smallest young lady sang “Father, dear father, come Home with me Now”; and then Squire Breet, the Chairman, announced that the meeting was open for remarks.

A derisive laugh from some of the half-grown boys, and a titter from some of the misses, attracted the attention of the audience, and looking round they saw Joe Digg standing up in a pew near the door.

“Put him out!” “It’s a shame!” “Disgraceful!” were some of the cries which were heard in the room.

“Mr. Digg is a citizen of Backley,” said the Chairman, rapping vigorously to call the audience to order, “and though not a member of the Association, he is entitled to a hearing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Joe Digg, when quiet was restored; “your words are the first respectful ones I’ve ever heard in Backley, an’ I do assure you I appreciate ’em.  But I want the audience to understand I ain’t drunk—­I haven’t had a cent for two days, an’ nobody’s treated me.”

By this time the audience was very quiet, but in a delicious fever of excitement.  A drunkard speaking right out in a temperance meeting!—­they had never heard of such a thing in their lives.  Verily, Backley was going to add one to the roll of modest villages made famous by unusual occurrences.

“I ’spose, Mr. Chairman,” continued Joe Digg, “that the pint of temp’rance meetin’s is to stop drunkenness, an’ as I’m about the only fully developed drunkard in town, I’m most likely to know what this meetin’s ’mounted to.”

Squire Breet inclined his head slightly, as if to admit the correctness of Joe Digg’s position.

“I believe ev’ry word the gentleman has said,” continued the drunkard, “and”—­here he paused long enough to let an excitable member exclaim “Bless the Lord!” and burst into tears—­“and he could have put it all a good deal stronger without stretchin’ the truth.  An’ the sorrer of a drunkard’s home can be talked about ‘till the Dictionary runs dry, an’ then ye don’t know nothin’ ’bout it.  But hain’t none of ye ever laughed ‘bout lockin’ the stable door after the hoss is stolen?  That’s just what this temp’rance meetin’ an’ all the others comes to.”