“Up-hill work,” he muttered to himself, as he strode onward.

An hour’s brisk walking brought him to the residence of Mr. Jones, nearly four miles away from the little town in which he lived, where he entered upon his day’s work, resolved that, henceforth, he would be a reformed man.  At first he was nervous, from want of his accustomed stimulus, and handled his tools awkwardly.  But after awhile, as the blood began to circulate more freely, the tone of his system came up to a healthier action.

About eleven o’clock Mr. Jones came out to the building upon which Braddock was at work, and after chatting a little, said—­

“This is grog time, aint it, Jim?”

“Yes sir, I believe it is,” was the reply.

“Well, knock off then for a little while, and come into the house and take a dram.”

Now Mr. Jones was a very moderate drinker himself, scarcely touching liquor for weeks at a time, unless in company.  But he always kept it in the house, and always gave it to his workmen, as a matter of course, at eleven o’clock.  Had he been aware of Braddock’s effort to reform himself, he would as soon have thought of offering him poison to drink as whiskey.  But, knowing his habits, he concluded, naturally, that the grog was indispensable, and tendered it to him as he had always done before, on like occasions.

“I’ve signed the pledge,” were the words that instantly formed themselves in the mind of Braddock—­but were instantly set aside, as that reason for not drinking would not have been the true one.  Could he have said that, all difficulty would have vanished in a moment.

“No objection, Mr. Jones,” was then uttered, and off he started for the house, resolutely keeping down every reason that struggled in his mind to rise and be heard.

The image of Mr. Jones, standing before him, with a smiling invitation to come and take a glass, backed by his own instantly aroused inclinations, had been too strong an inducement.  He felt, too, that it would have been rudeness to decline the proffered hospitality.

“That’s not bad to take, Mr. Jones,” he said, smacking his lips, after turning off a stiff glass.

“No, it is not, Jim.  That’s as fine an article of whiskey as I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Jones replied, a little flattered at Braddock’s approval of his liquor.  “You’re a good judge of such matters.”

“I ought to be.”  And as Jim said this, he turned out another glass.

“That’s right—­help yourself,” was Mr. Jones’ encouraging remark, as he saw this.

“I never was backward at that, you know, Mr. Jones.”  After eating a cracker and a piece of cheese, and taking a third drink, Braddock went back and resumed his work, feeling quite happy.

After dinner Mr. Jones handed him the bottle again, and did the same when he knocked off in the evening.  Of course, he was very far from being sober when he started for home.  As he came into town, his way was past Harry Arnold’s, whose shop he entered, and was received with a round of applause by his old associates, who saw at a glance that Jim was “a little disguised.”  Their jokes were all received in good part, and parried by treating all around.