Democratic messenger. [volume] (Snow Hill, Md.) 1869-1973, 1882-09-09
THE DEACON'S STRIKE.

The deacon had struck something at
last. And, though the secluded gulch
had been miles away from the nearest
post. the news had spread. The wind,
ruffiing the green plumes of the spruce
above the deacon's head as he bent over
the glittering quartz laid bare by his
pick, may have whispered it abroad. At
any rate, the deacon's strike was a
secret no longer.
Then the prospectors came, and fol.
lowing in their footsteps came the boom.
Then, as if by magic, Mountain City
arose, full of dug-outs ond canvas tents,
struggling up and down the narrow
gulch and terminating in a nucleus of
rudely- built og-houses at its head.
The deacon, whose discovery had
called into existence this city of day,
was in no wise elated at his success.
He altered not title of his ways, but
pursued his daily task of opening the
lead with the same patient endeavor
with which he might have followed the
plow over the rugged hills of his ma
tive New England State.
Regarding the deacon in some sense
as its sponsor, the camp had not been
unkindly disposed toward the morose
old man. 1t had made many efforts at
affiliation, but being always repulsed,
desisted, as it became tacitly understood
it's life and his held little in common.
Naturally the deacon's self-elected
isolation drew upon him many COM
ments. Many were the wild and i'm
probable coniectures as to his history,
but as of this no one knew one iota, it
continued to be a mystery inscrutable.
A little thrill of excitement ran
through the camp, therefore, when it
was rumored the deacon had sold the
"Green Mountain Boy" for a nominal
sum. Nor was it allayed when one
morning the deacon packed his tent
upon the gray burrO and took his de-
parture from their midst.
Away from the haunts of man, in the
solitude of the hills, the deacon seemed
in a more congenial element. His tent
was finally pitched near the summit of
the range on q rugged mountain side,
SCARED and furrowed by the hand of
time, like the deacon's face. Here daily
he prosecuted, in his. slow, determined
way, his search for|the hidden silver
vein somewhere beneath.
Seated near his camp fire one evening,
he was resting after the labors of the
day, distributing, as was his custom,
bits of bread and bacon to the gray
6urrO. Suddenly the 6urrO pyicked his
long ears, and the deacon glancing
around saw a man approaching slowly
from below. AS he drew near he recog-
nized, with anything but pleasure, a
young man who had been the hveliest
OF the camp. His dress, different from
that of the ordinary miner, was stained
and torn, and his face, haggard and
sunken, was turned upon the deacon
with eager expectancy.
81 am famishing," he exclaimed, alb
ruptly, dispensing with any salutation.
"Will you give me something to eat"
For reply the deacon pointed to the
viands beside the smouldering fire.
The other waited for no more, but set
to at once, and as the deacon noticed the
avidity with which he ate, something
like compassion crept over his features.
"From the camp?' he asked at
length, as the other had somewhat satis-
fed his hunger.
eyes left three days ago. have
eaten nothing since till now. My de-
parture was rather sudden, as you can
Judge" he added, with a forced laugh.
"Had some trouble then ?"
"I was invited to leave for the good
of the community by the Vigilance
Committee"
"Ah ~ said the deacon.
81 might tell you it was case OF
mistaken identity, but won't. 1 have
got bad name IN the camp, and my
partner was strung for stopping the
coach, but they couldn't prove it on
me, so they told me to skip"
"They couldn't prove it," said the
deacon, "but did you"
"No, / did not, the other broke in
fiercely. 81 have been bad enough,
but not so bad as that. / told them SO,
but they wouldn't believe it, and 1 do
not expect yon TO. ] have eaten and
rested, and l will go now" he said
wearily, as he rose, trembling still from
exhaustion.
"Go? Where ?"
al don't know and don't care"
''Sit down, and let me think" said
the deacon, quietly.
AAC NAhCA btAIA tnAo lAhCG ~
the FIRE, and for a time neither spoke,
as the deacon continued to feed the
! huTrO.
Deacon" said the young man al
length, 'it was kind Of You to let me
sit here aud eat, and wish you would
believe me innocent OF this last"
"Why should l not? But perhaps
yOu now see, young man, the folly oi
the life you led in camp"
Don't moralize. deacon-not to me-
at least. Ii is too late for that now"
cit is never too late.
"Deacon, you don't know how hard il
is for one to get mp who has been down.
''NO ?" said the deacon, in a curiouslJ
interrogatory tone.
"No; and you don't know what temp
tations such as / have, either, anG
you've not had TO go through what
have-thrown ont TO shift for myself
for my mother died when was q child
and my father"
''Your father ?" said the deacon, in.
quiringly, as the other stopped.