Sandy's Partner by W. J. Chase

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Feb 2, 1882

Sandy's Partner.

By W. J. Chase

You know how quickly news spreads in a small town. As soon as anything unusual happens, there are always people ready to carry the news about, so that one cannot long escape hearing of it. So it is not strange that when Sandy McNeil announced his intention of closing his saloon, half the town heard of it before night. I heard of it sooner than many, because I had worked to get that saloon closed—worked long and hard, appealing to the law, to the people, and to Sandy himself. I knew Sandy—knew him before he began his cursed life-destroying traffic, and though he was a coarse, hard man, wholly given up to the spirit of this world, I did not at first despair of convincing him of the sinfulness of liquor-selling, and of persuading him to abandon it. I had even kept up a sort of friendliness for him all through my fight against his saloon, which he was too sensible to take mortal offense at.

"You're doing what you have a right to do, and so am I," he said. "Beat me, and I'll give in, provided you'll do the same."

"I'm bound to fight against the saloon," I answered; "but I have no desire to annoy you—unnecessarily, that is. If you will agree to close your bar, I'll take your liquor off your hands, so you'll lose nothing."

"What will you do with it?" he asked slyly.

"Pour it in the street, make liniment of it, or put it to some honest use. No human being shall taste a drop of it, you may be sure."

"I dare say, but I don't care to sell. Go ahead and fight me. I'll fight fair if you will."

So we tried it, and as I said, I was beaten. The court upheld Sandy, and the majority of the voters refused to vote for prohibition, so I had to give in with the best possible grace, and turn my attention to other branches of temperance work.

Hence, I was surprised to hear it reported that Sandy had voluntarily closed his saloon, and it was with curiosity not unmixed with skepticism, that I hastened to learn the truth. The saloon was closed, sure enough, and that fact was announced by a notice posted on the door. But Sandy was nowhere about, and no one else knew the reason for his sudden decision. Apparently the saloon keeper had gone away to avoid questioning, but I was too much interested to let the matter rest, so I posted off to hunt him up. Finally I found him.

"Well, Sandy," I said, "have you closed the saloon?"

"I should think you could see that," he answered, shortly.

"Yes, but what I want to know is, have you closed it for good?"

"I thought it was your belief that all closing of saloons was for good. But I've closed her to stay, if that's what you mean."

"That is for good, I am sure," I answered. "How came you to do it?"

"Thought it wouldn't pay."

"But I tried to convince you of that, and couldn't. Who else has been laboring with you?"

"I cannot say," he answered, mysteriously.

"Do you stick by your offer to take the liquor off my hands?"

"Yes," I said, hesitating a little, "if you'll tell me what brought you round."

"I'd sooner give you the stock," he said, "take it, and do as you like with it; and if you get anything from it, use it for temperance."

"Thank you, Sandy," I answered; "but I wish you would tell me all about it. I really want to know, Sandy, for it might help me in my work."

"It would not help you," said Sandy; "you could not make people dream as I did, and if you could, maybe it would not affect them."

"So it was a dream?"

"It must have been, and yet I can scarcely believe it yet. Listen, and I'll tell you. Last night I was staying in the bar-room till pretty late—after turning out my latest customer, Rob Tipple, because he had no money, and was bothering me for credit. I was leaning against the bar, and I may have dozed a little. Suddenly the door opened, and Seldrink, the drummer from the wholesale dealer that supplies me, came in. I was rather surprised to see him, for I did not expect him for a week yet, but I welcomed him, and we had a drink together, and sat down to talk over the state of the trade. We were looking over the books and calculating what supplies I'd need, when I turned my head and saw Rob Tipple coming in the door and making for the bottle I had left on the counter. I reached it first, and then he began to beg and whine for a drink, as he had done in the evening. Of course I refused him.

"'Just a sip, Sandy,' he said, 'for old time's sake. Consider how much money I've spent with you.'"

"'If you have spent your money, you have had the drinks,' says I; 'we're square as far as that goes, barring your account on the books.'"

"'It isn't the money altogether. Think of what else I have spent here. Think of the precious time wasted; of the health, honor, principle, and good name—all that makes life worth living, which I have thrown away here. Look at me and remember what I was—look at my home and remember what it was before you opened this saloon; and look at me and my home now. All these have I given for this cursed appetite for drink, which you refuse to gratify. Give it to me! Oh, give it to me, Sandy! 'Tis the only way I can forget what I have lost!'"

"'Come, get out of here' I said. 'I don't want to hear any such talk. I sold you the liquor, but it was you that made a sot of yourself. I have nothing to do with that. I pay for my liquor and my license, and run the ordinary risks of business, and if I make it pay, that's my own affair. I sell the liquor, but you drink it, and whether you make that pay or not is your lookout.'"

"'Say, you have not mentioned all of our liabilities,' put in Seldrink, looking over my shoulder. 'Our liabilities, I say, for we are partners, ain't we Sandy?'"

"I looked at him, and I declare, if I had not known it was Seldrink, I'd have thought it was Satan himself. There were horns sprouting out on both sides of his head, and he looked for all the world like the picture of 'auld hornie,' in the book my grandmother taught me to read in.

"'We're partners,' he said, chuckling; 'we both take pleasure and profit from sin and misery. We'll have to pay for it some day, but the lake of fire and brimstone is a long way off yet, and there's time to do any amount of devil's work yet. 'Woe be to him by whom the offense cometh,' that doesn't touch us, Sandy, my boy. We don't make sots or sinners. We only lay the trap, and 'they are drawn away of their own lusts and enticed.' Go ahead, Sandy, and more power to you. Keep your profit. I work for you, but I don't want pay of that kind. Give me the pleasure of exulting in your success. Ta! ta! See you later, partner! Guess I'll see you last of all, if you come to that!'"

"And with a fiendish laugh he disappeared, and I—I either fainted or slipped down to the floor and woke up, for the next thing I knew I was lying on the floor, and it was past midnight.

"So I have closed the saloon, for I don't exactly like the idea of being the devil's partner. I ain't altogether converted to temperance yet, but I don't feel right about selling liquor."

"Well, Sandy," said I, "you have made a good beginning, and I only wish other saloon keepers would see that it is not to their interest to keep up their partnership with the father of evil. As for not being altogether converted to my way of thinking, all I ask of you is to investigate. Come with me; come and see Rob Tipple's family, for instance, and you will agree that I am not as fanatically mistaken as you have been accustomed to think."—W. J. Chase, in Church and Home.