AS HEARD AT THE CLUB by Edison J. Driver

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Nov 13, 1901

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 27, No. 46.

AS HEARD AT THE CLUB.

By Edison J. Driver

ON a club-house veranda the other evening a party of young men were having what they called a high old time, drinking wine and telling yarns. As they became “warmed to it,” their stories grew less and less delicate, and of experiences—well, disgusting! In fact, to the old gentleman who sat near, listening occasionally to a word or two, each bit of spicy talk seemed like a drop of poison for the boys’ minds—slow-working perhaps, but sure.

But by and by the conversation lagged. “Hey, there, cap’n,” cried one of the young men, “asleep? No, well liven up, can’t you, and turn the crank awhile! No, no! not a bit late; go on!”

“I’m afraid I haven’t anything you’d like to hear to-night, boys,” began the old seaman; “a fellow gets a little rusty now and then, you know, even on stories.”

“O, yes you have, Uncle. Say, Watson, get the oil-can—he’s rusty; and you, Jack, come over’n scratch his head, so he can think.”

So of course it was no use trying to get out of it! The old man surrendered with as good grace as he could, and raising his feet till they rested comfortably on the veranda rail, began.

“When I was some twenty years younger than I am just now,” he said, “I was captain of a whaling vessel. The Constitution was as brave and seaworthy a little ship as you could find on the water then, and we were justly proud of her. The crew was a good one, always made good money, and tho in this instance we had been in port but a few days, every one was eager to take advantage of the fine weather and hurry out to sea. So I had men on to overhaul everything, and then we started.

“For a long time the weather was fine, and we were getting along to where we thought of returning. But one day about noon a low bank of clouds appeared on the horizon, and by night we were in the thick of a heavy fog. Of course we didn’t care much then; for we were well loaded with oil and bone, and could easily make port by chart and compass if necessary.

“But one heavy, half-stormy night as I was pacing the deck I was astonished to hear the roar of surf just ahead. As soon as possible we dropped anchor, but it was all too late. A great wave bore us shoreward, and there we were—a shudder told the story—on the rocks. The quarter-boat was quickly lowered, and we started after it, when some one called out that we were fast in the rocks. And sure enough, the ship was wedged in between great chunks of lava so that a gale could not have moved her.

“The next morning we found ourselves on what looked to me like the Greenland coast. ‘But that,’ I remarked, ‘is impossible, for we’re all of forty miles from Greenland.’ Nevertheless this called for an examination of the compass, and what do you think we found? In making repairs some drunken or ignorant workman had used an iron bolt about the compass instead of the proper one of brass. This bolt had attracted the needle, and so in the long run thrown our vessel more than fifty miles out of her course. We were really on the coast of Greenland. There we left our brave Constitution, and probably some of her rusting iron-work lies at the foot of those lava cliffs to-day.

“You asked for a story,” the captain concluded. “I have told you the story of your own lives, at least of their endings, if—”

“But, captain, we don’t understand. Isn’t the comparison rather far fetched?”

“Not a bit. Life is your ship; its compass the mind and conscience God gave you. Each evil act and thought batters the compass up a little, making it less sensitive and effective. These stories you have been enjoying to-night are preparing the way for the iron bolt that will wreck the strongest life. I am going to leave that thought with you now. Good night.” EDISON J. DRIVER.

Fresno, Cal.