The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Tales

Condensed Novels

John Jenkins


The Smoker Reformed

by T.S. A-th-r

Bret Harte

Chapter I

“ONE cigar a day!” said Judge Boompointer.

“One cigar a day!” repeated John Jenkins, as with trepidation he dropped his half-consumed cigar under his work-bench.

“One cigar a day is three cents a day,” remarked Judge Boompointer gravely; “and do you know, sir, what one cigar a day, or three cents a day, amounts to in the course of four years?”

John Jenkins, in his boyhood, had attended the village school, and possessed considerable arithmetical ability. Taking up a shingle which lay upon his work-bench, and producing a piece of chalk, with a feeling of conscious pride he made an exhaustive calculation.

“Exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents,” he replied, wiping the perspiration from his heated brow, while his face flushed with honest enthusiasm.

“Well, sir, if you saved three cents a day, instead of wasting it, you would now be the possessor of a new suit of clothes, an illustrated Family Bible, a pew in the church, a complete set of Patent Office Reports, a hymnbook, and a paid subscription to ‘Arthur’s Home Magazine,’ which could be purchased for exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents; and,” added the Judge, with increasing sternness, “if you calculate leap-year, which you seem to have strangely omitted, you have three cents more, sir—three cents more! What would that buy you, sir?”

“A cigar,” suggested John Jenkins; but, coloring again deeply, he hid his face.

“No, sir,” said the Judge, with a sweet smile of benevolence stealing over his stern features; “properly invested, it would buy you that which passeth all price. Dropped into the missionary-box, who can tell what heathen, now idly and joyously wantoning in nakedness and sin, might be brought to a sense of his miserable condition, and made, through that three cents, to feel the torments of the wicked?”

With these words the Judge retired, leaving John Jenkins buried in profound thought. “Three cents a day,” he muttered. “In forty years I might be worth four hundred and thirty-eight dollars and ten cents,—and then I might marry Mary. Ah, Mary!” The young carpenter sighed, and drawing a twenty-five cent daguerreotype from his vest-pocket, gazed long and fervidly upon the features of a young girl in book muslin and a coral necklace. Then, with a resolute expression, he carefully locked the door of his work-shop, and departed.

Alas! his good resolutions were too late. We trifle with the tide of fortune, which too often nips us in the bud and casts the dark shadow of misfortune over the bright lexicon of youth! That night the half-consumed fragment of John Jenkins’s cigar set fire to his work-shop and burned it up, together with all his tools and materials. There was no insurance.




“Then you still persist in marrying John Jenkins?” queried Judge Boompointer, as he playfully, with paternal familiarity, lifted the golden curls of the village belle, Mary Jones.

“I do,” replied the fair young girl, in a low voice that resembled rock candy in its saccharine firmness,—“I do. He has promised to reform. Since he lost all his property by fire”—

“The result of his pernicious habit, though he illogically persists in charging it to me,” interrupted the Judge.

“Since then,” continued the young girl, “he has endeavored to break himself of the habit. He tells me that he has substituted the stalks of the Indian rattan, the outer part of a leguminous plant called the smoking-bean, and the fragmentary and unconsumed remainder of cigars, which occur at rare and uncertain intervals along the road, which, as he informs me, though deficient in quality and strength, are comparatively inexpensive.” And blushing at her own eloquence, the young girl hid her curls on the Judge’s arm.

“Poor thing!” muttered Judge Boompointer. “Dare I tell her all? Yet I must.”

“I shall cling to him,” continued the young girl, rising with her theme, “as the young vine clings to some hoary ruin. Nay, nay, chide me not, Judge Boompointer. I will marry John Jenkins!”

The Judge was evidently affected. Seating himself at the table, he wrote a few lines hurriedly upon a piece of paper, which he folded and placed in the fingers of the destined bride of John Jenkins.

“Mary Jones,” said the Judge, with impressive earnestness, “take this trifle as a wedding gift from one who respects your fidelity and truthfulness. At the altar let it be a reminder of me.” And covering his face hastily with a handkerchief, the stern and iron-willed man left the room. As the door closed, Mary unfolded the paper. It was an order on the corner grocery for three yards of flannel, a paper of needles, four pounds of soap, one pound of starch, and two boxes of matches!

“Noble and thoughtful man!” was all Mary Jones could exclaim, as she hid her face in her hands and burst into a flood of tears.

The bells of Cloverdale are ringing merrily. It is a wedding. “How beautiful they look!” is the exclamation that passes from lip to lip, as Mary Jones, leaning timidly on the arm of John Jenkins, enters the church. But the bride is agitated, and the bridegroom betrays a feverish nervousness. As they stand in the vestibule, John Jenkins fumbles earnestly in his vest-pocket. Can it be the ring he is anxious about? No. He draws a small brown substance from his pocket, and biting off a piece, hastily replaces the fragment and gazes furtively around. Surely no one saw him? Alas! the eyes of two of that wedding party saw the fatal act. Judge Boompointer shook his head sternly. Mary Jones sighed and breathed a silent prayer. Her husband chewed!



“What! more bread?” said John Jenkins gruffly. “You’re always asking for money for bread. D—nation! Do you want to ruin me by your extravagance?” and as he uttered these words he drew from his pocket a bottle of whiskey, a pipe, and a paper of tobacco. Emptying the first at a draught, he threw the empty bottle at the head of his eldest boy, a youth of twelve summers. The missile struck the child full in the temple, and stretched him a lifeless corpse. Mrs. Jenkins, whom the reader will hardly recognize as the once gay and beautiful Mary Jones, raised the dead body of her son in her arms, and carefully placing the unfortunate youth beside the pump in the back yard, returned with saddened step to the house. At another time, and in brighter days, she might have wept at the occurrence. She was past tears now.

“Father, your conduct is reprehensible!” said little Harrison Jenkins, the youngest boy. “Where do you expect to go when you die?”

“Ah!” said John Jenkins fiercely; “this comes of giving children a liberal education; this is the result of Sabbath-schools. Down, viper!”

A tumbler thrown from the same parental fist laid out the youthful Harrison cold. The four other children had, in the mean time, gathered around the table with anxious expectancy. With a chuckle, the now changed and brutal John Jenkins produced four pipes, and filling them with tobacco, handed one to each of his offspring and bade them smoke. “It’s better than bread!” laughed the wretch hoarsely.

Mary Jenkins, though of a patient nature, felt it her duty now to speak. “I have borne much, John Jenkins,” she said. “But I prefer that the children should not smoke. It is an unclean habit, and soils their clothes. I ask this as a special favor!”

John Jenkins hesitated,—the pangs of remorse began to seize him.

“Promise me this, John!” urged Mary upon her knees.

“I promise!” reluctantly answered John.

“And you will put the money in a savings-bank?”

“I will,” repeated her husband; “and I’ll give up smoking, too.”

“’Tis well, John Jenkins!” said Judge Boompointer, appearing suddenly from behind the door, where he had been concealed during this interview. “Nobly said! my man. Cheer up! I will see that the children are decently buried.” The husband and wife fell into each other’s arms. And Judge Boompointer, gazing upon the affecting spectacle, burst into tears.

From that day John Jenkins was an altered man.

The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Tales

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