“If that is the case, all the bad stuff ought to have been out of you long ago; you have sworn enough to empty yourself.”

“Nary bisness of yers, any way,” the swearer answered.

“I should think that the more bad stuff you let out, the more there was left, Jake,” continued James. “I don’t want you should empty any more of it about me.”

“What is’t to yer, anyway?” answered the godless fellow, displeased at the rebuke.

“It is a very bad habit, Jake, as you know,” answered James. “It does you no good, and it is very unpleasant to many persons who hear you.”

“Stop your ears, then,” said Jake, angrily.

“There is no use being mad over it, Jake. I don’t like to hear your profanity; and now suppose you just please me a little, and not spill any more of the stuff near me.”

Jake laughed, and turned to his work. He could not be very angry with James, for he thought too much of him. In this frank and honest way James dealt with the men. There was no danger that he would be enticed away by that class of men. Another danger, however, met him in the house, and for a time it was an unsettled question whether Providence or Satan opened that door. If his good mother had been cognizant of what was going on, she would have discovered ample reason for her apprehensions.

A book-loving boy like James would not be long in a strange place without finding all the books there were; so books were among the first things that attracted his attention in Barton’s house. There were “Marryat’s Novels,” “Sindbad the Sailor,” “The Pirate’s Own Book,” “Jack Halyard,” “Lives of Eminent Criminals,” “The Buccaneers of the Caribbean Seas,” plundering a Spanish galleon; and perhaps some others of the same character. The adventure and marvellous exploits contained in these volumes were suited to fire his imagination and inflame his heart. He was thus introduced into a new experience altogether, more perilous to him than a regiment of coarse, brutal men. He made books his most intimate companions, and trusted them with entire confidence. He could read deceitful and designing men around him, and bluff them off; but he took the volumes that he read directly to his heart, and communed with them, as friend communes with friend.

Volume after volume of this pernicious reading was devoured, causing Mr. Barton to remark to others of the “great scholar” in his employ. Barton himself did not understand but that the volumes in his house were as safe for a boy to read as the Bible; nor did he care much. His daughter had purchased these books from time to time, and read them, too, and why should he, ignorant man that he was, appreciate the tendency of such reading? His daughter was a young woman grown, possessing considerable native ability, but little culture, though she was the belle of the town. She wrote poetry occasionally for a paper that had been started in Cleveland, a circumstance that gave her some notoriety among the people.

“I see you like reading,” she said to James one evening, when he was rapt over one of Marryat’s novels.

“There’s nothing I like better. I never read books like these before,” he answered.

“They are very interesting books, I think,” she added.

“You’ve read them, have you?”

“Yes; I bought them, and I have read them all more than once.”

“I think I shall read them more than once. I’m glad I came here to live. These long evenings would be dull for me without books.”