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That Printer of Udell's: A Story of the Middle West

by Harold Bell Wright · English · Gutenberg #6384 · 499,360 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: That Printer of Udell's: A Story of the Middle West

Author: Harold Bell Wright


        
Release date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6384]
                Most recently updated: August 7, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6384

Credits: Produced by Vital Debroey, Charles Aldarondo and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THAT PRINTER OF UDELL'S: A STORY OF THE MIDDLE WEST ***




Produced by Vital Debroey, Charles Aldarondo and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.










[Frontispice illustration: "Come on, Smoke, we've gotter go now."]




       THAT PRINTER OF UDELL'S


      A STORY OF THE MIDDLE WEST


       BY HAROLD BELL WRIGHT





           DEDICATION

  TO THAT FRIEND WHOSE LIFE HAS TAUGHT ME
  MANY BEAUTIFUL TRUTHS; WHOSE WORDS
  HAVE STRENGTHENED AND ENCOURAGED ME
  TO LIVE MORE TRUE TO MY GOD, MY FELLOWS
  AND MYSELF; WHO HOPED FOR ME WHEN
  OTHERS LOST HOPE; WHO BELIEVED IN ME
  WHEN OTHERS COULD NOT; WHO SAW GOOD
  WHEN OTHERS LOOKED FOR EVIL; TO THAT
  FRIEND, WHOEVER HE IS, WHEREVER HE MAY
  BE, I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THIS STORY.

                   H. B. W.



  "And the King shall answer and say unto
  them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch
  as ye did it unto one of these my brethren,
  even these least, ye did it unto me."




CHAPTER I


"O God, take ker' o' Dick!--He'll sure have a tough time when I'm
gone,--an' I'm er' goin'--mighty fast I reckon.--I know I aint done
much ter brag on,--Lord,--but I aint had nary show.--I allus 'low'd
ter do ye better,--but hit's jes' kept me scratchin'--ter do fer me
an' Dick,--an' somehow I aint had time--ter sarve--ye like I ought.--An'
my man he's most ways--no 'count an' triflin',--Lord,--'cepten when
he likers up,--an' then,--you know how he uses me an' Dick.--But Dick,
he aint no ways ter blame--fer what his dad an' mammy is,--an' I ax
ye--fair,--o Lord,--take ker o' him--fer--Jesus' sake--Amen."

"Dick!--O Dick,--whar are ye honey?"

A hollow-cheeked wisp of a boy arose from the dark corner where he had
been crouching like a frightened animal, and with cautious steps drew
near the bed. Timidly he touched the wasted hand that lay upon the
dirty coverlid.

"What ye want, maw?"

The woman hushed her moaning and turned her face, upon which the shadow
was already fallen, toward the boy. "I'm er goin'--mighty fast,--Dicky,"
she said, in a voice that was scarcely audible. "Whar's yer paw?"

Bending closer to the face upon the pillow, the lad pointed with
trembling finger toward the other end of the cabin and whispered, while
his eyes grew big with fear, "Sh--, he's full ergin. Bin down ter th'
stillhouse all evenin'--Don't stir him, maw, er we'll git licked some
more. Tell me what ye want."

But his only answer was that broken prayer as the sufferer turned to
the wail again. "O Lord, take ker o'--"

A stick of wood in the fire-place burned in two and fell with a soft
thud on the ashes; a lean hound crept stealthily to the boy's side and
thrust a cold muzzle against his ragged jacket; in the cupboard a mouse
rustled over the rude dishes and among the scanty handful of provisions.

Then, cursing foully in his sleep, the drunkard stirred uneasily and
the dog slunk beneath the bed, while the boy stood shaking with fear
until all was still again. Reaching out, he touched once more that
clammy hand upon the dirty coverlid. No movement answered to his touch.
Reaching farther, he cautiously laid his fingers upon the ashy-colored
temple, awkwardly brushing back a thin lock of the tangled hair. The
face, like the hand, was cold. With a look of awe and horror in his
eyes, the child caught his parent by the shoulder and shook the lifeless
form while he tried again and again to make her hear his whispered
words.

"Maw! Maw! Wake up; hit'l be day purty soon an' we can go and git some
greens; an' I'll take the gig an' kill some fish fer you; the's a big
channel cat in the hole jes' above the riffles; I seed 'im ter day
when I crost in the john boat. Say Maw, I done set a dead fall
yester'd', d' reckon I'll ketch anythin'? Wish't it 'ud be a coon,
don't you?--Maw! O Maw, the meal's most gone. I only made a little
pone las' night; thar's some left fer you. Shant I fix ye some 'fore
dad wakes up?"

But there was no answer to his pleading, and, ceasing his efforts, the
lad sank on his knees by the rude bed, not daring even to give open
expression to his grief lest he arouse the drunken sleeper by the
fireplace. For a long time he knelt there, clasping the cold hand of
his lifeless mother, until the lean hound crept again to his side, and
thrusting that cold muzzle against his cheek, licked the salt tears,
that fell so hot.

At last, just as the first flush of day stained the eastern sky, and
the light tipped the old pine tree on the hill with glory, the boy
rose to his feet. Placing his hand on the head of his only comforter,
he whispered, "Come on, Smoke, we've gotter go now." And together boy
and dog crept softly across the room and stole out of the cabin
door--out of the cabin door, into the beautiful light of the new day.
And the drunken brute still slept on the floor by the open fire-place,
but the fire was dead upon the hearth.

"He can't hurt maw any more, Smoke," said the lad, when the two were
at a safe distance. "No, he sure can't lick her agin, an' me an' you
kin rustle fer ourselves, I reckon."

       *       *       *       *       *

Sixteen years later, in the early gray of another morning, a young man
crawled from beneath a stack of straw on the outskirts of Boyd City,
a busy, bustling mining town of some fifteen thousand people, in one
of the middle western states, many miles from the rude cabin that stood
beneath the hill.

The night before, he had approached the town from the east, along the
road that leads past Mount Olive, and hungry, cold and weary, had
sought shelter of the friendly stack, much preferring a bed of straw
and the companionship of cattle to any lodging place he might find in
the city, less clean and among a ruder company.

It was early March and the smoke from a nearby block of smelters was
lost in a chilling mist, while a raw wind made the young man shiver
as he stood picking the bits of straw from his clothing. When he had
brushed his garments as best he could and had stretched his numb and
stiffened limbs, he looked long and thoughtfully at the city lying
half hidden in its shroud of gray.

"I wonder"--he began, talking to himself and thinking grimly of the
fifteen cents in his right-hand pants pocket--"I wonder if--"

"Mornin' pard," said a voice at his elbow. "Ruther late when ye got
in las' night, warn't it?"

The young man jumped, and turning faced a genuine specimen of the genus
hobo. "Did you sleep in this straw-stack last night?" he ejaculated,
after carefully taking the ragged fellow's measure with a practiced
eye.

"Sure; this here's the hotel whar I put up--slept in the room jes'
acrost the hall from your'n.--Whar ye goin' ter eat?"--with a hungry
look.

"Don't know. Did you have any supper last night?"

"Nope, supper was done et when I got in."

"Same here."

"I didn't have nothin' fer dinner neither," continued the tramp, "an'
I'm er gettin' powerful weak."

The other thought of his fifteen cents. "Where are you going?" he said
shortly.

The ragged one jerked his thumb toward the city. "Hear'd as how thar's
a right smart o' work yonder and I'm on the hunt fer a job."

"What do you do?"

"Tendin' mason's my strong-holt. I've done most ever'thing though;
used ter work on a farm, and puttered round a saw-mill some in the
Arkansaw pineries. Aim ter strike a job at somethin' and go back thar
where I know folks. Nobody won't give a feller nuthin' in this yer
God-fer-saken country; haint asked me ter set down fer a month. Back
home they're allus glad ter have a man eat with 'em. I'll sure be all
right thar."

The fellow's voice dropped to the pitiful, pleading, insinuating whine
of the professional tramp.

The young man stood looking at him. Good-for-nothing was written in
every line of the shiftless, shambling figure, and pictured in every
rag of the fluttering raiment, and yet--the fellow really was
hungry,--and again came the thought of that fifteen cents. The young
man was hungry himself; had been hungry many a time in the past, and
downright, gnawing, helpless hunger is a great leveler of mankind; in
fact, it is just about the only real bond of fellowship between men.
"Come on," he said at last, "I've got fifteen cents; I reckon we can
find something to eat." And the two set out toward the city together.

Passing a deserted mining shaft and crossing the railroad, they entered
the southern portion of the town, and continued west until they reached
the main street, where they stopped at a little grocery store on the
corner. The one with the fifteen cents invested two-thirds of his
capital in crackers and cheese, his companion reminding the grocer
meanwhile that he might throw in a little extra, "seein' as how they
were the first customers that mornin'." The merchant, good-naturedly
did so, and then turned to answer the other's question about work.

"What can you do?"

"I'm a printer by trade, but will do anything."

"How does it happen you are out of work?"

"I was thrown out by the Kansas City strike and have been unable to
find a place since."

"Is he looking for work too?" with a glance that made his customer's
face flush, and a nod toward the fellow from Arkansas, who sat on a
box near the stove rapidly making away with more than his half of the
breakfast.

The other shrugged his shoulders, "We woke up in the same straw-stack
this morning and he was hungry, that's all."

"Well," returned the store-keeper, as he dropped the lid of the cracker
box with a bang, "You'll not be bothered with him long if you are
really hunting a job."

"You put me on the track of a job and I'll show you whether I mean
business or not," was the quick reply. To which the grocer made answer
as he turned to his task of dusting the shelves: "There's lots of work
in Boyd City and lots of men to do it."

The stranger had walked but a little way down the street when a voice
close behind him said, "I'm erbliged ter ye for the feed, pard; reckon
I'll shove erlong now."

He stopped and the other continued: "Don't much like the looks of this
yer' place no how, an' a feller w'at jes' come by, he said as how thar
war heaps o' work in Jonesville, forty miles below. Reckon I'll shove
erlong. Aint got the price of er drink hev' ye? Can't ye set 'em up
jest fer old times' sake ye know?" and a cunning gleam crept into the
bloodshot eyes of the vagabond.

The other started as he looked keenly at the bloated features of the
creature before him, and there was a note of mingled fear and defiance
in his voice as he said, "What do you mean? What do you know about old
times?"

The tramp shuffled uneasily, but replied with a knowing leer,
"Aint ye Dicky Falkner what used ter live cross the river from
Jimpson's still-house?"

"Well, what of it?" The note of defiance was stronger.

"Oh nuthin, only I'm Jake Tompkins, that used ter work fer Jimpson at
the still. Me 'n yer daddy war pards; I used ter set 'em up ter him
heap o' times."

"Yes," replied Dick bitterly, "I know you now. You gave my father
whiskey and then laughed when he went home drunk and drove my mother
from the cabin to spend the night in the brush. You know it killed
her."

"Yer maw allus was weakly-like," faltered the other; "she'd no call
ter hitch up with Bill Falkner no how; she ort ter took a man with
book larnin' like her daddy, ole Jedge White. It allus made yer paw
mad 'cause she knowed more'n him. But Bill lowed he'd tame her an' he
shor' tried hit on. Too bad she went an' died, but she ort ter knowed
a man o' Bill's spirit would a took his licker when he wanted hit. I
recollect ye used ter take a right smart lot yerself fer a kid."

The defiance in the young man's voice gave way to a note of hopeless
despair. "Yes," he said, "you and dad made me drink the stuff before
I was old enough to know what it would do for me." Then, with a bitter
oath, he continued, half to himself, "What difference does it make
anyway. Every time I try to break loose something reaches out and pulls
me down again. I thought I was free this time sure and here comes this
thing. I might as well go to the devil and done with it. Why shouldn't
I drink if I want to; whose business is it but my own?" He looked
around for the familiar sign of a saloon.

"That's the talk," exclaimed the other with a swagger. "That's how yer
paw used ter put it. Your maw warn't much good no how, with her finicky
notions 'bout eddicati'n an' sech. A little pone and baken with plenty
good ol' red eye's good 'nough fer us. Yer maw she--"

But he never finished, for Dick caught him by the throat with his left
hand, the other clenched ready to strike. The tramp shrank back in a
frightened, cowering heap.

"You beast," cried the young man with another oath. "If you dare to
take my mother's name in your foul mouth again I'll kill you with my
bare hands."

"I didn't go fer to do hit. 'Fore God I didn't go ter. Lemme go Dicky;
me'n yer daddy war pards. Lemme go. Yer paw an' me won't bother ye no
more Dicky; he can't; he's dead."

"Dead!" Dick released his grasp and the other sprang to a safe
distance.--"Dead!" He gazed at the quaking wretch before him in
amazement.

The tramp nodded sullenly, feeling at his throat. "Yep, dead," he said
hoarsely. "Me an' him war bummin' a freight out o' St. Louie, an' he
slipped. I know he war killed 'cause I saw 'em pick him up; six cars
went over him an' they kept me in hock fer two months."

Dick sat down on the curbing and buried his face in his hands.
"Dead--Dead"--he softly repeated to himself. "Dad is dead--killed by
the cars in St. Louis.--Dead--Dead--"

Then all the past life came back to him with a rush: the cabin home
across the river from the distillery; the still-house itself, with the
rough men who gathered there; the neighboring shanties with their
sickly, sad-faced women, and dirty, quarreling children; the store and
blacksmith shop at the crossroads in the pinery seven miles away. He
saw the river flowing sluggishly at times between banks of drooping
willows and tall marsh grass, as though smitten with the fatal spirit
of the place, then breaking into hurried movement over pebbly shoals
as though trying to escape to some healthier climate; the hill where
stood the old pine tree; the cave beneath the great rock by the spring;
and the persimmon grove in the bottoms. Then once more he suffered
with his mother, from his drunken father's rage and every detail of
that awful night in the brush, with the long days and nights of sickness
that followed before her death, came back so vividly that he wept again
with his face in his hands as he had cried by the rude bedside in the
cabin sixteen years ago. Then came the years when he had wandered from
his early home and had learned to know life in the great cities. What
a life he had found it. He shuddered as it all came back to him now.
The many times when inspired by the memory of his mother, he had tried
to break away from the evil, degrading things that were in and about
him, and the many times he had been dragged back by the training and
memory of his father; the gambling, the fighting, the drinking, the
periods of hard work, the struggle to master his trade, and the reckless
wasting of wages in times of wild despair again. And now his father
was dead--dead--he shuddered. There was nothing to bind him to the
past now; he was free.

"Can't ye give me that drink, Dicky? Jest one little horn. It'll do
us both good, an' then I'll shove erlong; jes fer old times' sake, ye
know."

The voice of the tramp broke in upon his thoughts. For a moment longer
he sat there; then started to his feet, a new light in his eye; a new
ring in his voice.

"No, Jake," he said slowly; "I wouldn't if I could now. I'm done with
the old times forever." He threw up his head and stood proudly erect
while the tramp gazed in awe at something in his face he had never
seen before.

"I have only five cents in the world," continued Dick. "Here, take it.
You'll be hungry again soon and--and--Good bye, Jake--Good bye--" He
turned and walked swiftly away while the other stood staring in
astonishment and wonder, first at the coin in his hand, then at the
retreating figure. Then with an exclamation, the ragged fellow wheeled
and started in the opposite direction toward the railroad yards, to
catch a south-bound freight.

Dick had walked scarcely a block when a lean hound came trotting across
the street. "Dear old Smoke," he said to himself, his mind going back
to the companion of his early struggle--"Dear old Smoke." Then as the
half-starved creature came timidly to his side and looked up at him
with pleading eyes, he remembered his share of the breakfast, still
untouched, in his pocket. "You look like an old friend of mine," he
continued, as he stooped to pat the bony head, "a friend who is never
hungry now--, but you're hungry aren't you?" A low whine answered him.
"Yes, you're hungry all right." And the next moment a wagging tail was
eloquently giving thanks for the rest of the crackers and cheese.

The factories and mills of the city gave forth their early greeting,
while the sun tried in vain to drive away the chilly mist. Men with
dinner buckets on their arms went hurrying along at call of the
whistles, shop-keepers were sweeping, dusting and arranging their
goods, a street-car full of miners passed, with clanging gong; and the
fire department horses, out for their morning exercise, clattered down
the street. Amid the busy scene walked Dick, without work, without
money, without friends, but with a new purpose in his heart that was
more than meat or drink. A new feeling of freedom and power made him
lift his head and move with a firm and steady step.

All that morning he sought for employment, inquiring at the stores and
shops, but receiving little or no encouragement. Toward noon, while
waiting for an opportunity to interview the proprietor of a store, he
picked up a daily paper that was lying on the counter, and turning to
the "want" column, read an advertisement for a man to do general work
about the barn and yard. When he had received the usual answer to his
request for work, he went at once to the address given in the paper.

"Is Mr. Goodrich in?" he asked of the young man who came forward with
a look of inquiry on his face.

"What do you want?" was the curt reply.

"I want to see Mr. Goodrich," came the answer in tones even sharper,
and the young man conducted him to the door of the office.

"Well," said a portly middle-aged gentleman, when he had finished
dictating a letter to the young lady seated at the typewriter, "What
do you want?"

"I came in answer to your ad in this morning's Whistler," answered
Dick.

"Umph--Where did you work last?"

"At Kansas City. I'm a printer by trade, but willing to do anything
until I get a start."

"Why aren't you working at your trade?"

"I was thrown out by the strike and have been unable to find anything
since."

A look of anger and scorn swept over the merchant's face. "So you're
one of that lot, are you? Why don't you fellows learn to take what you
can get? Look there." He pointed to a pile of pamphlets lying on the
table. "Just came in to-day; they cost me fifty per cent more than I
ever paid before, just because you cattle can't be satisfied; and now
you want me to give you a place. If I had my way, I'd give you, and
such as you, work on the rock pile." And he wheeled his chair toward
his desk again.

"But," said Dick, "I'm hungry--I must do something--I'm not a
beggar--I'll earn every cent you pay me."

"I tell you no," shouted the other. "I won't have men about me who
look above their position," and he picked up his pen.

"But, Sir," said Dick again, "what am I to do?"

"I don't care what you do," returned the other. "There is a stone-yard
here for such as you."

"Sir," answered Dick, standing very straight, his face as pale as
death. "Sir, you will yet learn that it does matter very much what
such fellows as I do, and some day you will be glad to apologize for
your words this morning. I am no more worthy to work on the rock pile
than yourself. As a man, I am every bit your equal, and will live to
prove it. Good morning, Sir." And he marched out of the office like
a soldier on parade, leaving the young lady at the typewriter motionless
with amazement, and her employer dumb with rage.

What induced him to utter such words Dick could not say; he only knew
that they were true, and they seemed somehow to be forced from him;
though in spite of his just anger he laughed at the ridiculousness of
the situation before he was fairly away from the building.

The factory whistles blew for dinner, but there was no dinner for Dick;
they blew again for work at one o'clock, but still there was nothing
for Dick to do. All that afternoon he continued his search with the
same result--We don't need you. Some, it is true, were kind in their
answers. One old gentleman, a real estate man, Dick felt sure was about
to help him, but he was called away on business, and the poor fellow
went on his weary search again.

Then the whistles blew for six o'clock, and the workmen, their faces
stained with the marks of toil, hurried along the streets toward home;
clerks and business men crowded the restaurants and lunch counters,
the street cars were filled with shoppers going to their evening meal.
Through hungry eyes, Dick watched the throng, wondering what each
worked at during the day and what they would have for supper.

The sun went behind a bank of dull, lead-colored clouds and the wind
sprang up again, so sharp and cold that the citizens turned up the
collars of their coats and drew their wraps about them, while Dick
sought shelter from the chilly blast in an open hallway. Suddenly a
policeman appeared before him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," answered Dick.

"Wal, ye'd better be doing something. I've had my eye on you all the
afternoon. I'll run ye in if I ketch ye hanging round any more. Get
a move on now." And Dick stepped out on the sidewalk once more to face
the bitter wind.

Walking as rapidly as possible, he made his way north on Broadway,
past the big hotel, all aglow with light and warmth, past the vacant
lots and the bicycle factory, until he reached the ruins of an old
smelter just beyond the Missouri Pacific tracks. He had noticed the
place earlier in the day as he passed it on his way to the brickyard.
Groping about over the fallen walls of the furnace, stumbling over
scraps of iron and broken timbers in the dusk, he searched for a corner
that would in some measure protect him from the wind. It grew dark
very fast, and soon he tripped and fell against an old boiler lying
upturned in the ruin. Throwing out his hand to save himself, by chance,
he caught the door of the firebox, and in a moment more was inside,
crouching in the accumulated dirt, iron rust and ashes. At least the
wind could not get at him here; and leaning his back against the iron
wall of his strange bed-room, tired and hungry, he fell asleep.




CHAPTER II


The next morning Dick crawled from his rude lodging place stiff and
sore, and after making his toilet as best he could, started again on
his search for employment. It was nearly noon when he met a man who
in answer to his inquiry said: "I'm out of a job myself, stranger, but
I've got a little money left; you look hungry."

Dick admitted that he had had no breakfast.

"Tell you what I'll do," said the other. "I ain't got much, but we can
go to a joint I know of where they set up a big free lunch. I'll pay
for the beer and you can wade into the lunch."

Poor Dick, weak from hunger, chilled with the March winds, tired and
discouraged, he forgot his resolve of the day before and followed his
would-be benefactor. It was not far and they soon stood in a well-warmed
saloon. The grateful heat, the polished furniture, the rows of bottles
and glasses, the clean-looking, white-jacketed and aproned bar-tender,
and the merry air of those whom he served, were all wonderfully
attractive to the poor shivering wanderer from out in the cold. And
then there was the long table well loaded with strong, hot food. The
starving fellow started toward it eagerly, with outstretched hand.
"Two beers here," cried his companion.

Then Dick remembered his purpose. The hand reaching out to grasp the
food was withdrawn; his pale face grew more haggard. "My God!" he
thought, "what can I do. I must have food."

He saw the bartender take two large glasses from the shelf. His whole
physical being plead with him, demanding food and drink, and shaking
like a leaf he gazed about him with the air of a hunted thing.

He saw one of the glasses in the hand of the man in the white jacket
and apron filling with the amber liquid. A moment more and--"Stop!"
he cried, rushing toward the one who held the glasses. "Stop! it's a
mistake. I don't drink."

The man paused and looked around with an evil leer, one glass still
unfilled in his hand. Then with a brutal oath, "What are ye in here
for then?"

Dick trembled. "I--I--was cold and hungry--" his eyes sought the food
on the table--"and--and--this gentleman asked me to come. He's not to
blame; he thought I wanted a drink."

His new-found friend looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Oh take
a glass, stranger. You need it; and then help yourself to the lunch."

Dick shook his head; he could not speak.

"Look here!" broke in the bartender, with another string of vile
language, as he quickly filled the empty glass and set it on the counter
before Dick. "You drink this er git out. That there lunch is fer our
customers and we aint got no room fer temperance cranks er bums.
Which'll it be? Talk quick."

Dick's eyes went from the food to the liquor; then to the saloon man's
hard face, while a strange hush fell over those who witnessed the
scene. Slowly the stranger swept the room with a pleading glance, but
met only curious indifference on every side. Again he turned to the
food and liquor, and put out his hand. A light of triumph flashed in
the eyes of the man behind the bar, but the hand was withdrawn and
Dick backed slowly toward the door. "I won't," he said, between his
clenched teeth, then to his would-be friend, "Thank you for your good
intention."

The silence in the room was broken by a shout of harsh laughter as the
bartender raised the glass of beer he had drawn for Dick and mockingly
drank him good luck as the poor fellow stepped through the doorway
leaving warmth and food behind.

All that day Dick continued his search for work. Night came on again
and he found himself wandering, half dazed, in the more aristocratic
portion of the city. He was too tired to go to the old smelter again.
He could not think clearly and muttered and mumbled to himself as he
stumbled aimlessly along.

The door of a cottage opened, letting out a flood of light, and a
woman's voice called, "Dick, Oh Dick, come home now; supper is waiting."
And a lad of ten, playing in the neighboring yard with his young
companion, answered with a shout as he bounded across the lawn. Through
the windows our Dick caught a glimpse of the cosy home: father, mother,
two sisters, bright pictures, books, and a table set with snowy linen,
shining silver and sparkling glass.

Later, strange voices seemed to call him, and several times he paused
to listen. Then someone in the distance seemed to say, "Move on; Move
on." The words echoed and re-echoed through his tired brain. "Move on;
Move on," the weary, monotonous strain continued as he dragged his
heavy feet along the pavement. "Move on; Move on;" the words seemed
repeated just ahead. Who was it? What did they want, and why couldn't
they let him rest? He drew near a large building with beautiful stained
glass windows, through which the light streamed brilliantly. In the
center was a picture of the Christ, holding in his arms a lamb, and
beneath, the inscription, "I came to seek and to save that which was
lost."

"Move on; Move on;" the words seemed shrieked in his ears now, and
looking up he saw a steeple in the form of a giant hand, pointing
toward the stormy sky. "Why of course,"--he laughed with mirthless
lips,--"of course,--it's a church. What a fool--I ought to have come
here long ago.--This is Thursday night and that voice is the bell
calling people to Prayer Meeting."

"I'll be all right now," he continued to himself as he leaned against
a tree near the building. "I ought to have remembered the church
before.--I've set up their notices many a time; they always say
'Everybody welcome.' Christians won't let me starve--they'll help me
earn something to eat.--I'm not a beggar--not me," and he tried to
straighten his tired figure. "All I want is a chance."

By this time, well-dressed people were passing where Dick stood
muttering to himself, and entering the open door of the church. Then
the organ began to play, and arousing himself by a supreme effort of
his will, Dick followed them into the building.

The organ now filled the air with its sweetly solemn tones. The bell
with its harsh command to move on was forgotten; and as Dick sank on
a cushioned seat near the door, his heart was filled with restful
thoughts. He saw visions of a Gracious Being who cared for all mankind,
and who had been all this time waiting to help him. Had he not heard
his mother pray, years ago in the cabin, "O Lord take care o' Dick!--"
How foolish he had been to forget--he ought to have remembered,--but
he would never forget again,--never.

The music and the singing stopped. The pastor arose and read the lesson,
calling particular attention to the words recorded in the twenty-fifth
chapter of Matthew: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least
of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me." Then after a long
prayer and another song, the man of God spoke a few words about the
Christian's joy and duty in helping the needy; that the least of these,
meant those who needed help, no matter what their positions in life;
and that whosoever gave aid to one in the name of Christ, glorified
the Master's name and helped to enthrone him in the hearts of men.

"The least of these," whispered Dick to himself, then unconsciously
uttering his thoughts in the dialect of his childhood--"that's me
shor'; I don't reckon I kin be much less'n I am right now." And as one
after another of the Christians arose and testified to the joy they
found in doing Christ's work, and told of experiences where they had
been blessed by being permitted to help some poor one, his heart warmed
within him, and, in his own way, he thanked God that he had been led
to such a place and to such people.

With another song, "Praise God from whom all blessings flow," the
congregation was dismissed and began slowly passing from the building,
exchanging greetings, with more or less warmth, and remarking what a
helpful meeting they had had, and how much it had been enjoyed.

Dick stood near the door, hat in hand, patiently waiting. One by one
the members passed him; two or three said "Good Evening;" one shook
him by the hand; but something in their faces as they looked at his
clothing checked the words that rose to his lips, and the poor fellow
waited, his story untold. At last the minister came down the aisle,
and greeting Dick, was about to pass out with the others; this was too
much, and in a choked voice the young man said, "Sir, may I speak to
you a moment?"

"If you'll be brief," replied the preacher, glancing at his watch. "I
have an engagement soon."

Dick told his story in a few words. "I'm not begging, Sir," he added.
"I thought some of the church members might have work that I could do,
or might know where I could find employment."

The minister seemed a little embarrassed; then beckoning to a few who
still remained, "Brother Godfrey, here's a man who wants work; do you
know of anything?"

"Um, I'm sorry, but I do not," promptly replied the good deacon. "What
can you do?" turning to Dick. He made the usual answer and the officer
of the church said again, "Find it rather hard to strike anything in
Boyd City I fear; so many tramps, you know. Been out of work long?"

"Yes sir, and out of food too."

"Too bad; too bad," said the deacon. And "Too bad; too bad," echoed
the preacher, and the other followers of the meek and lowly Jesus. "If
we hear of anything we'll let you know. Where are you stopping?"

"On the street," replied Dick, "when I am not moved on by the police."

"Um--Well--we'll leave word here at the church with the janitor if we
learn of anything."

"Are you a Christian?" asked one good old mother in Israel.

"No," stammered poor confused Dick; "I guess not."

"Do you drink?"

"No mam."

"Well, don't get discouraged; look to God; he can help you; and we'll
all pray for you. Come and hear our Brother French preach; I am sure
you will find the light. He is the best preacher in the city. Everybody
says so. Good-night."

The others had already gone. The sexton was turning out the lights,
and a moment later Dick found himself once more on the street, looking
with a grim smile on his hunger-pinched features, at the figure of the
Christ, wrought in the costly stained glass window. "One of the least
of these," he muttered hoarsely to himself. Then the figure and the
inscription slowly faded, as one by one the lights went out, until at
last it vanished and he seemed to hear his mother's voice: "I ax ye
fair--O Lord--take ker o' Dick--fer Jesus sake--Amen."

The door shut with a bang. A key grated in the heavy lock that guarded
the treasures of the church; and the footsteps of the church's humblest
servant died away in the distance, as Dick turned to move on again.

The city rumbled on with its business and its pleasure, its merriment
and crime. Guardians of the law protected the citizens by seeing to
it that no ill-dressed persons sat too long upon the depot benches,
sheltered themselves from the bitter wind in the open hall-way, or
looked too hungrily in at the bakery windows.

On the avenue the homes grew hushed and still, with now and then a
gleam of light from some library or sitting-room window, accompanied
by the tones of a piano or guitar,--or sound of laughing voices. And
the house of God stood silent, dark and cold, with the figure of the
Christ upon the window and the spire, like a giant hand, pointing
upward.




CHAPTER III


"I declare to goodness, if that ain't the third tramp I've chased away
from this house to-day! I'll have father get a dog if this keeps up.
They do pester a body pretty nigh to death." Mrs. Wilson slammed the
kitchen door and returned to her dish-washing. "The ide' of givin'
good victuals to them that's able to work--not much I won't--Let 'em
do like I do." And the good lady plied her dish-cloth with such energy
that her daughter hastily removed the clean plates and saucers from
the table to avoid the necessity of drying them again.

"But this man wanted work, didn't he mother?" asked Clara, "And I heard
you tell father at dinner that you wanted someone to fix the cowshed
and clean up the back yard."

"There you go again," angrily snapped the older woman, resting her wet
hands upon her hips and pausing in her labor, the better to emphasize
her words; "Allus a criticisin' and a findin' fault--Since you took
up with that plagy church there aint been nothin' right."

"Forgive me mother, I didn't think," said the daughter, looking into
the wrathful black eyes of her parent.

"Didn't think," whined the woman, "You never think of nothin' but your
blamed Young Folks' Society or Sunday School. Your mother an' father
and home aint good enough fer your saintship now-a-days. I wish to
goodness you'd never heard tell of that preacher; the whole set's a
batch of stingy hypocrites." She turned to her dish-washing again with
a splash. "An' there's George Udell, he aint going to keep hanging
around forever, I can tell you; there's too many that'ud jump at his
offer, fer him to allus be a dancin' after you; an' when you git through
with your foolishness, you'll find him married and settled down with
some other girl, an' what me and your father'll do when we git too old
to work, the Lord only knows. If you had half sense you'd take him too
quick."

Clara made no reply, but finishing her work in silence, hung up her
apron and left the kitchen.

Later, when Mrs. Wilson went into the pleasant little sitting-room,
where the flowers in the window _would_ bloom, and the pet canary
_would_ sing in spite of the habitual crossness of the mistress of the
house, she found her daughter attired for the street.

"Where are you going now?" she asked; "Some more foolishness, I'll be
bound; you just take them things off and stay to home; this here weather
aint fit fer you to be trapsin round in. You'll catch your death of
cold; then I'll have to take care of you. I do believe, Clara Wilson,
you are the most ungratefulest girl I ever see."

"But mother, I just must go to the printing office this afternoon. Our
society meets to-morrow night and I must look after the printing of
the constitution and by-laws."

"What office you goin' to?" asked the mother sharply.

"Why, George's, of course," said Clara; "You know I wouldn't go anywhere
else."

"Oh well, get along then; I guess the weather won't hurt you; its
clearin' off a little anyway. I'll fix up a bit and you can bring
George home to supper." And the old lady grew quite cheerful as she
watched the sturdy figure of her daughter making her way down the board
walk and through the front gate.

George Udell was a thriving job printer in Boyd City, and stood high
in favor of the public generally, and of the Wilson family in
particular, as might be gathered from the conversation of Clara's
mother. "I tell you," she said, in her high-pitched tones, "George
Udell is good enough fer any gal. He don't put on as much style as
some, an' aint much of a church man; but when it comes to makin' money
he's all there, an' that's the main thing now-a-days."

As for Clara, she was not insensible to the good points in Mr. Udell's
character, of which money-making was by no means the most important,
for she had known him ever since the time, when as a long, lank, awkward
boy, he had brought her picture cards and bits of bright-colored
printing. She was a wee bit of a girl then, but somehow, her heart
told her that her friend was more honest than most boys, and, as she
grew older, in spite of her religious convictions, she had never been
forced to change her mind.

But George Udell was not a Christian. Some said he was an infidel; at
least he was not a member of any church; and when approached on the
subject, always insisted that he did not know what he believed; and
that he doubted very much if many church members knew more of their
beliefs. Furthermore; he had been heard upon several occasions to make
slighting remarks about the church, contrasting its present standing
and work with the law of love and helpfulness as laid down by the
Master they professed to follow.

True, no one had ever heard him say that he did not believe in Christ
or God. But what of that? Had he not said that he did not believe in
the church? And was not that enough to mark him as an infidel?

Clara, in spite of her home training, was, as has been shown, a strong
church member, a zealous Christian, and an earnest worker for the cause
of Christ. Being a practical girl, she admitted that there were many
faults in the church of today; and that Christians did not always live
up to their professions. But, bless you, you could not expect people
to be perfect; and the faults that existed in the church were there
because all churches were not the same, which really means, you of
course understand-"all churches are not of _my_ denomination." And so,
in spite of her regard for the printer, she could not bring herself
to link her destiny with one whose eternal future was so insecure, and
whose life did not chord with that which was to her, the one great
keynote of the universe, the church. And then, too, does not the good
book say: "Be ye not unequally yoked with unbelievers." What could
that mean if not, "Do not marry an infidel?"

While Clara was thinking of all these things and making her way through
the mud of Boyd City streets, Udell, at the printing office, was having
a particularly trying time. To begin with, his one printer had gone
off on a spree the Saturday before and failed to return. Then several
rush jobs had come in; he had tried in vain to get help; the boy had
come late to the office, and, altogether it seemed as though everything
had happened that could happen to make things uncomfortable.

Clara arrived on the scene just when the confusion was at its height;
the room was littered with scraps of paper and inky cloths; the famous
printer's towel was lying on the desk; the stove, with its hearth piled
full of ashes, emitted smoke and coal gas freely; and the printer was
emptying the vials of his wrath upon the public in general, because
all wanted their printing done at the same instant; while the boy,
with a comical look of fear upon his ink-stained face, was dodging
here and there, striving as best he could to avoid the threatening
disaster.

The young girl's coming was like a burst of sunlight. In an instant
the storm was past. The boy's face resumed at once its usual expression
of lofty indifference; the fire burned freely in the stove; the towel
was whisked into its proper corner; and she was greeted with the first
smile that had shown on the printer's face that day. "You're just in
time," he cried gaily, as he seated her in the cleanest corner of the
office.

"I should think so," she answered, smiling, and glancing curiously
about the room; "looks as though you wanted a woman here."

"I do," declared George. "I've always wanted _a_ woman; haven't I told
you that often enough?"

"For shame, George Udell. I came here on business," Clara answered
with glowing cheeks.

"Well, that's mighty important business for me," Udell answered.
"You see--" but Clara interrupted him.

"What's the matter here anyway?" she asked.

"Oh--nothing; only my man is off on a drunken spree, and everybody
wants their stuff at the same time. I worked until two o'clock last
night; that's why I wasn't at your house; and I must work tonight too.
I'm--Yes, there's another;" as the telephone rang. "Hello!--Yes, this
is Udell's job office--We have the matter set up and will send you
proof as soon as possible--I'm sorry, but we are doing the best we
can--Yes--all right--I'll get at it right away--three o'clock--can't
possibly get it out before"--bang! He hung up the receiver.

"I tell you this is making me thin. If you had half the influence at
headquarters that you profess to have, I wish you'd pray them to send
me a printer."

"Why don't you get help?"

"Get help?--Get nothing! I tell you I've prayed, and threatened, and
bribed, and promised, as well as the best prayer-meeting church member
you've got, and I can't get the sign of an answer. Reckon the wire
must be down," he added, a queer shadow of a smile twitching up the
corners of his mouth; "Y-e-s," as the phone rang again. "I wish that
wire was down."

The girl noted the worn look on his rugged face, and when he had hung
up the receiver again, said: "I wish I could help you, George."

"You can, Clara,--you know you can," he answered quickly. "You can
give me more help than the ghost of Franklin himself. I don't mind the
hard work, and the worry wouldn't amount to anything if only--if only--"
he stopped, as Clara shook her head.

"George, you know I have told you again and again--"

"But Clara," he broke in,--"I wouldn't in any way interfere with your
church work. I'd even go with you every Sunday, and you could pay the
preacher as much as you liked. Don't you see, dear, it couldn't possibly
make any difference?"

"You don't understand, George," she answered, "and I can't make you
see it; there's no use talking, I _can't_, until you change your ideas
about--"

The door opened and a weary, hungry, unshaven face looked in.--The
door opened wider and a figure came shuffling timidly toward the man
and girl.

"What do you want?" said Udell, gruffly, a little put out at such an
interruption.

"Are you the foreman of this office?" said the newcomer.

"Yes, I'm the boss."

"Do you need any help? I'm a printer."

"You a printer?" exclaimed Udell. "What's the matter?--No,"--he
interrupted himself.-"Never mind what the matter is. I don't care if
you're wanted for horse stealing. Can you go to work now?" The man
nodded. Udell showed him to a case and placed copy before him. "There
you are, and the faster you work the better I'll pay you."

Again the other nodded, and without a word caught up a stick and reached
for the type.

George turned back to Clara who had risen. "Don't go yet," he said.

"Oh, yes, I must; I have been here too long now; you have so much to
do; I only wanted to get that society printing." George handed her the
package. "Who is he?" she whispered, with a look toward the newcomer.

"Don't know; some bum I suppose; looks like he had been on a big spree.
I only hope I can keep him sober long enough to help me over this
rush."

"You're wrong there," said the girl, moving toward the door, "He asked
for work at our house early this morning; that man is no drunkard,
neither is he a common tramp."

"How do you know?"

"Same as I know you, by the looks," laughed Clara. "Go talk to him and
find out. You see your prayer was answered, even if you did pray like
a church member. Who knows, perhaps the wire is not down after all,"
and she was gone.

The printer turned to his work again with a lighter heart for this bit
of brightness. Somehow he felt that things would come out all right
some day, and he would do the best he could to be patient; and, for
Clara's sake, while he could not be all she wished, he would make of
himself all that he could.

For a while, he was very busy with some work in the rear of the office;
then remembering Clara's strange words about the tramp, he went over
to the case where the new man sat perched upon his high stool. The
stranger was working rapidly and doing good work. George noticed though,
that the hand which held the stick trembled; and that sometimes a
letter dropped from the nervous fingers. "What's the matter?" he asked,
eyeing him keenly.

The man, without lifting his head, muttered, "Nothing."

"Are you sick?"

A shake of the head was the only answer.

"Been drinking?"

"_No_." This time the head was lifted and two keen gray eyes, filled
with mingled suffering and anger, looked full in the boss's face. "I've
been without work for some time and am hungry, that's all." The head
bent again over the case and the trembling fingers reached for the
type.

"Hungry!--Good God, man!" exclaimed Udell. "Why didn't you say so?"--and
turning quickly to the boy he said, "Here, skip down to that restaurant
and bring a big hot lunch. Tell 'em to get a hustle on too."

[Illustration: "Here you are; come and fill up."]

The boy fled and George continued talking to himself; "Hungry--and I
thought he had been on a spree. I ought to have known better than that.
I've been hungry myself--Clara's right; he is no bum printer. Great
shade of the immortal Benjamin F! but he's plucky though--and proud--you
could see that by the look in his eye when I asked him if he'd been
drunk--poor fellow--knows his business too--just the man I've been
looking for, I'll bet--Huh--wonder if the wire is down." And then as
the boy returned with the basket of hot eatables, he called cheerily,
"Here you are; come and fill up; no hungry man in this establishment,
rush or no rush." He was answered by a clatter as half a stick full
of type dropped from the trembling hand of the stranger. "Thank you,"
the poor fellow tried to say, as he staggered toward the kind-hearted
infidel, and then, as he fell, Dick's outstretched fingers just touched
Udell's feet.




CHAPTER IV


It was a strange coincidence that the Rev. James Cameron should have
preached his sermon on "The Church of the Future," the Sunday following
the incidents which have been related in the preceding chapters. If
he had only known, Rev. Cameron might have found a splendid
illustration, very much to the point, in the story of Dick Falkner's
coming to Boyd City and his search for employment. But the minister
knew nothing of Dick or his trouble. He had no particular incident in
mind; but simply desired to see a more practical working of
Christianity. In other words, he wished to see Christians doing the
things that Christ did, and using, in matters of the church, the same
business sense which they brought to bear upon their own affairs. He
thought of the poverty, squalor and wretchedness of some for whom
Christ died, and of the costly luxuries of the church into whose hands
the Master had given the care of these. He thought of the doors to
places of sin, swinging wide before the young, while the doors of the
church were often closed against them. He thought of the secret
societies and orders, doing the work that the church was meant to do,
and of the honest, moral men, who refused to identify themselves with
the church, though professing belief in Jesus Christ; and, thinking
of these things and more like them, he was forced to say that the
church must change her methods; that she must talk less and do more;
that she must rest her claims to the love of mankind where Christ
rested his; upon the works that He did.

He saw that the church was proving false to the Christ; that her service
was a service of the lips only; that her worship was form and
ceremony--not of the heart--a hollow mockery. He saw that she was not
touching the great problems of life; and that, while men were dying
for want of spiritual bread, she was offering them only the stones of
ecclesiastical pride and denominational egotism. He saw all this, and
yet,--because he was a strong man--remained full of love for Christ
and taught that those things were not Christianity but the lack of it;
and placed the blame where it justly belonged, upon the teaching and
doctrines of men, and not upon the principles of Christ; but upon the
shepherds, who fattened themselves, while the starving sheep grew thin
and lean; and not upon Him who came to seek and save that which was
lost.

Adam Goodrich walked out of the church with his aristocratic nose
elevated even beyond its usual angle. He was so offended by the plebeian
tastes of his pastor that he almost failed to notice Banker Lindsley
who passed him in the vestibule.

"Fine discourse--fine discourse, Mr. Goodrich."

"Uh--" grunted Adam, tossing his head.

"Just the kind of sermon we need;" went on Mr. Lindsley, who was not
a church member. "Practical and fearless; I'm glad to have heard him.
I shall come again;" and he hurried out of the house.

It was not often that a sermon was honored by being discussed at the
Goodrich table; nor indeed, that any topic of religion was mentioned;
but Adam could not contain himself after the unheard of things which
his pastor had preached that morning. "It's a pity that Cameron hasn't
better judgment," he declared, in a voice that showed very plainly the
state of his mind. "He could easily make his church the first church
in the city if he would only let well enough alone and not be all the
time stirring things up. He is a good speaker, carries himself like
an aristocrat, and comes from a good family; but he is forever saying
things that jar the best people. He might be drawing half as much again
salary if only he would work to get those people who are worth something
into the church, instead of spending all his time with the common
herd."

"Perhaps he thinks the common herd worth saving too," suggested Miss
Amy, a beautiful girl of nineteen, with dark hair and eyes.

"What do you know about it?" replied the father. "You're getting your
head full of those silly Young People's Society notions, and your
friends will drop you if you don't pay more attention to your social
duties. The common classes are all right of course, but they can't
expect to associate with us. Cameron has his mission schools; why isn't
that enough? And he makes three times as many calls on South Broadway
and over by the Shops, as he does on our street."

"Perhaps he thinks, 'they that are whole have no need of a physician,'"
again suggested the young lady.

"Amy," said Mrs. Goodrich, "how often have I told you that it's not
the thing to be always repeating the Bible. No one does it now. Why
will you make yourself so common?"

"You agree with Cameron perfectly, mother," put in Frank, the only
son; "he said this morning that no one used their Bibles now-a-days."

"It's not necessary to be always throwing your religion at people's
heads," answered the father, "and as for Cameron's new-fangled notion
about the church being more helpful to those who need help, he'll find
out that it won't work. We are the ones who pay his salary, and if he
can't preach the things we want to hear, he'll find himself going
hungry, or forced to dig along with those he is so worried about. I
don't find anything in the Bible that tells me to associate with every
low-down person in the city, and I guess I'm as good a Christian as
anyone in the church."

"Brother Cameron said that helping people and associating with them
were two different things," said Amy.

"Well, it means the same, anyway, in the eyes of the world," retorted
the father.

"Fancy," said Frank, "my going down the street with that tramp who
called at the office last week. According to Cameron, you ought to
have invited him home and asked him to stay with us until he found a
job, I suppose. Amy would have liked to meet him, and to make his visit
with us pleasant. He was not bad-looking, barring his clothes and a
few whiskers."

"Who was that, Mr. Goodrich?" inquired the wife.

"Oh, an impudent fellow that Frank let into the office the other day;
he claimed that he was a printer and wanted work; said that he was
thrown out of employment by the Kansas City strike; anyone could see
that he was a fraud through and through, just Cameron's kind. If I had
my way I would give him work that he wouldn't want. Such people are
getting altogether too numerous, and there will be no room for a
respectable man if this thing keeps up. I don't know what we'll come
to if we have many such sermons as that this morning; they want the
earth now."

"They'd get Heaven too if Cameron had his way," put in Frank again.
"Won't it be fine when the church becomes a home for every wandering
Willie who happens along?"

"Did not Christ intend His church to be a home for the homeless?" asked
the sister.

"Amy," interrupted Mrs. Goodrich, "you are getting too many of those
fanciful notions; you will learn in time that the church is meant to
go to on Sundays, and that people who know what is demanded of them
by the best society, leave socials, aids, missions, and such things
to the lower classes."

"Yes," answered Frank, as he arose to leave the table--"and don't go
looking up that bum printer to teach him the way of the Lord."

The reader must not think that the Goodrichs were unworthy members of
the church; their names were all on the roll of membership, and Frank
and Amy were also active members of the Young People's Societies.
Beside this, Adam contributed liberally (in his own eyes at least) to
the support of the gospel; and gave, now and then, goodly sums set
opposite his name on subscription lists, for various charitable
purposes; although he was very careful, withal, that his gifts to God
never crippled his business interests, and managed, in religious
matters, to make a little go a long way.

The pastor of the Jerusalem Church, having been called to attend a
funeral, was not present at the meeting of the Boyd City Ministerial
Association, following his sermon, and the field was left open for his
brethren, who assembled in the lecture room of the Zion Church on
Monday morning. After the Association had been called to order by the
president, the reports of the work given by the various pastors had
been heard, and some unfinished business transacted, good old Father
Beason arose, and, in his calm, impassioned manner, addressed the
Chair.

"Brethren," he said, "I don't know how you all feel about it, but I
would like to know what the Association thinks about Brother Cameron's
sermon yesterday. Now, I don't want to be misunderstood, Brethren; I
haven't a particle of fault to find with Brother Cameron. I love him
as a man; I admire him as a preacher; and I believe that whatever he
has said he meant for the best. But, Brother Cameron is a young man
yet, and I have heard a good deal of talk about the things he said
Sabbath morning; and I would just like to know what you Brethren think
about it. Have any of you heard anything?" Six reverend heads nodded
that they had, and the speaker continued:

"Well, I thought probably you would hear something, and with no harm
meant toward our Brother, I would like to have you express yourselves.
I have been in the ministry nearly forty years now, and I have never
heard such things as people say he said. And, Brethren, I'm awfully
afraid that there is a good deal of truth in it all--a good deal of
truth in it all;" and slowly shaking his head the old man took his
seat.

The Rev. Jeremiah Wilks was on his feet instantly, and, speaking in
a somewhat loud and nervous manner, said: "Mr. Chairman, I was coming
down town early this morning, after some thread and ribbons and things
for my wife, and Sister Thurston, who runs that little store on Third
Street--you know she's a member of my church, you know--and always
gives me things lots cheaper than I can get them anywhere else, because
she's a member of my church, you know--she says to me that Brother
Cameron said that the average church of to-day was the biggest fraud
on earth. Now she was there and heard him. I don't know of course,
whether he really said that or not; that is, I mean, you know,--I don't
know whether he meant it that way or not. But I've heard him say myself,
that he didn't think the church was doing all she might along some
lines. I don't know whether he means all the churches or only his own.
_My_ people gave fifteen dollars for foreign missions last year, and
the Ladies' Aid paid fifty dollars on my salary. Besides that, they
bought me a new overcoat last winter, and it will last me through next
winter too. They paid eighteen dollars for that, I'm told; and of
course they got it cheap because it was for me, you know. And we gave
a pound social to Sister Grady, whose husband died some time ago, you
know. It took almost all her money to pay funeral expenses--She's a
member of my church you know; so was he, poor man; he's gone now. I'm
sure I don't know about Brother Cameron's church; we're doing all _we_
can; and I don't think it's right for him to talk against the work of
the Lord." The reverend gentleman resumed his seat with the satisfied
air of a school boy who has just succeeded in hitting a hornet's nest,
and devoutly wishes that someone would come along to share the fun.

Little Hugh Cockrell arose, and, crossing his hands, meekly spoke:
"Now, Brethren, I don't think we ought to be hasty in regard to this
matter. I would advise caution. We must give the subject due and careful
consideration. We all respect and love Brother Cameron. Let us not be
hasty in condemning him. You know the Scriptures say, Judge not, and
I believe we ought to be careful. We don't know what Cameron meant
exactly. Brethren, let us try to find out. I know I have heard a great
many things, and some of my members say that he spoke rather slightingly
of the ministry as a whole, and seemed to think that the church was
not practical enough, and my wife is a good deal hurt about some things
that he said about the clergy. But, let's be careful. I don't want to
believe that our Brother would cast a slur in any way upon us or the
church. Let's be cautious and work in a Christianlike manner; find out
by talking with people on the street and in their homes, what he said,
and above all, don't let Cameron know how we feel. We ought not to be
hasty, Brethren, about judging our Brother."

There were nods of approval as the minister took his seat, for he was
much admired in the Association because of his piety, and much respected
for his judgment. All knew that nothing could possibly harm them if
they followed Rev. Cockrell's advice.

Then the Rev. Dr. Frederick Hartzell reared his stoop-shouldered,
narrow-chested, but commanding figure, and, in a most impressive and
scholarly manner addressed the Association.

"Of course I don't know anything about this matter, Brethren; it's all
news to me. I am so confined by my studies that I go on the street
very little, and, when I do go out, my mind is so full of the deep
things of the Scriptures, that I find it hard to retain anything that
has to do with the commonplace in life; and in-as-much as the reverend
gentleman failed to consult me as to his sermon, which I understand
he calls The Church of the Future, I am unable to say at present whether
his position is orthodox or not. But Brethren, of one thing I am sure,
and I don't care what Cameron or any other man thinks; the orthodox
church of to-day is the power of God unto salvation. God intended that
we ministers should be His representatives on earth, and as such, we
ought to have a keen appreciation of the grandeur and nobility of our
calling. After years of study on the part of myself, and after much
consultation with other eminent men, I give it as my opinion that the
church of the future will be the same as the church of the past. All
denominations--that is, all evangelical denominations, are built upon
a rock. Upon this rock I will build my church, Matthew 16-18. Brethren,
we are secure; even the gates of Hades cannot prevail against us; and
it is proven by the scholarship of the world, that we shall be the
same in the future as we have been in the past. Rev. Cameron, whatever
may be his opinions, cannot harm so glorious an institution. Why,
Brethren, we represent the brains and culture of the world. Look at
our schools and seminaries; we must be right. No change can possibly
come; no change is needed. As to the gentleman's remarks about the
ministry; if he made any, I don't think his opinion matters much anyhow,
I understand that he is not a graduate of any regular theological
institution; and I'm sure that he cannot harm _my_ reputation in the
least."

Secure in the impregnable position of his own learning and in the
scholarship of his church; amid a hush of profound awe and admiration,
the learned gentleman took his seat.

Rev. Hartzell's speech practically finished the discussion of the
sermon by the Association. Indeed, the Rev. Frederick nearly always
finished whatever discussion he took part in. One or two of the
remaining preachers tried to speak, but subsided as soon as they caught
the eye of the scholar fixed upon them, and the Association was
adjourned, with a prayer by the president that they might always be
able to conduct the Master's business in a manner well pleasing in his
sight; and that they might have strength to always grapple boldly with
questions concerning the church, ever proving true to the principles
of the Christ, and following in His footsteps.

While the members of the Ministerial Association were engaged in
discussing Rev. Cameron's much-abused sermon, the printer, George
Udell, dropped in at the office of Mr. Wicks, to make the final payment
on a piece of property which he had purchased some months before. Mr.
Wicks, or as he was more often called, Uncle Bobbie, was an old resident
of the county, an elder in the Jerusalem Church, and Rev. Cameron's
right-hand man.

"Well," he said, as he handed George the proper papers, "that place
is your'n, young man, what are ye goin' to do with it?"

"Oh I don't know," replied Udell, "it's handy to have round; good
building spot, isn't it?"

"You bet it is," returned the other. "There aint no better in Boyd
City, an' I reckon I know. Ye must be goin' to get a wife, talking
about buildin'?"

Udell shook his head. "Well, ye ought to. Let's see--this is the third
piece of property I've sold ye, aint it?--all of 'em good investments
too--You're gettin' a mighty good start fer a young man. Don't it make
ye think of the Being what's back of all these blessin's? Strikes me
ye'r too blame good a man to be livin' without any religion. George,
why don't you go to church anyway? Don't ye know you ought to?"

"Why don't I go to church," said Udell thoughtfully; "Well, Mr. Wicks,
I'll tell you why I don't go to church. Just because I've got too much
to do. I make my own way in the world and it takes all the business
sense I have to do it. The dreamy, visionary, speculative sort of
things I hear at meeting may be all right for a fellow's soul, but
they don't help him much in taking care of his body, and I can't afford
to fill my mind with such stuff. I am living this side of the grave.
Of course I like to hear a good talker, and I enjoy the music, but
their everlasting pretending to be what they are not, is what gets me.
You take this town right here now," he continued, pushing his hat back
from his forehead; "we've got ten or twelve churches and as many
preachers; they all say that they are following Christ, and profess
to exist for the good of men and the glory of God. And what are they
actually doing to make this place better? There's not a spot in this
city, outside a saloon, where a man can spend an hour when he's not
at work; and not a sign of a place where a fellow down on his luck can
stay all night. Only last week, a clean honest young printer, who was
out of money through no fault of his own, struck me for a job, and
before night fainted from hunger; and yet, the preachers say that
Christ told us to feed the hungry, and that if we didn't it counted
against us as though we had let him starve. According to their own
teaching, what show have these churches in Boyd City when they spend
every cent they can rake and scrape to keep their old machines running
and can't feed even one hungry man? Your church members are all right
on the believe, trust, hope, pray and preach, but they're not so much
on the do. And I've noticed it's the _do_ that counts in this life.
Why, their very idea of Heaven is that it's a loafing place, where you
get more than you ask for or have any right to expect."

"Gettin' a little excited, ain't ye?" smiled Uncle Bobbie, though there
was a tear twinkling in his sharp old eyes.

"Yes I am," retorted the other. "It's enough to excite anyone who has
a heart to feel and eyes to see the misery in this old world, and then
to be asked eternally, 'Why don't you go to church?' Why look at 'em;
they even let their own preachers starve when they get too old to work.
Societies and lodges don't do that. I don't mean to step on your toes
though," he added hastily. "You know that, Uncle Bobbie. You've proven
yourself a Christian to me in ways I'll never forget. My old mother
was a member of the church and they let her go hungry, when I was too
little to take care of her; and if it hadn't been for you she would
have died then. But you fed her, and if there's a Heaven, she's there,
and you'll be there too. But what makes me mad is, that these fellows
who _never_ do anything, are just as sure of it as you who do so much."

"Ah, George," said Wicks; "that help I give your maw warn't nothin'.
Do you think I'd see her suffer? Why, I knowed her when she was a
girl."

"I know, Uncle Bobbie, but that isn't the question. Why, don't the
church _do_ some of the things they are always talking about?"

"Do infidels do any more?" asked Mr. Wicks.

"No, they don't," answered George, "but they don't thank God that Jesus
Christ was crucified, so that they might get to Heaven, either."

"Thar's one fellow that I didn't feed," said the old man, after a long
pause. "That same printer called here and I didn't give him nothin'
to do. I've thought of it many a time since though, and asked the Lord
to forgive me for sech carelessness. And so he's got a job with you,
has he? Well, I'm mighty glad. But say, George, were you at our church
yesterday?"

"No," answered Udell, "Why?"

"Oh, nothin'; only I thought from the way you've been preachin'
Cameron's sermon, that you'd heard him give it, that's all."




CHAPTER V


"There's only one girl in this world for me," whistled Dick, as he
made a form ready for the press. Only in his own mind he rendered it,
"There's not one girl in this world for me;" and from Dick's point of
view his version was the better one. Thus far in his life there had
come no woman's influence; no loving touch of a girlish hand to help
in moulding his character; no sweet voice bidding him do right; no
soft eyes to look praise or blame. He had only the memory of his mother.

It was less than a week ago that the poor outcast had fainted from
lack of food, but he had already become a fixture in the office. George
Udell confided to Miss Wilson that he did not know how he could get
along without him, and that he was, by long odds, the best hand he had
ever had. He was quick and sure in his work, and as George put it,
"You don't have to furnish him a map when you tell him to do anything."
With three good meals a day and a comfortable cot in the office for
the night, with the privilege of spending his evenings by the fire,
and the assurance that there was work for him for many weeks ahead,
it was no wonder that Dick whistled as he bent over the stone. Locking
up the form, he carried it to the press and was fixing the guide pins,
when the door opened and a young lady came in.

Dick's whistle stopped instantly and his face flushed like a school
girl as he gave her a chair and went to call Udell, who was in the
other room trying to convince the boy that the stove needed a bucket
of coal.

"Faith," said Dick to himself, as he went back to the press, "If there
is one girl in this world for me I hope she looks like that one. What
a lovely voice," he added, as he carefully examined the first
impression; "and a heavenly smile;" as he finished his work and went
back to the composing case; "and what eyes,"--he turned sideways to
empty his stick--"And what hair;" trying to read his copy--"a perfect
form;" reaching for the type again. "I wonder who--"

"Dick!" shouted Udell. Crash went the overturned stool, and, "Yes Sir,"
answered the young man, with a very red face, struggling to his feet.

A merry light danced in the brown eyes, though the girlish countenance
was serious enough.

Udell looked at his assistant in mingled wonder and amusement. "What's
the matter, Dick?" he asked, as the latter came toward him.

"Nothing, Sir--I only--I was--" he looked around in confusion at the
overturned stool, and the type on the floor.

"Yes, I see you were," said his employer with a chuckle. "Miss Goodrich,
this is Mr. Falkner; perhaps he can help us out of our difficulty. Mr.
Falkner is just from Kansas City," he added, "and is up in all the
latest things in printing."

"Oh yes," and Amy's eyes showed their interest. "You see, Mr. Falkner,
we are trying to select a cover design for this little book. Mr. Udell
has suggested several, but we cannot come to any decision as to just
the proper one. Which would you choose?"

Dick's embarrassment left him at once when a matter of work was to be
considered. "This would be my choice," he said, selecting a design.

"I like that too," said the young lady; "but you see it is not _just_
what I want;" and she looked not a little worried, for above all things,
Miss Goodrich liked things _just_ as she liked them; and besides, this
was _such_ an important matter.

"I'll tell you what," said Dick. "If you'll let me, and Mr. Udell does
not object, I'll set up a cover for you to-night after supper."

"O, indeed, you must not think of it," said Amy.

"But I would enjoy it," he answered.

"You need to rest after your day's work," she replied; "and besides,
it would be so much trouble for you to come way down here in the night.
No, you need not mind; this will do very well."

"But we often work after hours, and I--I--do not live far from here,"
said Dick.

"What do you think, Mr. Udell?"

"I am sure, Miss Goodrich, that Mr. Falkner would enjoy the work, for
we printers have a good bit of pride in that kind of thing you know,
and, as he says, we often work after supper. I think you might let him
do it, without too great a feeling of obligation."

After some further talk, the matter was finally settled as he had
suggested, and Dick went back to his work; as he picked up his
overturned stool, he heard the door close and then Udell stood beside
him, with a broad grin on his face.

"Well, I'll be shot," ejaculated the printer, "I've seen fellows take
a tumble before, but hang me if I ever saw a man so completely
kerflummuxed. Great shade of the immortal Benjamin F--! But you were
a sight--must be you're not used to the ladies. Seemed all right though
when you got your legs under you and your mouth agoing. What in time
ailed you anyway?"

"Who is she?" asked Dick, ignoring the other's laughter, and dodging
his question.

"Who is she? Why I introduced you to her, man; her name is Amy Goodrich.
Her daddy is that old duffer who keeps the hardware store, and is so
eminently respectable that you can't get near him unless you have a
pedigree and a bank account. Amy is the only daughter, but she has a
brother though who takes after the old man. The girl takes after herself
I reckon." Dick made no reply and Udell continued: "The whole family
are members of the swellest church in the city, but the girl is the
only one who works at it much. She teaches in the Mission Sunday School;
leads in the Young People's Society and all that. I don't imagine the
old folks like it though; too common you know." And he went off to
look after the boy again, who was slowly but painfully running off the
bill-heads that Dick had fixed on the press.

"What's the matter with him, George?" asked that individual, leaning
wearily against the machine; "Did he faint agin, or was he havin' a
fit?"

"You shut up and get that job off sometime this week," answered Udell,
as he jerked the lever of the electric motor four notches to the right.

Just before the whistles blew for dinner, he again went back to Dick
and stood looking over his shoulder at a bad bit of copy the latter
was trying to decipher. "Well, what do you think about it?" he asked.

"She's divine," answered Dick absently, as he carefully placed a capital
A upside down.

George threw back his head and roared; "Well, you've got it sure," he
said, when he could speak.

"Got what?" asked Dick in wonder.

"Oh, nothing," replied the other, going off with another shout. "But
look here;" he said, after a moment; very serious this time; "Let me
give you a piece of good advice, my friend; don't you go to thinking
about _that_ girl too much."

"What girl? Whose thinking about her? You need have no fears on that
score," said Dick, a little sharply.

"Oh, you needn't get mad about it, a fellow can't help but think a
chap is hit when he falls down, can he?" And with another laugh, George
removed his apron and left for dinner.

"Yes, it did look bad;" said Dick to himself, as he dried his hands
on the office towel; "but I never saw such eyes; and she's as good as
she looks too; but Adam Goodrich's daughter, Whew--" And he whistled
softly to himself as he thought of his first meeting with the wealthy
hardware merchant.

That evening while Miss Goodrich was entertaining a few of her friends
at her beautiful home on the avenue, and while Udell, with Clara Wilson,
was calling on old Mother Gray, whose husband had been injured in the
mines, Dick worked alone in the printing office. The little book, as
Amy called it, was a pamphlet issued by the literary club of which she
was the secretary, and never since the time when he set his first line
of type, had Dick been so bothered over a bit of printing. The sweet
brown eyes and smiling lips of the young woman were constantly coming
between him and his work, and he paused often to carry on an imaginary
conversation with her. Sometimes he told her funny incidents from his
adventurous past and heard her laugh in keen appreciation. Then they
talked of more earnest things and her face grew grave and thoughtful.
Again he told her all his plans and ambitions, and saw her eyes light
with sympathy as she gladly promised her helpful friendship. Then,
inspired by her interest, he grew bolder, and forgetting the task
before him altogether, fought life's battles in the light of her smiles,
conquering every difficulty, and winning for himself a place and name
among men. And then, as he laid his trophies at her feet, her father,
the wealthy merchant, appeared, and Dick walked the floor in a blind
rage.

But he managed to finish his work at last, and about three o'clock,
tumbled on to his cot in the stock room, where he spent the rest of
the night trying to rescue Amy from her father, who assumed the shape
of a hardware dragon, with gold eyes, and had imprisoned the young
lady in a log cabin near the river, beneath a hill upon which grew a
pine tree tipped with fire, while a lean hound sat at the water's edge
and howled.




CHAPTER VI


Uncle Bobbie Wicks pulled down the top of his desk and heard the lock
click with a long sigh of satisfaction, for a glance at his large,
old-fashioned hunting-case watch told him that it was nearly eleven
o'clock. It was a dismal, dreary, rainy night; just the sort of a night
to make a man thank God that he had a home; and those who had homes
to go to were already there, except a few business men, who like Mr.
Wicks, were obliged to be out on work of especial importance.

Locking the rear door of the office and getting hastily into his rain
coat, the old gentleman took his hat and umbrella from the rack and
stepped out into the storm. As he was trudging along through the wet,
his mind still on business, a gleam of light from the window of Udell's
printing office caught his eye. "Hello!" he said to himself; "George
is working late tonight; guess I'll run in and see if he's got that
last batch of bill-heads fixed yet; we'll need 'em tomorrow morning.
Howdy, George," he said, a few seconds later; and then stopped, for
it was not Udell, but Dick, who was bending over the stone; and in
place of working with the type, he was playing a game of solitaire,
while he pulled away at an old corn-cob pipe.

"Good evening," said the young man, pausing in his amusement,
"What can I do for you?"

"I see ye got a job," said Uncle Bobbie.

"Yes," Dick replied, as he shuffled the cards; "and a very good one
too."

"Huh! looks like ye weren't overworked just now."

"Oh, this is out of hours; we quit at six, you know."

"Strikes me ye might find somethin' better to do than foolin' with
them dirty pasteboards, if 'tis out of hours;" said Mr. Wicks,
pointedly.

"They are rather soiled," remarked Dick, critically examining the queen
of hearts; and then he continued, in a matter-of-fact tone, "you see
I found them back of the coal box; some fellow had thrown them away,
I guess. Lucky for me that he did."

"Lucky for you? Is that the best you can do with your time?"

"Perhaps you would suggest some more elevating amusement," smiled Dick.

"Well, why don't you read somethin'?"

The young man waved his pipe toward a lot of month-old papers and
printers journals--"My dear sir, I have gone through that pile three
times and have exhausted every almanac in this establishment."

"Visit some of your friends."

"Not one in the city except Udell," answered the other, "and if I
had--" he glanced down at his worn clothing.

Mr. Wicks tried again; "Well, go somewhere."

"Where?" asked Dick. "There is only one place open to _me_--the
saloon--I haven't money enough for that, and if I had, I wouldn't spend
it there now. I might go to some respectable gambling den, I suppose,
but there's the money question again, and my foolish pride, so I play
solitaire. I know I am in good company at least, if the sport isn't
quite so exciting."

Uncle Bobbie was silent. The rain swished against the windows and
roared on the tin roof of the building; the last car of the evening,
with one lone passenger, scurried along Broadway, its lights brightly
reflected on the wet pavement; a cab rumbled toward the hotel, the
sound of the horses' feet dull and muffled in the mist; and a solitary
policeman, wrapped in his rubber coat, made his way along the almost
deserted street. As Uncle Bobbie stood listening to the lonely sounds
and looking at the young man, with his corn-cob pipe and pack of dirty
cards, he thought of his own cheery fireside and of his waiting wife.
"To-be-sure," he said at last, carefully placing his umbrella in a
corner near the door, and as carefully removing his coat and hat;
"To-be-sure, I quit smokin' sometime ago--'bout a month, I reckon--used
to smoke pretty nigh all the time, but wife she wanted me to quit--I
don't know as there is any use in it." A long pause followed, as he
drew a chair to the stove and seated himself. "To-be-sure, I don't
know as there's any great harm in it either." There was another pause,
while Dick also placed his chair near the stove--"and I git so plaguey
fat every time I quit."

Dick tilted back and lazily blew a soft cloud into the air. Uncle
Bobbie arose and placed the coal bucket between them. "Told mother
last night I was gettin' too fat again--but it made me sick last time
I tried it--I wonder if it would make me sick now."--A longer pause
than usual followed--then: "It's really dangerous for me to get so
fat, and smokin' 's the only thing that keeps it down. D'ye reckon it
would make me sick again?" He drew a cigar from his pocket, almost as
big as a cannon fire-cracker and fully as dangerous. "I got this t'day.
Looks like a pretty good one. It didn't use to make me sick 'fore I
quit the last time." Dick handed him a match and two minutes later the
big cigar was burning as freely as its nature would permit.

"What an awful wasteful habit it is to-be-sure, ain't it?" went on the
old gentleman between vigorous puffs. "Just think, there's school
books, and Bibles and baby clothes and medicine for the sick, and food
for the hungry, and houses and stores, and farms, and cattle, all a'
goin' up in that smoke;" he pointed with his cigar to the blue cloud
that hung between them. "If I had half the money church members burn,
I could take care of every old worn-out preacher in the world, and
have a good bit left over for the poor children. I wisht I was as young
as you be; I'd quit it fer good; but it sure does take a hold on an
old feller like me."

Dick's face grew thoughtful. "I never looked at it in that way before,"
he said, as he took his pipe from his mouth; "It's a big comfort to
a chap who is all alone, though I suppose it does get a strong hold
on a man who has used it most of his life; and a fellow could do a lot
of good with the money it costs him." He arose to his feet and went
to the window, where he stood for a moment looking out into the rain.
Presently he came back to his chair again; "Look out," cried Uncle
Bobbie, as Dick took his seat, "You've dropped your pipe into the coal
bucket."

"Oh, that's all right; its worn-out anyway, and I have another."
But he smoked no more that evening.

"Where are you from?" asked Wicks abruptly.

"Everywhere," answered Dick, shortly, for he did not relish the thought
of being questioned about his past.

"Where you goin'?" came next from his companion.

"Nowhere," just as short.

"Folks livin'?"

"No."

"How long been dead?"

"Since I was a little fellow."

"Ain't you got no relations?"

"Don't want any if they're like an aunt of mine."

Uncle Bobbie nodded in sympathy.

"How'd you happen to strike this place?"

Dick told him in three words, "Lookin' for work."

"Udell's a mighty fine fellow."

"You're right he is."

"Not much of a Christian though." And the old man watched Dick keenly
through the cloud of smoke.

"No, good thing for me he isn't," the young man answered bitterly, his
face and voice betraying his feelings.

"I know; yes, I know," nodded Uncle Bobbie. "To-be-sure, I used to
look at things just like you, and then I got more sense and learned
a heap better, and I tell you right now that you'll do the same way.
I know there is church members that are meaner'n a mule with shoulder
galls. They won't pull nothin' and would kick a man's head off quicker'n
greased lightnin'. But they ain't goin' to Heaven, be they? Not much
they ain't; no more'n my dog's goin' to the Legislature. And there's
them outside the church that's a whole lot worse. Taint Christianity
that makes folks mean, but they're mean in spite of it, though you
can't get such fellers as you to see it that way, no more'n you can
foller a mosquito through a mile o' fog. To-be-sure, I aint blamin'
you much though."

Dick's face changed. This was not just what he expected. "I'll tell
you," he said, when he saw that the old gentleman expected him to
reply. "Ever since I can remember, I've been kicked and cuffed and
cursed by saint and sinner alike, until I can't see much difference
between the church members and those whom they say are in the world."

"Except that the members of the church do the kickin' and cuffin' and
let the sinners do the cussin'," broke in Uncle Bobbie. "To-be-sure,
ye can't tell me nothin' about that either."

"I'm not saying anything about the teaching of Christ," continued Dick;
"that's all right so far as it goes, but it don't seem to go very far.
I have not made much of a success of life, but I've worked mighty hard
to earn a living and learn my trade, and I don't know but that I am
willing to take my chances with some of the church members I have
seen."

"To-be-sure," said Uncle Bobbie; "and I reckon your chance is just as
good as their'n. But it strikes me that I want to stand a little better
show than them fellers. How about the folks that be Christians? You
know there is them that do follow the Master's teachin'; what about
their chances, heh?"

"You see it's just this way," continued Uncle Bobbie, settling himself
more comfortably in his chair; "I had a whole lot of brothers and
sisters at home, back in Ohio; an' they was all members of the church
but me. To-be-sure, I went to Sunday School and meetin' with the rest--I
jing! I had to!--Huh!--My old dad would just naturally a took th' hide
off me if I hadn't. Yes sir-ee, you bet I went to church. But all the
same I didn't want to. An' they sorter foundered me on religi'n, I
reckon, Jim and Bill and Tom and Dave. They'd all take their girls and
go home with them after meetin', an' I'd have to put out the team and
feed the stock all alone; an' Sunday evenin' every one of 'em would
be off to singin' and I'd have to milk and feed again. An' then after
meetin' of course the boys had to take their girls home, and other
fellows would come home with our girls, and I'd have to put up the
team and take care of the boys' horses that come sparkin'. An' somehow
I didn't take to Christianity. To-be-sure, 'twas a good thing fer the
stock I didn't."

He carefully knocked the ashes from his cigar and continued:
"To-be-sure, I know now that wasn't no excuse, but it looked that way
then. After a while the boys married off and I staid to home and took
care of the old folks; and purty soon the girls they got married too;
and then pa and ma got too old to go out, and I couldn't leave 'em
much, and so I didn't get to meetin' very often. Things went on that
way a spell 'til Bill got to thinkin' he'd better come and live on the
home farm and look after things, as I didn't have no woman; to-be-sure,
it did need a good bit of tendin'. Six hundred acres all in fine shape
and well stocked--so I told pa that I'd come west an let 'em run things
at home. I got a job punchin' steers out here in James County, and
they're all back there yet. The old folks died a little bit after I
came west, and Bill--well--Bill, he keeps the home place 'cause he
took care of 'em ye know--well, I homesteaded a hundred and sixty, and
after a spell, the Santa Fe road come through and I got to buyin' grain
and hogs, and tradin' in castor-oil beans and managed to get hold of
some land here when the town was small. To-be-sure, I aint rich yet,
though I've got enough to keep me I reckon. I handle a little real
estate, get some rent from my buildin's, and loan a little money now
and then. But you bet I've worked for every cent I've got, and I didn't
fool none of it away either, 'cept what went up in smoke."

The old gentleman's voice sank lower and lower as he recalled the years
that had flown. And as Dick looked at the kindly face, seamed and
furrowed by the cares of life, and the hair just whitened by the frost
of time, now half hidden in a halo of smoke, he felt his heart warm
with sympathy, which he knew was returned full measure by the boy who
had left his Ohio home to battle with life alone in that strange western
country.

"But what I wanted to tell ye," said Uncle Bobbie, coming suddenly
back to the present and speaking in his usual abrupt manner, "you'll
find out, same as I have, that it don't much matter how the other
feller dabbles in the dirt, you've got to keep your hands clean anyhow.
An' taint the question whether the other feller's mean or not, but am
I livin' square? I know that Christ is the Saviour of men, but he can't
save 'em 'less they want him to, no more'n I can catch a jack-rabbit
a-foot. Christianity's all right, but it aint a goin' to do no good
'less people live it, and there's a heap more living it too than we
think. What such fellers as you want to do is to listen to what Christ
says and not look at what some little two by four church member does.
They aint worth that;" and he tossed his cigar stub to keep company
with Dick's pipe.

Dick said nothing, because he could find no words to express himself,
and the older man, seeing how it was, rose to his feet.

"Well, I must be goin'. Wife'll think I've clean gone back on her.
Come up to the house and see me sometime. I reckon you know you're
welcome after what I've been sayin'." And then as the young man gave
him a lift with his coat; "keep a stiff upper lip; you'll strike pay
dirt after a while; just keep a hangin' on, like a puppy to a root.
Good-night," and Dick was alone again.

"Wife," said Mr. Wicks next morning, just before getting up to build
the fire; "wife, I made a discovery last night."

"You were out late enough to discover something," returned Mrs. Wicks,
with a laugh; "what is it?"

And Uncle Bobbie replied slowly as he arose and began dressing, "There's
some fellers go to the devil just because they aint got nowheres else
to go."

Later, the old gentleman sat at his desk in his office, tilted back
in his revolving chair, his feet among the papers where his hands
should have been. No one came in to disturb his revery for it was still
early in the morning, and the only sound was the clicking of a
typewriter in the next room. Suddenly the feet came down to their
proper place with a bang, and leaning forward, he wrote rapidly for
a few moments, then called, "Charlie." The noise of the typewriter
stopped and a young man entered the room. "Charlie, I've been gettin'
out a little advertisin' stuff here, and I wish you'd take it over to
George Udell's an' wait until they fix it up, so you can bring me back
the proof. You can let them letters rest a spell."

The young man took his hat and umbrella, for it was still raining, and
started on his errand, but his employer stopped him. "Wait a bit,
Charlie. Do you remember that young feller what called here for a job
week before last, the time I sold that Johnson property, you know?"

"Said he was a printer from Kansas City?" asked Charlie.

The other nodded.

"Yes, sir, I remember him."

"Well, he's got a job with Udell. I was there last night and had a
talk with him. He aint got no friends and stays in the office nights
alone. I just thought I'd tell you. He's shy of Christians though, and
proud as an old turkey gobbler in the spring. But he needs somebody
to talk to more'n anything else, that's all." And the old man turned
back to his papers.

This was the beginning. The end is easily foreseen; for, given a young
man of Dick's temperament, longing for companionship, and another young
man of Charlie's make-up, with a legitimate business to bring the two
together, and only a friendship of the David and Jonathan order could
result.

Dick was distant at first, but Charlie was too wise to force himself
upon him, and as Mr. Wicks found many excuses for sending his young
assistant to the printing office, the two slowly grew better acquainted.
Then came a time when Charlie dared to ask Dick what he did evenings,
and Dick answered in his proud way, "Smoke and play solitaire. Couldn't
Charlie come up and chat with him sometimes? He couldn't play cards
and didn't care to smoke, but he did like to talk. Yes, Charlie could
if he chose, but he would find it a dull place to spend an evening."

Dick was pulling away at his corn-cob pipe the first time Charlie came,
but moved to hide it from sight as the latter entered the room. Then
thinking better of it, with a proud lifting of his chin, he stuck the
pipe in his mouth again. However, Charlie noticed that the smoke soon
ceased to come from his companion's lips, and guessed that the tobacco
was not burning well. This was the last time that he ever saw Dick
smoking. Indeed, it was the last time that Dick ever used tobacco in
any form. "For," said he to himself, "I can't afford to do anything
that robs babies and mothers, and makes me disagreeable to my friends."

The ice once broken, Charlie's calls grew more and more frequent, until
the two met and talked like old friends, and often left the office to
walk about the city, arm in arm, after dark.

"Mr. Udell," said Dick, one Saturday night, as the latter handed him
his wages for the week, "Where's the best place to go for clothing?"

And George, with a pleased look on his face, which Dick could not help
but notice, directed him to a clothing store on the corner of Fourth
and Broadway.




CHAPTER VII


The quiet of a Sunday morning in early May was over the city. Stores
and business houses were closed, save here and there a meat market,
which opened for careless citizens who had neglected to lay in their
supply the night before. A group of negro loafers sat on the stone
steps of the National Bank, and lounged about the entrance of the Opera
House. A little farther up the street a company of idle whites sat in
front of a restaurant; and farther on, in the doorway of a saloon, a
drunkard was sleeping in the sun. Old Dr. Watkins, in his buggy, came
clattering down the street and stopped in front of the Boyd City Drug
Store, and a man with his arm in a sling followed him into the building.
Then the church bells rang out their cheery invitation, and the
children, neat and clean in their Sunday clothes, trooped along the
street to the Sunday Schools. An hour later the voices of the bells
again floated over the silent city, and men and women were seen making
their way to the various places of worship.

In the throng which passed through the door of the Jerusalem Church
was a gentleman dressed in gray. It was not difficult to guess from
his manner, as he stood in the vestibule as though waiting for someone,
that he was a stranger in the place. His figure was tall, nearly if
not quite six feet, well formed, but lithe rather than heavy, giving
one the impression not only of strength, but of grace as well; the
well-set head and clear-cut features; the dark hair and brows,
overshadowing, deep-set, keen gray eyes; the mouth and chin,
clean-shaven and finely turned; all combined to carry still farther
the impression of power. Even the most careless observer would know
that he would be both swift and sure in action, while a closer student
would say, "Here is one who rules himself, as he leads others; who is
strong in spirit as well as body; who is as kind as he is powerful;
as loving as he is ambitious; this is indeed a man whom one would love
as a friend and be forced to respect as an enemy."

Charlie Bowen, one of the ushers, came hurrying up and caught the
stranger by the hand. "Good," he whispered, looking him over admiringly;
"Glad to see you, old man. Whew, but you do look swell. Folks will
think you're a Congressman sure, in that outfit."

"Do I take my hat off when I go in?" whispered Dick, who already had
his hat in his hand, "Or do I wait till after prayers?"

"You come along and do as the Romans do, of course," replied
Charlie.

"Didn't know I was getting into a Catholic church," retorted the other.
"Say, don't rush me way up in front, will you?"

"Never you mind that. Come on." And before Dick could say more the
usher was half way up the aisle.

"Who is that stranger Charlie Bowen is seating?" said old Mrs. Gadsby
in a low voice, to her neighbor. The neighbor shook her head. "Isn't
he handsome?" whispered a young school teacher to her chum. "Some
distinguished strangers here to-day," thought the pastor as he glanced
over his congregation. And Adam Goodrich turned his head just in time
to look into the face of the tramp printer, who was being seated in
the pew behind him. Miss Goodrich was with her father and Dick heard
nothing of the opening part of the service, only coming to himself
when Cameron was well started in his discourse. The preacher's theme
was, "The Sermon on the Mount," and the first words that caught the
young man's ear were, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is
the kingdom of Heaven." He glanced around at the congregation. Mrs.
Gadsby was inspecting the diamonds in the ears of the lady by her side,
who was resting her powdered and painted face on the back of the pew
in front, as though in devotion.

"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted," read the
minister. Dick thought of the widows and orphans in the city, and of
the luxurious homes of the people he saw about him. "Blessed are the
meek, for they shall inherit the earth." Dick looked straight at Adam
Goodrich, the very back of whose head showed haughty arrogance and
pride. "Blessed are they that do hunger and thirst after righteousness,
for they shall be filled." Dick lifted up his eyes and looked at four
members of the choir who were whispering and giggling behind their
books, and noted the beautiful frescoed ceiling, the costly
stained-glass windows, the soft carpets and carved furniture on the
rostrum, and the comfortable, well-cushioned pews. "Is all this
righteousness?" he asked himself. And he thought of the boys and girls
on the street, of the hungry, shivering, starving, sin-stained creatures
he had seen and known, who would not dare present themselves at the
outer door of this temple, consecrated to the service of Him who said,
"Come unto me and I will give you rest." And then, lest men might be
mistaken, added, "Whosoever will may come."

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." Dick's eyes
rested on the girl in the next seat. Yes, Amy was pure in heart. There
was no shadow of evil on that beautiful brow. Innocence, purity and
truth were written in every line of the girlish features, and Dick's
heart ached as he thought of his own life and the awful barrier between
them; not the barrier of social position or wealth; _that_, he knew,
could be overcome; but the barrier he had builded himself, in the
reckless, wasted years. And then and there the strong young man fought
a battle in the secret chamber of his own soul; fought a battle and
won; putting from himself forever, as he believed, the dreams he had
dared to dream in the lonely evening hours in the printing office.

His struggle with himself seemed to make Dick feel more keenly the
awful mockery of the worshippers; and to him, who all his life had
been used to looking at things as they really were, without the glasses
of conventionalism or early training, the very atmosphere of the place
was stifling.

When the services were over, he rushed from the building without even
returning Charlie's salutation, only drawing a long breath when he was
safe on the street again; and rejoiced in his heart when at dinner,
the restaurant keeper cursed his wife in the kitchen, and a drunken
boarder fell from his chair. "This, at least, is real," he said to
himself; "but what a world this would be if only the Sermon on the
Mount were lived, not simply talked about."

The Monday night following Dick's visit to the church, Charlie Bowen
had gone back to the office after supper, as he often did when business
was brisk, forgetting that it was the first Monday in the month, and
that the official board of the Jerusalem Church would hold their regular
business meeting there.

The matter was only brought to his mind when Elder Wicks, with Rev.
Cameron, entered, followed soon after by two or three others. Charlie's
first impulse was to leave the office, but it was necessary that his
work be done. His employer knew that he was there and could easily
give him a hint if it would be better for him to retire. Shrewd old
Uncle Bobbie, however, had his own plans in regard to this particular
meeting, and it was not a part of them to have his young assistant
leave the office. So nothing was said, and the meeting opened in the
regulation way, with a prayer by Elder Gardner, the Chairman of the
Board. The pastor and the different standing committees, with the
treasurer, made their reports; some general matters were passed upon,
and then the much-talked-of, long-deferred subject of building an
addition to their place of worship was introduced.

"You know, Brethren," said the pastor, "our house does not begin to
hold the people at the regular services, and we must have more Sunday
School room. It seems to me that there will be no better time than the
present. The church is in a prosperous condition; we are out of debt;
and if we ever expect to enlarge our work we must begin."

"I know, Brother Cameron," said Deacon Godfrey, stating the standard
objection, as it had been stated for the past two years, "but where's
the money to come from? The members are paying all they can now to
keep out of debt, and I don't believe they will do any more."

"We do need more room," said Elder Chambers; "that's a fact. The Sunday
School is too crowded, and lots of people can't get to hear the
preaching. But I'm like Brother Godfrey, I don't see how it's to be
done. I'm giving every cent I can now, and I know lots of the Brethren
who are doing the same."

"The Lord will provide," said Deacon Wickham, with a pious uplifting
of his eyes, and a sanctimonious whine in his voice. "The Lord will
provide. Brethren, I'm ashamed for you to talk in this doubting manner.
What would the congregation think if they should hear you? Can't you
trust the Lord? Don't, oh, don't doubt His precious promises. He will
provide. If we need an addition to the church let us ask Him. He will
provide."

"Yes, the Lord will provide, but we've got to do the hustlin'," said
Uncle Bobbie. "He'll provide common sense and expect us to use it."

"Couldn't the women folks do something?" timidly suggested another.

"Of course they could," said Deacon Sharpe. "They could get up a social,
or fair, or an entertainment of some kind. They used to do a lot that
way before Brother Cameron came."

"Yes, and spent twenty-seven cents to make seventeen, while their boys
run the streets and their husbands darn their own britches," broke in
Uncle Bobbie again. "I tell you, I don't believe that so much of this
Ladies' Aid business is business. Christ wouldn't run a peanut stand
to support the church, ner pave a sinner's way to Heaven with pop-corn
balls and molasses candy--" A half smothered cough came from the next
room and everybody started. "Oh, it's only Charlie. He's got some work
to do to-night," said the old man, reassuringly.

"Everybody does it though," said Deacon Sharpe, encouraged by the nods
of Chambers and Godfrey. "All the churches depend upon the women, with
their fairs and such, to pay their way. I don't see what's the harm.
It gives the women something to do, and keeps us from paying out so
much cash."

"Yes, an' that's what ails the churches," retorted Elder Wicks again.
"There's too many of 'em run on the lemonade and ice cream basis; and
as fer givin' the women somethin' to do, my wife's got her hands full
takin' care o' me and her home. That's what I got her for, ain't it?
She didn't marry the church--to-be-sure, though, it does look like it
sometimes."

"We must all work in the Master's vineyard. None shall lose his reward,"
said Deacon Wickham again. "We all have our talents and God will hold
us responsible for the use we make of them. We all have our work to
do." To which sentiment Uncle Bobbie's reply was, "Yes; that means all
the women have our work to do, and that we'll get our reward by makin'
'em do it. I ain't got no use fer a man who lets a woman do his work,
even in church. There's enough for 'em to do that we can't, without
their spoilin' their eyes and breakin' their backs makin' sofa pillows,
carpet rags, and mince meat, to pay the runnin' expenses of the church,
and the debt besides."

"I know of only one way," said the pastor, anxious to prevent these
too frequent clashes between the pious deacon and the sharp old elder.

"What's that?" asked Chairman Gardner.

"The Young People's Society."

There was a slight rustle and the sound as of a book falling to the
floor in the other room.

"Umph," said Godfrey; "what can _they_ do?"

"Have you ever attended their meetings?" asked Cameron. "They have
done more practical, Christian work this past year than all the rest
of the church put together. And if the truth must be told, are more
to be depended upon at regular services, and prayer meeting, than some
members of the official board."

"Better turn the church into a Young Folks' Society then," said Wickham,
angrily; "and throw away the Bible altogether. Christ didn't say, 'Upon
this rock I'll build my Young People's Society.' For my part, I won't
have nothing to do with it. There is not a single passage of Scripture
that says we shall have such things; and until you can show me, book,
chapter and verse, I'll fight it."

"I'll give ye book, chapter and verse," said Uncle Bobbie;
"Phillippians, iv: 8."

There was a painful silence and then one of the deacons asked, "But
would the young folks help?"

"I think so," said the pastor.

"We might ask Charlie Bowen 'bout that," suggested Mr. Wicks.
"Charlie," he called, "are you most through with them books?"

"Yes, sir," answered the young man.

"Well, lock 'em up and come in here."

When they had laid the matter before him Charlie said, "Yes, I am sure
the Society would take the matter up but for one thing; ever since
Brother Cameron's sermon, on the Church of the Future, we have been
planning to furnish a reading room somewhere, and it may be that they
wouldn't want to give up the idea. If it was arranged so that we could
have a room in the church when the addition was built, I am sure the
Society would be glad to take hold."

Uncle Bobbie's eyes twinkled as he watched his young helper. He had
not misjudged his man. This was just what he had expected. But Deacon
Wickham was on his feet almost before Charlie finished speaking.

"Brethren, this is entirely out of order. We have no right to listen
to the counsel of this boy. He has not a single qualification, for
either a deacon or an elder. I believe we ought to go according to the
Scriptures or not at all; and as for this new-fangled idea of a reading
room in the church, it's all wrong. The Bible don't say a thing about
reading rooms and there is no authority for it whatever. If the inspired
apostles had wanted reading rooms in the church they would have said
so. Paul didn't have them. Let us stand for the religion of our fathers
and let the young people read at home if they want to. Brethren, I am
opposed to the whole thing. This boy has no right to speak here."

Wicks whispered to Charlie, "Never you mind him. He's got just so much
sputtering to do anyway. I'll fix him in a minute, and then he'll wash
his hands of the whole matter." "I think it's a fine plan," he said
aloud.

"So do I," agreed Deacon Sharpe. "Why not let the young folks have the
room? We could charge ten cents admission and make a good thing for
the church. I believe we ought to watch these corners and make a little
now and then. Paul worked to support himself."

"Make not my Father's house an house of merchandise," said Cameron,
but faintly concealing his disgust. "I tell you, Brethren, this thing
must be free. I am sure that is the plan of the young folks. The Young
People's Society is not in the business to make money. Am I right,
Charlie?"

"Yes, sir," answered the young Christian eagerly. "We wanted to fix
some place where the young men of the town could spend their evenings,
without going to the bad. There are lots of them who don't have homes,
but live in boarding houses and have no place to go."

"And a pretty crowd you'll have too," said Wickham.

"Yes, and if you had to pay the preacher you'd want to rent the room,"
said Sharpe.

Cameron's face flushed at the hard words.

"Come, come, Brethren, what shall we do about this?" said the
Chairman.

"I move," said Elder Wicks, "that we ask the Young People's Society
to assist us in building the addition to the church, and that we give
them one of the rooms."

"I second the motion," said Cameron; and it was carried. Then the
meeting adjourned with the usual prayer.

"Well," said Wickham, "I wash my hands of the whole matter."

Uncle Bobbie nudged Charlie in the side as he started for his hat; and
later, as he walked down the street, arm in arm with his pastor and
his bookkeeper, he said: "Poor old Wickham; his heart's all right, but
he's got so much Scripture in his head that his think machine won't
work."

"Friends," said Cameron, as they paused in front of the parsonage;
"this is the day I have looked forward to for a long time. This step
will revolutionize our methods. It's hard to get out of old ruts, but
the world needs applied Christianity. Thank God for the young people."
And Uncle Bobbie said, "Amen."




CHAPTER VIII


Charlie Bowen ran into the printing office one day on his way home to
dinner. "Dick," he said, "it's time you got out of this. I want you
to put on your best bib and tucker to-night and go with me to meet
some young people."

Dick carefully spread a pile of letterheads on the drying rack; then
shutting off the power, stood watching the machine as its movements
grew slower and slower. "Young people," he thought; "the Young People's
Society of the Jerusalem Church. I saw the announcement in to-day's
Independent. Church members--_she'll_ be there, and I'll have the joy
of seeing how near I can come to the candle without getting my wings
singed. Well, I suppose a fellow can't stay in the dark all the time,"
he said aloud, as he turned from the now motionless press.

"Of course not," cried Charlie. "You've hidden yourself long enough.
It will do you a world of good to get out; and, beside, I always do
feel like a sneak when I'm having a good time and you're moping up
here in this dirty old place."

Dick looked around. "I've moped in worse places," he said. "But I'll
go with you to-night and be as giddy as you please. I'll whisper pretty
nothings to the female lambkins and exchange commonplace lies with the
young gentlemen, and then--why then--we'll come away again and
straightway forget what manner of things we said and did, and they
won't count when we meet on the street before folks."

"That's all right," returned the other. "You just come anyway and see
how badly you're mistaken. I'll call for you at seven-thirty sharp."
And he left him cleaning up for his mid-day lunch.

When Charlie returned to the office that evening he found Dick dressed
ready to go, and a strange contrast the latter presented to the
poorly-clad, half-starved tramp who had walked into Boyd City only a
few weeks before. Some thought of this flashed through Dick's mind as
he read the admiration in his friend's face, and his own eyes glowed
with pleasure. Then a shadow swiftly came, but only for a moment. He
was determined to forget, for one evening at least. "Come on," he cried
gaily, squaring his shoulders as though looking forward to a battle,
"my soul seemeth anxious for the fray."

Charlie laughed as he answered, "I only hope that you'll come off
whole. There will be some mighty nice girls there to-night. Look out
you don't get your everlasting."

When the two young men reached the home of Helen Mayfield, where the
social was to be held, they were met at the door by Miss Clara Wilson,
who was Chairman of the reception committee.

"Glory," whispered that young lady to herself. "Here comes Charlie
Bowen with that tramp printer of George's. Wish George could see him
now." But not a hint of her thought found expression in her face, and
the cordial, whole-hearted way in which she offered her hand in
greeting, carried the conviction that no matter what might be his
reception from others, this, at least, was genuine.

The guests gathered quickly, and soon there was a house full of
laughing, chattering, joking young people; and Dick, true to his
promise, laughed and chattered with the rest.

"Who is that tall, handsome man with the dark hair, talking to those
girls with Nellie Graham and Will Clifton?" whispered Amy Goodrich to
Miss Wilson, who had been asking her why Frank was not at the gathering.

"Haven't you met him yet?" answered Clara, secretly amused, for George
had told her of the incident at the office. "That's Mr. Falkner, from
Kansas City. Come, you must meet him. Mr. Falkner," she said, skillfully
breaking up the group, "I wish to present you to a very dear friend.
Miss Goodrich, Mr. Falkner." Poor Dick felt the room spin round and
everybody looking at him, as he mumbled over some nonsense about the
great honor and happiness of having met Miss Goodrich before.

Amy looked at him in astonishment. "I think you are mistaken, Mr.
Falkner," she said. "I do not remember having met you. Where was it;
here in town?"

With a mighty effort, Dick caught hold of himself, as it were, and
gazed around with an air of defiance. To his amazement, no one was
paying the least attention to him. Only his fair partner was looking
up into his face with mingled amusement, wonder and admiration written
on her features.

"In California; I think it was year before last," he said glibly.

Amy laughed--"But I never was in California in my life, so you must
be mistaken." Then, as Dick swept the room with another anxious glance:
"What is the matter, Mr. Falkner; are you looking for someone?"

"I was wondering where Charlie Bowen went to," he answered desperately.
"I didn't know but what he would want me to turn the ice-cream freezer
or something."

[Illustration: "Mr. Falkner, I wish to present you to a very dear
friend."]

Miss Goodrich laughed again. "You're the funniest man," she said, and
something in her voice or manner brought Dick to his senses with a jar.

"Well," he said, with a smile, "if I am mistaken I am very sorry, I
assure you."

"About the ice cream?"

"No, about having met you before."

"Oh, sorry that you thought you had met me?"

Dick protested to some length with much unnecessary earnestness, and
at last suggested that they find seats. Miss Goodrich agreed, and
leading the way to an adjoining room, discovered a cushioned corner
near the window. "Do you know," she said, when they were seated, "I,
too, feel as you do?"

"About the ice-cream?" retorted Dick.

"No," she laughed, "about having met you before."

"Indeed, I am glad."

"Glad?"

"Yes, that you feel as I do."

"Truly," she said, ignoring his reply, "you _do_ remind me of someone
I have seen somewhere. Oh, I know; it's that tramp printer of Mr.
Udell's, I--Why, what is the matter, Mr. Falkner? Are you sick? Let
me call someone."

"No, no," gasped Dick. "I'll be all right in a moment. It's my heart.
Please don't worry." He caught up a basket of pictures. "Here, let's
look at these. I find nothing that has a more quieting effect than the
things one finds on the center tables of our American homes."

Amy looked uneasy but began turning over the pictures in the basket.
There were some commonplace photos of commonplace people, a number of
homemade kodaks, one or two stray views of Yellowstone Park, the big
trees of California, Niagara Falls, and several groups that were
supposed to be amusing. "Oh, here's a picture of that printer," she
cried, picking up one which showed the interior of an old-fashioned
printing office, with a Washington hand-press and a shock-headed
printer's devil sitting on a high stool, his face and shirt-front
bespattered with ink. "That looks just like him. Why,--why, Mr. Falkner,
you've torn that picture! What _will_ Helen Mayfield say?"

"Awfully sorry," said Dick, "I'll find her another. It was very awkward
of me, I am sure." Then in desperation, "But tell me more about this
printer of whom I remind you; what was his name?"

"Oh, I don't know that," replied Amy, "but he was very kind to me and
sat up at night to design a cover for a little booklet I was having
printed. I never saw him to thank him though, for he was out when I
called the next day. I heard that Mr. Udell had a tramp working for
him and I suppose it was he, for he acted very strangely--he may have
been drinking. It is too bad for he must have been a splendid workman.
There ought to be one of those books here," and she began turning over
the things on the table. "Yes, here it is." And she handed Dick the
pamphlet that had caused him so much trouble that night in the office.

It is hard to say where the matter would have ended had not Miss
Jameson, another member of the social committee, appeared just then,
and ordered them to the parlor, where Amy was wanted to play.

After the company had listened to several instrumental pieces and one
or two solos by different girls, one of the young men asked, "Don't
you sing, Mr. Falkner?"

"Of course he does," and all began calling for a song.

A sudden thought struck Dick, and stepping quickly to the piano, he
played his own accompaniment and sang, in a rich baritone voice, a
street song:

  "They tell me go work for a living,
  And not round the country to stamp;
  And then when I ask for employment,
  They say there's no work for a tramp."

The song was by no means a classic one, but the manner in which Dick
rendered it made it seem so, and as he sang:

  "There's many a true heart beating,
  Beneath the old coat of a tramp."

A strange hush fell over the little audience, and when the song was
finished a subdued murmur of applause filled the room, while eager
voices called for more. Dick responded with another selection and then
declaring that he had done his share, left the instrument and seated
himself by Charlie's side.

"Good, old man," said that young gentleman, in a whisper, "but where
in the world did you learn all that?"

"Dance hall and variety," whispered Dick. "Never thought I'd air that
accomplishment at a church social."

Charlie's reply was lost in a call to the dining room, where light
refreshments were served to the hungry young people by waiters from
among their number; then turn about, and the waiters were waited upon;
and through it all ran the laugh and jest of happy young folks, who
thoroughly enjoyed each other's company, and who for one evening met
on common ground. After supper, came games and more music, while a few
of the more earnest ones, in an out-of-the-way corner, discussed the
reading room and planned for its future. Then came a call for everyone
to sing, and with Amy at the piano, they sang song after song until
it was time to go. Then the bustle of leave-taking--good nights--lovely
time--my house next month--and Dick found himself walking downtown,
arm in arm with his friend. "Well," said the latter, "how about it?"

"Thank you for a pleasant evening," replied Dick. "But say, those folks
don't know me, do they?"

"Some of them do; some don't. What does it matter?"

"Well, tell me, did those who know how I came to town, know that I
would be there tonight?"

"_No, sir,_" said Charlie, emphatically. "What do you take me for,
Dick?"

"Forgive me," said Dick. "I ought to have known better, only you see
my experience with church people, and--well--I'm a bit sore I guess.
I couldn't believe there were any like those. I didn't know, that's
all," and with a "good-night," he turned down the street toward his
humble lodging place, while Charlie went on toward home.

"Yes, that's all," said the latter to himself. "Dick didn't know; and
that's what's the matter with hundreds of fellows just like him; they
don't know what real Christianity is like; they see so much of the
sham; but he'll find out though, or I'm mistaken. My, what a worker
he would make, with his experience and talents, if only once he got
started right. He just made that old street song burn its way into the
heart, and I felt like I wanted to be a brother to every poor, homeless
chap in the world."

Meanwhile, Dick had reached the office, and throwing off his coat,
laid aside his collar, tie and cuffs. Then seating himself in the
rickety old chair, he tilted back as far as possible and fixed his
feet as high as he could get them, against the big Prouty press.
Five--ten--fifteen-minutes went by, Dick sat without moving a muscle.
The clanging bell of the eleven-thirty train on the "Memphis" pulling
into the depot, sounded plainly in his ear, but still he sat immovable.
A night-hawk cab rattled over the brick pavement, and a drunkard yelled
beneath the window; still Dick held his place. So still that a little
mouse that lived in one corner of the office, crept stealthily out,
and glancing curiously with his bead-like eyes, at the motionless
figure, ran, with many a pause, to the very legs of Dick's chair.
Crash--as Dick's feet struck the floor. The shaky old piece of furniture
almost fell in ruins and the poor frightened mouse fled to cover.
Kicking the chair to one side, the young fellow walked to the window
and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking into the night. Then,
in sullen tones, he addressed the lamp that twinkled in the bakery
across the way: "I'm a fool. I know I'm a fool; a great big fool. I
ought to have told her who I was. I ought to get out a poster and label
myself _dangerous_, so people would know they were talking to a tramp.
Oh, but when she finds out, as she must--and her father--." Here Dick's
imagination failed him, and he laughed again and again in spite of
himself, as he thought of the tramp who had applied to Adam Goodrich
for work, chatting with his beautiful daughter as an equal. "Whew--but
there'll be a hot time in the camp of the enemy when they learn the
truth," and he took himself off to bed.




CHAPTER IX


The opinions on the part of Rev. Cameron's flock regarding the proposed
reading room, were numerous and varied. Adam Goodrich, in his usual
pompous manner, gave it as his judgment that Cameron would be running
a free lodging house next, as though that were the greatest depth of
infamy to which a poor preacher could sink, and Mrs. Goodrich declared
that it would ruin the social influence of the church forever. Amy was
heart and soul with the movement, but prudently refrained from
discussing the matter in the presence of her parents; while Frank,
though he attended all the meetings of the society and would not openly
oppose their efforts for fear of being unpopular, lost no opportunity
to secretly throw a stumbling block in their way, and made all manner
of sneering allusions to the work when he thought it would not come
to the ears of the young people.

When at last the room was finished and ready to be occupied, the
committee appointed met to select a manager. The church, with the usual
good judgment shown by churches in such matters, had named Elder Wicks
and Deacon Wickham, and the young people had selected Charlie Bowen
and two young ladies, to represent the Society. They met in the new
rooms one evening and Deacon Wickham took the floor at once.

"I hope our young friends won't take offense at what I am about to
say, but you know I am one of the kind who always say just what I
think, for I believe that if a man has anything on his mind, it had
better come out. This business ought to be in the hands of the church
board; you young folks have no Scriptural rights to speak on the subject
at all." The three young Christians looked at Uncle Bobbie, whose left
eye remained closed for just the fraction of a second, and the speaker
wondered at the confident smile with which his words were received.
"There's not one of you that has the proper qualifications for an elder
or a deacon," he continued. "You girls have no right to have the
oversight of a congregation, anyway, and Charlie Bowen here is not
even the husband of one wife."

"Give him time, Brother Wickham; give the boy time," broke in Uncle
Bobbie, with a chuckle, much to the delight of the girls, and the
confusion of Charlie. "You just wait; he may surprise you some day in
his qualifications."

But the deacon continued with a frown at the interruption, "As far as
that goes, the whole thing is unscriptural and I was opposed to it at
the first, as Brother Wicks here can tell you." Uncle Bobbie nodded.
"But you've gone ahead in spite of what I and the Scriptures teach,
and you've got your reading rooms; and now I mean to see to it that
you have a good Brother, who is eminently qualified to teach, at the
head of the concern; a good man who is thoroughly grounded in the
faith, and who has arrived at years of discretion; a workman that
needeth not to be ashamed of his handiwork, rightly dividing the word
of truth. Such a man could get the young Christians together evenings
and lay out their Bible reading for them, spending an hour or two
perhaps, each week, in explaining the more difficult passages. If I
had time I would be glad to do the work myself, for there's nothing
I like better than teaching. I don't know, I might possibly find time
if the Brethren thought best for me to take the work. I am always ready
to do what the Lord wants me to, and I promise you that I'd teach those
young people the Scriptures, and make them interested, too. Why, when
I was in Bear City, down in Oklahoma, I had a--"

"But, Brother Wickham," interrupted Uncle Bobbie, who knew from
experience that if the good deacon ever got started on his work in
Oklahoma they never would get to the business of the evening, "it
strikes me you ain't got jist the right ide' of this. Tain't to be a
Sunday School, ner a place to teach the Bible, as I understand it,
though I reckon it's in line with the teachin' of Christ. It is--"

"Not to teach the Bible?" ejaculated the astonished deacon. "What on
earth can you teach in the church except the Bible, and what kind of
a reading room can you have in the Lord's house I'd like to know?"

"The ide', Brother Wickham," said the old elder, as gently as he could,
"is to furnish some place where young men of the town can go and spend
their time when they aint working. This room will be stocked with the
latest books, magazines and papers; there will be tables with writin'
material and sich stuff, if a feller wants to write to his girl, you
know, and the room in there will be fixed with easy chairs and sofas
for them that wants to talk er play games, er have a good time
generally. Seems to me what we want fer a manager is some young man
who's got good boss sense, and who could make things pleasant, even
if he don't know so much Scripture."

"And it's to be free to every loafer who wants to come in and use the
place?"

"Yes, just as free as Christ's invitation to come and be saved."

"But you'll fill the church with a lot of trash who don't know anything
about the Bible, or the plan of salvation. How can you, when the
Scriptures say, have no fellowship with such?"

"We'll save a few young men who are startin' fer Hell by way of the
saloons and bawdy houses."

"No you won't. The Gospel and the Gospel alone, is the power of God
unto salvation. God never ordained that men should be saved by reading
rooms and such."

"I believe I know just the man we want," said Uncle Bobbie, turning
to the young people, when the deacon had at last subsided into an
attitude of sullen protest.

"Who?" asked one of the young ladies, with the hint of a laugh in her
eyes, as she looked at their stand-by.

"That printer of Udell's. He's a clean, strong young feller, and
I believe would be glad of some sech place to spend his evenin's.
Of course he aint a Christian, but--"

"Not a Christian," cried Wickham, starting to his feet again; "not a
Christian? And you propose to let an alien take charge of the Lord's
work? I wash my hands of the whole matter."

"Are you sure he will be all right?" asked the other girl on the
committee.

"Sure," replied Wicks, "if he will take it, and I think we can get
Charlie here to see to that."

Charlie nodded. "It will be a splendid thing for him," he said; and
then he told them how Dick spent his evenings alone in the office,
rather than go to the only places open to him.

"Well," said Uncle Bobbie, "let's fix it that way. Brother Wickham,
we have decided to ask Richard Falkner to take charge of the rooms."

"I've got nothing to say about it, sir," answered the good deacon. "I
don't know anything about it. I wash my hands of the whole matter."

And so the work at the Jerusalem Church was established. It took no
little power of persuasion on the part of Charlie Bowen, to bring his
friend to the point of accepting the committee's offer, even when it
was endorsed by the entire Young People's Society, and a large part
of the congregation. But his arguments finally prevailed and Dick
consented to be at the rooms between the hours of seven and eleven
every evening, the time when a strong, tactful man in authority would
be most needed.

The rooms were furnished by friends of the cause and were cheery,
comfortable, homelike apartments, where everyone was made welcome.
Many a poor fellow, wandering on the streets, tired of his lonely
boarding house, and sorely tempted by the air of cheerfulness and
comfort of the saloons, was led there, where he found good books and
good company; and at last, for what was more natural, became a regular
attendant at the only church in the city which did not close its doors
to him during the week.

Dick enjoyed the work, and in a short time had many friends among the
young men. He treated everybody in the same kindly, courteous manner,
and was always ready to recommend a book, to introduce an acquaintance,
or to enter into conversation with a stranger. Indeed he soon grew so
popular among the young folks that George Udell told Miss Wilson it
seemed as though he had always lived in Boyd City, he knew so many
people, and so many knew him. And of course Clara answered, "I told
you so." What woman could resist such an opportunity? "Didn't I say
that he was no common tramp? You needn't tell me I don't know a man
when I see him."

The two were driving in the evening, on the road that leads south from
town, down a hill, across a bridge, and along the bank of a good-sized
creek, where the trees bend far over to dip the tips of their branches
in the water, and the flowers growing rank and wild along the edges,
nod lazily at their own faces reflected in the quiet pools and eddies.

"You may know a man when you see him," replied George, letting the
horse take his own time beneath the overhanging boughs, "but you take
precious good care that you don't see too much of one that I could
name."

"Who do you mean; Mr. Falkner?" replied Clara, with a provoking smile,
as she tried in vain to catch one of the tall weeds that grew close
to the side of the road.

"Hang Mr. Falkner," returned Udell impatiently. "You know what I mean,
Clara. What's the use of you and me pretending? Haven't I told you
ever since I was ten years old that I loved you, and would have no one
else to be my wife? And haven't you always understood it that way, and
by your manners toward me given assent?"

The girl looked straight ahead at the horse's ears as she answered
slowly, "If my manner has led you to have false hopes it is very easy
to change it, and if accepting your company gives assent to all the
foolish things you may have said when you were ten years old, you'd
better seek less dangerous society."

"Forgive me dear, I spoke hastily," said George, in a much softer tone.
"But it's mighty hard to have you always just within reach and yet
always just beyond."

The sun had gone down behind the ridge. The timbers of an old mining
shaft, and the limbs and twigs of a leafless tree showed black against
the tinted sky. A faint breath of air rustled the dry leaves of the
big sycamores and paw-paw bushes, and the birds called sleepily to
each other as they settled themselves for the coming night. A
sparrow-hawk darted past on silent wings, a rabbit hopped across the
road, while far away, the evening train on the "Frisco" whistled for
a crossing; and nearer, a farm boy called to his cattle. After a long
silence, George spoke again, with a note of manly dignity in his voice,
which made his fair companion's heart beat quicker. "Clara, look at
me; I want to see your eyes," he insisted. She turned her face toward
him. "Clara, if you can say, I do not love you as a woman ought to
love her husband, I will promise you, on my honor, never to mention
the subject to you again. Can you say it?"

She tried to turn her head and to hide the tell-tale color in her
cheeks, but he would not permit it. "Answer me," he insisted. "Say you
do not love me and I will never bother you again."

At last the eyes were lifted, and in their light George read his answer.
"All right," he said, picking up the whip, "I knew you could not lie;
you do love me, and I'll never stop asking you to be my wife." He
turned the horse's head toward the city.

That same evening, Adam Goodrich, with his family and two or three
neighbors, sat on the veranda of the Goodrich home, enjoying the
beauties of the hour, and passing the evening in social chat. In the
course of the conversation, someone mentioned the rooms at the Jerusalem
Church. Adam grunted. "What a splendid thing it is for the young men,"
said one of the lady callers. "I don't see why more of the churches
don't adopt the plan. I wish ours would."

"Yes," chimed in another, "and isn't that Mr. Falkner, who has charge
of the rooms in the evening, a splendid fellow? My brother speaks of
him so highly, and all the young men seem to think so much of him."

"Where is he from; St. Louis, is it?" asked the first lady.

"Kansas City," said Frank. "At least that's what _he_ says. He bummed
his way into town last spring and got a job in that infidel Udell's
printing office. That's all anybody knows of him."

"Except that he has never shown himself to be anything but a perfect
gentleman," added his sister.

"Amy," said Mrs. Goodrich, a note of warning in her voice.

"I don't care, mamma, it's the truth. What if he _was_ out of money
and hungry and ragged when he came to town? He was willing to work,
and Mr. Udell says that he is a splendid workman, and--" But her father
interrupted her. "Well, what of it? No one knows anything about his
family or how he lived before he came here. He's only a tramp, and you
can't make anything else out of him. Some folks are never satisfied
unless they are trying to make gentlemen out of gutter snipes. If we
let such fellows get a foothold, there won't be any respectable society
after a while; it will be all stable boys and boot-blacks."

Later, when the visitors had said good-night and Amy and her mother
had entered the house, Frank said, "Father, I'll tell you one thing
about that man Falkner, you've got to watch him."

"What do you mean?" asked Adam.

"I mean Amy," replied the other, moving his chair nearer the old
gentleman and speaking in a guarded tone. "He takes every chance he
can to talk with her, and she is altogether too willing to listen."

"Pshaw," grunted the older man, "she never sees him."

"That's where you are mistaken, father. They met first last spring in
the printing office; and afterwards, when he had gotten in with that
soft fool, Charlie Bowen, they met again at the Young People's social.
He was all dressed up in a new suit of clothes and of course Amy didn't
know him. They were together all that evening, and since then, though
she has found out who he is, she talks with him at every opportunity.
They meet at the Society, at church, at picnics and parties, and
sometimes in the printing office. I tell you you'd better watch him.
He's doing his level best to get in with her, and just look how he's
working everybody else. Half the town is crazy over him."

Low spoken as were Frank's words, Amy heard every one, for she had not
retired as her brother supposed, but was lying on a couch just inside
the doorway of the darkened parlor. With burning cheeks, she rose
cautiously and tiptoed out of the silent room. Making her way upstairs
and entering her own chamber, she closed and bolted the door, and then,
throwing herself on the floor by the low seat of an open window, rested
her head on her arm while she looked up at the stars now shining clear
and bright. Once she started impatiently and her eyes filled with angry
tears. Then she grew calm again, and soon the girlish face was worthy
of a master's brush as she gazed reverently into the beautiful heavens,
her lips moving in a whispered prayer; a softly whispered prayer for
Dick. And as she prayed, in the shadow of the Catalpa trees, unseen
by her, a man walked slowly down the street. Reaching the corner, he
turned and slowly passed the house again; crossing the street, he
passed once more on the opposite side, paused a moment at the corner,
and then started hurriedly away toward the business portion of the
city.




CHAPTER X


November, with its whispered promises of winter fun, was past, and the
Christmas month, with snow and ice, had been ushered in. Usually in
the latitude of Boyd City, the weather remains clear and not very cold
until the first of the new year; but this winter was one of those
exceptions which are met with in every climate, and the first of
December brought zero weather. Indeed, it had been unusually cold for
several weeks. Then, to make matters worse, a genuine western blizzard
came howling across the prairie, and whistled and screamed about the
streets, from which it had driven everything that could find a place
of shelter. The stores on Broadway were vacant, save a few shivering
clerks. In the offices, men sat with their feet on the stove and called
to mind the biggest storms they had ever known; while street cars stood
motionless and railway trains, covered with ice and snow, came puffing
into the stations three or four hours behind time. In spite of the
awful weather, George Udell spent the evening at the Wilson home on
the east side. He had not seen Clara for nearly two weeks and the hour
was rather late when he arose to prepare for the long, cold walk to
his boarding house. "And I must wait, Clara?" he asked again, as they
stood in the hallway, and the girl answered rather sharply, "Yes, you
must wait. I do wish you would be sensible, George." The printer made
no reply, but paused for some time with his hand on the door-knob, as
though reluctant to leave her in such a mood. Then with an "Alright,
goodnight," he stepped out into the storm, his mind filled with bitter
thoughts that had best be left unspoken. The man did not know how heavy
was the heart of the girl who stood at the window watching long after
his form had vanished into the night.

The wind was terrific and the snow cut the printer's face like tiny
needles, while he was forced again and again to turn his back to the
blast in order to breathe, and in spite of his heavy clothing was
chilled to the bone before he had gone three blocks. On Broadway, he
passed saloon after saloon, brilliant with glittering chandeliers and
attractive with merry music, inviting all the world to share the
good-fellowship and cheer within. He thought of his rooms, how cold
and lonely they would be, and had half a mind to stop at the hotel for
the night. For an instant he hesitated, then with a shake, "What folly,"
pushed on again. As he struggled along, fighting every inch of the
way, with head down and body braced to the task, warm lights from the
windows of many cozy homes fell across his path, and he seemed to feel
the cold more keenly for the contrast. Then through the storm, he saw
a church, dark, grim and forbidding, half-hidden in the swirling snow,
the steps and entrance barricaded with heavy drifts. A smile of bitter
sarcasm curled his lip as he muttered to himself: "How appropriate;
what a fine monument to the religious activity of the followers of
Christ," and he almost laughed aloud when he remembered that the sermon
delivered there the Sunday before was from the text, "I was a stranger
and ye took me not in." Suddenly he stopped and stood peering through
the storm. In the light of an electric arc, which sizzled and sputtered
on the corner, he saw a dark form half hidden in the snow piled about
the doorway of the building. Stepping closer, he reached out and touched
it with his foot, then bending down, he discovered to his horror that
it was the body of a man.

George tried to arouse the fallen one and lift him to his feet, but
his efforts only met with failure, and the other sank back again on
his bed of snow. The printer studied a moment. What should he do? Then
his eyes caught a gleam of light from a house near by. "Of course,"
he thought, "Uncle Bobbie Wicks lives there." Stooping again, he
gathered the man in his arms, and with no little effort, slowly and
painfully made his way across the street and along the sidewalk to Mr.
Wicks's home.

Uncle Bobbie was sitting before the fire, dozing over his Sunday School
quarterly, when he was aroused by the sound of heavy feet on the porch
and a strange knock, as though someone was kicking at the door. Quickly
he threw it open, and Udell, with his heavy burden, staggered into the
room.

"Found him on the church steps," gasped the printer, out of breath,
as he laid the stranger on a couch. "I'll go for a doctor," and he
rushed out into the storm again, returning some thirty minutes later
with Dr. James at his heels. They found Uncle Bobbie, who had done all
that was possible, sitting beside the still form on the couch. "You're
too late, Doc," he said. "The poor chap was dead before George left
the house."

The physician made his examination. "You're right, Mr. Wicks," he
answered, "we can do nothing here. Frozen to death. Must have died
early in the evening."

The doctor returned to his home to get what sleep he could before
another call should break his rest, and all that night the Christian
and the infidel sat together, keeping watch over the dead body of the
unknown man.

The next morning the coroner was summoned; the verdict was soon handed
in, "Death by exposure." Or the body was found a church statement that
there had been paid to the current expense fund, in the quarter ending
August first, the sum of three dollars, but the name written with lead
pencil was illegible. Besides this, was a prayer-meeting topic-card,
soiled and worn, and a small testament, dog-eared, with much fingering,
but no money. A cheap Christian Endeavor pin was fastened to the ragged
vest. There was nothing to identify him, or furnish a clew as to where
he was from. The face and form was that of a young man, and though
thin and careworn, showed no mark of dissipation. The right hand was
marked by a long scar across the back and the loss of the little finger.
The clothing was very poor.

Among those who viewed the body in the undertaking rooms where it lay
for identification, was Dick, and Udell, who was with him, thought
that he seemed strangely moved as he bent over the casket. George
called his attention to the disfigured hand, but Dick only nodded.
Then, as they drew back to make room for others, he asked in a whisper,
"Did they search thoroughly for letters or papers? Sometimes people
hide important documents in their clothing, you know."

"No, there was nothing," answered George. "We even ripped out the
linings."

When they reached the open air Dick drew a long breath. "I must hurry
back to the office," he said. "I suppose you'll not be down to-day."

"No, I must arrange for the funeral; you can get along I guess."

"Oh yes, don't worry about that," was the reply, and the young man
started off down the street, but at the corner he turned, and walking
rapidly, in a few moments reached the church where the body of the
stranger was found.

The steps and walks had been carefully cleaned and the snow about the
place was packed hard by the feet of the curious crowd who had visited
the scene earlier in the morning.

Dick looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. Stepping
swiftly to the pile of snow which the janitor had made with his shovel
and broom, he began kicking it about with his feet. Suddenly, with an
exclamation, he stopped and again glanced quickly around. Then stooping,
he picked up a long, leather pocketbook, and turning, walked hurriedly
away to the office.

The body was held as long as possible, but when no word could be had
as to the poor fellow's identity, he was laid away in a lot purchased
by the printer, who also bore the funeral expenses. When Uncle Bobbie
would have helped him in this, George answered: "No, this is my work.
I found him. Let me do this for his mother's sake."

The funeral was held in the undertaking rooms. Dick Falkner, Uncle
Bobbie and his wife, and Clara Wilson, with George, followed the hearse
to the cemetery.

To-day, the visitor to Mt. Olive, will read with wonder, the inscription
on a simple stone, bearing no name, but telling the story of the young
man's death, and followed by these words, "I was a stranger and ye
took me not in."

The church people protested loudly when it was known how the grave was
to be marked, but George Udell answered that he wanted something from
the Bible because the young man was evidently a Christian, and that
the text he had selected was the only appropriate one he could find.

The evening after the funeral, Charlie Bowen and Dick sat alone in the
reading room, for the hour was late and the others had all gone to
their homes. Charlie was speaking of the burial. "I tell you," he said,
"it looks mighty hard to see a man laid away by strangers who do not
even know his name, and that too, after dying all alone in the snow
like a poor dog. And to think that perhaps a mother is watching for
him to come home; and the hardest part is that he is only one of many.
In a cold snap like this, the amount of suffering among the poor and
outcast is something terrible. If only the bad suffered, one might not
feel so."

Dick made no reply, but sat staring moodily into the fire.

"I've studied on the matter a good bit lately," continued Charlie.
"Why is it that people are so indifferent to the suffering about them?
Is Udell right when he says that church members, by their own teaching,
prove themselves to be the biggest frauds in the world?"

"He is, so far as the church goes," replied Dick; "but not as regards
Christianity. This awful neglect and indifference comes from a _lack_
of Christ's teaching, or rather from a lack of the application of
Christ's teaching, and too much teaching of the church. The trouble
is that people follow the church and not Christ; they become church
members, but not Christians."

"Do you mean to say that the church ought to furnish a lodging place
for every stranger who comes to town?" asked Charlie.

"I mean just this," answered Dick, rising to his feet and walking
slowly back and forth across the room, "there is plenty of food in
this world to give every man, woman and child enough to eat, and it
is contrary to God's law that the _helpless_ should go hungry. There
is enough material to clothe every man, woman and child, and God never
intended that the needy should go naked. There is enough wealth to
house and warm every creature tonight, for God never meant that men
should freeze in such weather as this; and Christ surely teaches, both
by words and example, that the hungry should be fed, the naked clothed,
and the homeless housed. Is it not the Christian's duty to carry out
Christ's teaching? It is an awful comment on the policy of the church
when a young man, bearing on his person the evidence of his Christianity
and proof that he supported the institution, dies of cold and hunger
at the locked door of the house of God. That, too, in a city where
there are ten or twelve denominations, paying at least as many thousand
dollars for preachers' salaries alone each year."

"But we couldn't do it."

"The lodges do. There is more than enough wealth spent in the churches
in this city, for useless, gaudy display, and in trying to get ahead
of some other denomination, than would be needed to clothe every naked
child in warmth to-night. You claim to be God's stewards, but spend
his goods on yourselves, while Christ, in the person of that boy in
the cemetery, is crying for food and clothing. And then you wonder why
George Udell and myself, who have suffered these things, don't unite
with the church. The wonder to me is that such honest men as you and
Mr. Wicks can remain connected with such an organization."

"But," said Charlie, with a troubled look on his face, "would not such
work encourage crime and idleness?"

"Not if it were done according to God's law," answered Dick. "The
present spasmodic, haphazard sentimental way of giving does. It takes
away a man's self-respect; it encourages him to be shiftless and idle;
or it fails to reach the worthy sufferers. Whichever way you fix it,
it kills the man."

"But what is God's law?" asked the other.

"That those who do not work should not eat," replied Dick; "and that
applies on the avenue as well as in the mines."

"How would you do all this, though? That has been the great problem
of the church for years."

"I beg your pardon, but it has _not_ been the problem of the church.
If the ministry had spent one-half the time in studying this question
and trying to _fulfill_ the teaching of Christ, that they have wasted
in quarreling over each other's opinions, or in tickling the ears of
their wealthy members, this problem would have been solved long ago.
Different localities would require different plans, but the purpose
must always be the same. To make it possible for those in want to
receive aid without compromising their self-respect, or making beggars
of them, and to make it just as impossible for any unworthy person to
get along without work."

For some minutes the silence in the room was only broken by the steady
tramp, tramp, as the speaker marched up and down.

"Dick," said Charlie, "do you believe that anything could be done
here?"

Dick started and looked sharply at his companion. "Of course it could,
if only the church would go about it in a businesslike way."

Charlie shook his head. "That's hopeless. The church will never move
in the matter. Brother Cameron has preached again and again on those
subjects and they do nothing."

"But has your pastor presented any definite plan for work?" asked Dick.
"It's one thing to preach about it, and another thing to present a
plan that will meet the need. That's the great trouble. They're all
the time preaching about Christianity and trying to live as they talk,
in a sickly, sentimental fashion; when of all things in the world
Christianity is the most practical, or it is nothing."

"The young folks would take it up, I am sure," said Charlie.
"Say, will you suggest a plan to the Society?"

"I'm like the rest," said Dick, with a slight smile. "I'm preaching
when I have no remedy," and he began locking up for the night. "But,"
as they stepped out into the street, he added, "I'll not go back on
my statement though. I believe it can be done."

Nothing more was said on the subject so much in the hearts of the young
men, until the Saturday before the regular monthly business meeting
of the Young People's Society. Then Charlie broached the matter to
Dick as together they walked down the street at the close of their
day's work.

"No," said Dick, "I have not forgotten, and I believe I have a plan
that would meet the needs of the case as it is in this city."

"Will you go before the Young People's Society at their meeting next
Tuesday night, and explain your scheme?"

Dick hesitated. "I fear they would not listen to me, Charlie," he said
at last. And then added, as he rested his hand affectionately on the
other's shoulder, "You see, old man, people here don't look at me as
you do. They can't, or won't forget the way I came to town, and I fear
they would not attach much weight to my opinion, even should they
consent to hear me."

"That's where you're wrong, Dick, all wrong. I know there are some who
look at things in that light, but they wouldn't do anything if Paul
himself were to teach them. But there are many who want only someone
to lead the way. Take myself for instance. I realize what's needed,
and I honestly want to do something, but I don't know how to go at it;
and Dick, if this problem is ever solved, it will be through someone
like you, who knows from actual experience; not from occasional slumming
expeditions; whose heart is filled with love for men; who is absolutely
free from ecclesiastical chains, and who is a follower of no creed but
Christ, a believer in no particular denomination."

Dick smiled at his friend's manner. "You too, have been doing a little
thinking," he said quietly. "But had this come to you, that the man
must also be a Christian?"

"Yes, a Christian so far as he is a believer in the truths that Christ
teaches; but not in the generally accepted use of that word; which is,
that a man can't be a Christian without hitching himself up in some
denominational harness."

"If you believe that, why do you wear the badge?" asked Dick, drily.

"Because I believe that while the man who takes the initiative must
owe allegiance to no particular congregation, the work must be carried
on by the church; there are many Christians who are thinking on these
lines, and I hope that you will some day see that the church with all
its shortcomings and mistakes, is of divine origin; and that she needs
just such men as yourself to lead her back to the simplicity of Christ's
life and teaching. But that's not the question," he continued, as he
saw a slight shadow cross the face of his companion. "The question is:
Will you go before the Young People's Society next Tuesday night and
submit your plan as a suggested way to do Christ's work here in the
city? You see, you'll not be going before the church, and I will give
you such an introduction that there will be no danger of a mistaken
notion as to your presence."

The two walked on in silence until they reached the door of Dick's
restaurant. "Won't you come in and eat with me?" he said.

"Not unless you need more urging," answered Charlie, with a laugh,
"for I have other fish to fry just now."

"Well," said Dick, "I'll go."




CHAPTER XI


Needless to say that Charlie Bowen, who was the president of the Young
People's Society at this time, took particular pains to notify each
member that there would be a matter of unusual importance to discuss
at the next meeting. And so, when he called the Society to order at
eight o'clock Tuesday evening, in the lecture room of the church,
almost the entire membership, including Rev. Cameron, was present.
Dick remained in the reading room, but it was understood between the
two that he was to be called in at the proper time.

After the regular routine business had been disposed of, the president
stated that he wished to introduce a matter of great importance, which
he felt sure would interest every Christian present. He then called
to their minds some of the teaching they had heard from their pastor,
along lines of practical Christianity; noticed briefly the condition
of things in Boyd City; and asked if they would not be glad to remedy
such evils. The nodding heads and earnest faces told Charlie of their
interest. After recalling the death of the young man found by George
Udell, he told of his conversation with Dick. "I am aware that Mr.
Falkner makes no profession of Christianity," he said, "but you know
him and need no word from me to tell you of the strength of his
character." He then explained how he had asked Dick to speak to them,
and after delicately stating the latter's objections, asked if they
would receive him and listen to his ideas of Christian work.

At the close of Charlie's talk, the Society gladly voted to invite
Dick in, and three of the boys started to find him, when Rev. Cameron
rose to his feet, and in a voice full of emotion, said: "My dear young
people. Wait just a moment. My heart is moved more than I can say, by
the Christian spirit you are showing. And now, before your invitation
is carried to Mr. Falkner, let us bow our heads in prayer, that we may
be guided by the Holy Spirit in listening to the things he may have
to put before us, and in any discussion of this subject that may
follow."

A deep hush fell on the little band of young people as they followed
their pastor's example, and it seemed as if a wonderful presence filled
all the room. The thought flashed through Cameron's mind, "This must
be another step in the new era of Christian work in this city." And
then, in a few beautiful words, he voiced the prayer in the hearts of
the young people, and the committee appointed went to call Dick. They
found him nervously pacing up and down the passageway between the
reading room and the parlor. Making known the wish of the Society,
they escorted him to the meeting in the other part of the building.
He was greeted by smiling faces, nods of encouragement, and just a
faint ripple of applause, that sprung from a desire on the part of the
young people to let him know that they were glad to bid him welcome,
and ready to give him their attention.

The president stated simply that he had explained to the Society the
purpose of Mr. Falkner's visit, and that he could assure the latter
he was most heartily welcome. At Charlie's words, the ripple of applause
became a wave, which in its strength, left no doubt on Dick's mind as
to their earnestness and interest. Bowing his thanks he began, while
both Charlie and Cameron wondered at his ease of manner, and the strange
power of his simple, but well-chosen words.

"I have no means of knowing what your president may have said by way
of introduction of myself, or as a preface to my remarks, but judging
from your faces, the manner in which you receive me, and my knowledge
of him, I feel that I am safe in assuming that he has said all that
is necessary, and that I may proceed at once with my plan. But let me
add simply this: What I have to say to you is in no way new or
startling. I claim no originality, for I have simply gathered from the
works of better men that which seems to me best fitted for the needs
of this particular city. And understand, farther, that I speak in no
sense as a Christian, but from the standpoint of one to whom has been
given opportunities for study along these lines, I hope may ever be
denied you.

"As I understand it, the problem that we have to consider is, briefly,
how to apply Christ's teaching in our own town. Let me suggest first:
That there are in this city, as in every city, two classes who present
their claims for assistance; the deserving and undeserving. Any plan
which does not distinguish between these two classes must prove a
failure, because it would encourage the idle in their idleness, and
so prove a curse instead of a blessing. It would make fraud profitable
by placing a premium rather than a penalty on crime; and it would make
the sufferings of the truly unfortunate much keener by compelling them
to yield their self-respect as the price of their succor. The only
test that can possibly succeed in distinguishing between these two
classes is the test of work.

"The first thing necessary would be a suitable building. This building
should have sleeping rooms, dining room, sitting room, kitchen,
store-room and a bath room. There should also be a large yard with an
open shed in the rear. I would have the sleeping rooms small, and a
single cot in each, for you know it is sometimes good for a man to be
alone. It ought not to be hard to find twenty-five people in the church
who would furnish a room each, at a cost of say three dollars. The
reading room supplies could be donated by friends who would be glad
to give their papers and magazines when they were through with them,
just as your present room is supplied. Now if you stop to think, in
this mining city everyone burns coal, and kindling wood ought to find
a ready sale. I believe the merchants would be glad to give away their
old packing cases, boxes and barrels. These could be collected, hauled
to the yard, there worked up into kindling and delivered to the
customer. The whole establishment to be under the supervision of some
man who, with his family, could occupy rooms in the building. All the
work of the house, kitchen, dining room, care of the sleeping rooms,
and all, must be done by the inmates. When a man applied for help he
would be received on these conditions: that his time belonged wholly
to the institution, and that he receive for his work only food and
bed, with the privilege of bath and reading room of course. If he
refused to comply with these conditions, or to conform to the rules
of the institution, no food would be issued, nor would he be admitted.

"This briefly is my plan. I would be glad to have you ask questions
and make objections or suggestions, for I believe that would be the
best way to thoroughly understand the matter." Dick paused and one of
the young people asked: "What would be the cost of the building and
its furnishings?"

"That I cannot say," replied Dick. "It would depend of course upon how
large an establishment you wished to conduct. I should think a house
might be found in some convenient locality, which could be converted
into the right thing, for I would not think of a large institution at
the start. It would grow as fast as the people came to believe in it."

"You spoke of a store-room--what for?"

"Let the people contribute clothing, which could be kept and issued
by the superintendent in charge. I said store-room, that the material
might always be on hand when needed."

"Would you receive women?"

"No; they would require a separate institution with a different kind
of employment."

"Would we not need women to do the housework?"

"No, everything could be done by the men under the direction of the
superintendent's wife."

"Would the merchants contribute boxes enough?"

"That," with a bow and a smile, "is a matter for the Society to look
after. The workers at the institution would gather them up and haul
them to the yard. Old side-walks, fences, tumbled-down buildings, could
also be used, so the supply need not run short, and the city would be
much improved if these things were gathered up and utilized."

"Would the people buy the kindling-wood?"

"That again, is the business of the Society. Every member should be
a salesman. The kindling would be put up in bundles of uniform size,
warranted to be dry and to give satisfaction and delivered at the door
by the workers of course. It ought not to be difficult for you to
secure a sufficient number of regular customers to insure the success
of the business. You see, it is not a church-begging scheme, for it
benefits every person connected with it, and every person pays for
what he gets. The citizens would have the pleasure of feeling that
they were assisting only the worthy sufferers, and the satisfaction
of knowing that they were receiving their money's worth."

"Would the income be sufficient to pay all bills?" asked Cameron.

"The food, of course, could be of the plainest, and could be bought
in quantities. Twenty cents will feed a man a day. It is possible, of
course, to live on less," Dick added, with a whimsical smile, which
was met with answering smiles from the company of interested young
people. "Now suppose you had for the start, one hundred regular
customers, who would pay, each, ten cents per week for their kindling!
that would bring you ten dollars per week, which would feed seven
people. Not a large thing I grant you, but a start in the right
direction, and much more than the church is doing now. The other
expenses would not be large, and I am confident that the institution
would be self-supporting. But bear in mind that the Society must own
the grounds and building, so that there would be no rent. _That_ must
be the gift of the people to the poor."

"How would the superintendent and his wife be paid?"

"They would receive their house rent, provisions, and a small weekly
salary, paid either by the Society, the church, or the institution.
There are many men and women who would be glad to do such work."

"Would kindling-wood be the only industry?"

"I believe other things would suggest themselves. I am only planning
a start you know. I said kindling-wood because that seems to be the
most practical thing for this particular city."

"Would not men impose on the institution by working just enough to get
their food and remain idle the rest of the time?"

"That," said Dick, "is the greatest danger, but I believe it would be
met in this way: You remember I said that the time of the inmates must
be given wholly to the institution. The men could be kept busy at the
housework, scrubbing and cleaning when not in the yard. Then too, they
could be hired out to do odd jobs of rough work for the citizens; the
wages all to go to the institution. Thus, if every man was kept busy
eight hours each day, and received only his food and a place to sleep,
there would be no temptation to remain longer than necessary. The
institution would also act as an employment agency, and when a man was
offered work of any kind he would no longer be permitted to remain in
the home. Much of this would necessarily be left to the discretion of
the managers and directors."

This question seemed to bring the matter to a close as far as Dick was
concerned, and after asking if there was anything more, and again
calling attention to the fact that the greatest obstacle in the way
was a suitable building, he thanked them for their attention and took
his seat.

Then followed a warm discussion. Several spoke enthusiastically in
favor of the scheme. One or two thought it very good, but feared it
would be impossible because of the building needed. A few offered
amendments to the plan. Finally a committee was appointed to see if
a suitable building could be secured, and the meeting was adjourned.

At once the young people crowded about Dick, shaking his hand, thanking
him, asking questions, making suggestions, with now and then a happy
laugh or jest. Much to Charlie's delight, Dick, for the time being,
forgot himself and talked and laughed and prophesied with the rest
about _our_ institution and the things we would do. But in the midst
of it all, his manner suddenly changed, and making his way quickly to
Charlie's side he whispered, "Good-night, old man, I must go."

"So soon?" asked his friend in a tone of surprise.

"Yes," replied Dick hurriedly, "I must." And Charlie was left wondering
at the pain in his face, which a moment before had been so bright, for
he did not know that Dick had heard Frank Goodrich saying to his sister,
"Come, we must go home. We can't afford to associate with that tramp,"
and that he had seen Amy leaving the room on her brother's arm, without
even acknowledging his presence by so much as a glance.

The next morning bright and early, Deacon Wickham might have been seen
knocking at the door of the parsonage. "Why, good morning, Brother,"
cried Cameron, throwing wide the door and extending his hand. "What
good fortune brought you out so early? Come in. Come in."

"No good fortune, sir," replied the deacon, and seating himself very
stiffly on the edge of the straightest-backed chair in the room, he
glared with stern eyes at the pastor, who threw himself carelessly
into an easy rocker. "No good fortune, sir; I came to inquire if it
is true that you are encouraging that unscriptural organization in
their foolish and world-wise plans."

Cameron put on a puzzled look. "What organization, and what plans?"
he asked.

"There," said the good deacon, with a sigh of great relief. "I told
Sister Jones that there must be some mistake, for though you and I
don't always agree, and lock horns sometimes on certain passages of
the Scriptures, I did not believe that you were so far from the teaching
of the Word as that."

"As what?" asked Cameron again, but this time with a faint glimmer of
understanding in his voice. "Please explain, Brother Wickham."

"Why, Sister Jones came over to my house early this morning and told
me that at the meeting of the Young People's Society last night, that
young upstart Falkner, laid down plans for doing church work, and that
you were there and approved of them. That rattle-headed boy of hers
is all carried away."

The preacher nodded, "Well?"

"I could not believe it of course, but she said, as near as I could
gather, that you were going to have the church buy a house and keep
all the tramps who came to Boyd City. A more unscriptural thing I never
heard of. Were you at the meeting last night?"

"Yes, I was there," said Cameron slowly.

The official frowned again as he said sharply: "You'll do more good
for the cause, Brother Cameron, if you spend your time calling on the
members. There is Deacon Godfrey's wife hasn't been out to services
for three months because you haven't been to see her; and you're ruining
the church now by your teaching. You've got to build on a Scriptural
foundation if you want your work to last. All these people you've been
getting in the last two years don't know a thing about first
principles."

The minister tried to explain: "The plan suggested last night by Mr.
Falkner, who was there at the invitation of the Society, was simply
for an institution that would permit a man who was homeless, cold and
hungry, to pay for food and lodging until he could do better. In short,
to prevent deaths like that of the young man found frozen a few weeks
ago."

"You don't know anything about that fellow," said the deacon. "If he
had followed the teaching of the Scriptures he wouldn't have been in
that fix. The Word says plainly: 'He that provideth not for his own
is worse than an infidel.' You don't know whether he was a Christian
or not. He may have never been baptized. Indeed, I am ready to prove
that he never was, for the Scripture says that the righteous are never
forsaken, nor their seed begging for bread. I've lived nearly fifty
years now and I never went hungry and never slept out-doors either."

Cameron sat silently biting his lip; then looking his parishioner
straight in the eye, said: "Brother Wickham, I cannot harmonize your
teaching with Christ's life and character."

"My teaching is the Scripture, sir; I'll give you book, chapter and
verse," snapped the deacon.

"Christ taught and lived a doctrine of love and helpfulness toward all
men, even enemies," continued Cameron. "When I remember how he pointed
out the hungry and naked and homeless, and then said: 'Inasmuch as ye
did it not unto one of the least of these, ye did it not unto me,' I
cannot help but feel sure in my heart that we are right, and I must
tell you that Mr. Falkner's plan for doing just that work is the most
practical and common-sense one I have ever heard. The only thing I
find to wonder at is the stupidity of the church and myself, that we
did not adopt it long ago."

"Then I am to understand that you support and encourage this
unscriptural way of doing things?"

"I most certainly have given my support to the young people in this
effort; and as far as possible, will encourage and help them in their
labor of love."

"Labor of love, fiddlesticks," said the deacon; "Labor of foolishness.
You'll find, sir, that it will be better to take my advice and the
advice of the sacred writers, instead of going off after the strange
teaching of an outcast and begging infidel."

"Stop!" said Cameron, springing to his feet, and speaking in a tone
that few people ever heard him use. "I beg of you be careful that you
do not go too far. Whatever his religious convictions may be, Mr.
Falkner is neither an outcast nor a beggar; and although I am only
your pastor, it might be well for you to remember that I am also a
gentleman, and will allow no man to speak of my friends in any such
language."

"Well, well," whined Wickham hastily, holding out his hand, "The
Scriptures say that there must be love between brethren, and I want
you to know that I bear you no ill will whatever, no ill will whatever;
but I warn you, I wash my hands of the whole matter. I don't want to
know anything about it."

Cameron took the proffered hand and replied, "That's the best thing
you can do, Brother Wickham. You have discharged your duty faithfully
as an officer in the church and are released from all responsibility
whatever."

"Yes, yes," said the other, as he stood on the porch; "And don't let
them call on me for any money. Remember I wash my hands of the whole
thing. How much did you say it would cost?"

"I don't know yet, exactly."

"Well, you know I can't give anyway. I'm already doing more than my
share in a scriptural way, and I must wash my hands of this."

"Yes," said Cameron to himself, as he shut the door; "A certain Roman
governor washed his hands once upon a time." And then the pastor took
himself to task for his uncharitable spirit.

Later in the day, Rev. Cameron had another visitor. Old father Beason,
whose hair had grown white in the Master's service. He had been with
his congregation over twenty years and they would not give him up; for
while his sermons may have lost some of their youthful fire, they were
riper for the preacher's long experience, and sweeter for his nearness
to the source of love.

The old man met Cameron's outstretched hand of welcome with a smile
that, in itself, was a benediction. Though identified with a different
denomination, he was a close friend to the pastor of the Jerusalem
Church, and always stood ready to draw from his wealth of experience
for the benefit of his younger brother. When they were seated in
Cameron's cozy den with a basket of fruit between them, Rev. Beason
began:

"Brother Jim, what's this about the proposed work of your young people?
Suppose you tell me about it, if you don't mind. I've heard a good
many things to-day, and I just thought I'd run over and get the straight
of it."

Cameron laughed as he carefully selected a rosy-cheeked apple. "You're
the second caller I've had to-day who needed straightening out. I've
been wishing you would run in, and if you had not, I would have been
over to see you this evening. This work is right along lines that you
and I have talked over many times." And then he told the whole story.

When Cameron had finished, the older man asked a few questions, and
then slowly nodding his head, repeated softly: "Thy kingdom come, thy
will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven."

"Brother Cameron, you know that I belong to a church that is noted for
its conservative spirit, but I have been preaching more years than you
have lived, and have been at it too long to be bound altogether by the
particular belief of any particular people, and I want to say to you
that if I were a younger man, I would take just your course exactly.
There is no use, Brother Jim, of our flinching or dodging the question.
The church is not meeting the problems of the day, and it's my candid
opinion that ninety-nine out of every hundred preachers know it. But
I'm too old to make the fight. I haven't the strength to do it. But
my boy, do you go in to win, and may God's richest blessing rest upon
you. And you'll stir this city as it never was stirred before. I only
wish I were twenty years younger; I'd stand by you. But this needs
young blood and I am an old, worn-out man. It is almost time that I
was going home, and I dare not take up any work like this that will
need years of patient labor to complete." He arose to his feet, and
grasping Cameron's hand, said, "Good night, Brother Jim; we older men
must turn our work, all unfinished, over to younger, stronger hands
to complete. My boy, see that you keep that which is committed unto
you, and don't, Oh don't, be sidetracked by the opinions of men. The
victory will be yours, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Good-night Jim,
I thank God for this day."




CHAPTER XII


The sun sank into the prairie and tinted the sky all red and green and
gold where it shone through the rents in the ragged clouds of purple
black. The glowing colors touching dull, weather-beaten steeples and
factory stacks, changed them to objects of interest and beauty. The
poisonous smoke from smelter and engine, that hung always over the
town like a heavy veil, shot through with the brilliant rays, became
a sea of color that drifted here and there, tumbled and tossed by the
wind, while above, the ball of the newly painted flag-staff on the
courthouse tower gleamed like a signal lamp from another world. And
through it all, the light reflected from a hundred windows flashed and
blazed in wondrous glory, until the city seemed a dream of unearthly
splendor and fairy loveliness, in which the people moved in wonder and
in awe. Only for a moment it lasted. A heavy cloud curtain was drawn
hurriedly across the west as though the scene in its marvelous beauty
was too sacred for the gaze of men whose souls were dwarfed by baser
visions. For an instant a single star gleamed above the curtain in the
soft green of the upper sky; then it too vanished, blotted out by the
flying forerunners of the coming storm.

About nine o'clock, when the first wild fury of the gale had passed,
a man, muffled in a heavy coat and with a soft hat pulled low over his
face, made his way along the deserted streets. In front of the Goodrich
hardware and implement store, he stopped and looked carefully about
as though in fear of some observer. Then taking a key from his pocket,
he unlocked the door and entered. Walking quickly through the room to
the office, as though familiar with the place, he knelt before the big
safe, his hand upon the knob that worked the combination. A moment
later the heavy door yielded to his hand. Taking a bunch of keys from
his pocket, he selected one without hesitation, and upon applying it,
the cash box opened, revealing a large sum of money. Catching up a
package of bills, he placed it in his side coat pocket, and locking
the cash box again, was closing the safe, when he paused as though
struck with a sudden thought. The storm without seemed to be renewing
its strength. The dashing of sleet and snow against the windows, the
howling of the wind, the weird singing of the wires, and the sharp
banging of swinging signs and shutters, carried terror to the heart
of the man kneeling in the dimly lighted office. Sinking on the floor,
he buried his face in his hands and moaned aloud, "My God--What am I
doing? What if I should fail?"

Again there came a lull in the storm; everything grew hushed and still,
almost as if the very spirit of the night waited breathlessly the
result of the battle fought in the breast of the tempted man. Rising
slowly to his knees, he swung back the heavy doors and once more
unlocking the cash box reached out to replace the package of bills;
but with the money before his eyes he paused again. Then with a sudden
exclamation, "I won't fail this time; I can't lose always," he quickly
closed the safe, and with the money in his pocket, sprang to his feet
and hurried out of the building, where the storm met him in all its
fury, as though striving to wrest from him that which he had taken
from another. But with set face and clenched fists, he pushed into the
gale, and a few minutes later knocked at the door of a room on the top
floor of a big hotel. He was admitted and greeted cordially by two men
who were drinking and smoking.

"Hello Frank," they exclaimed; "We thought you had crawfished this
time sure. What makes you so late; it is nearly ten?"

"Oh, the old man had some work for me, of course. What a beastly night.
Where's Whitley?" He tried to speak carelessly, but his eyes wavered
and his hands trembled as he unbuttoned his heavy coat.

"You're right; this storm's a ripper. Jim will be back in a minute;
he just stepped down to the corner drug-store to see a man. Here he
is now;" as another low knock sounded on the door, and the fourth man
entered, shaking the snow from his fur-trimmed coat.

"Pile out of your duds, boys, and have a drink. Good liquor hits the
spot a night like this."

Whitley grasped the proffered glass eagerly and emptied it without a
word, but Frank refused.

"You know I don't drink," he said, shortly; "take it yourself if you
need it, and let's get to work." He drew a chair to the table in the
center of the room.

The others laughed as they took their places, and one said, as he
shuffled a deck of cards: "We forgot you were a church member." And
the other added, with a sneer, "Maybe you'd like to open the services
with a song and prayer."

"You drop that and mind your own business," retorted young Goodrich,
angrily. "I'll show you tonight that you can't always have your own
way. Did you bring my papers with you?" The others nodded and one said,
"Whitley here told us you wanted a chance to win them back before we
were obliged to collect. It's to be cash tonight though," added the
other; "good cold cash, against the notes we hold."

"For God's sake, shut up and play," growled Frank in reply. "I guess
there's cash enough," and he laid the package of bills on the table.
Four eyes gleamed in triumph. Whitley looked at the young man keenly
and paused with the cards in his hands. Then he dealt and the game
began.

Meanwhile Adam Goodrich and his wife were entertaining the whist club,
of which they were enthusiastic members, for it was the regular weekly
meeting; and though the weather was so rough not a few of the devoted
lovers of the game were present.

In the conversation that preceded the play, the Young People's Society,
with Dick Falkner's plan of work, was mentioned. Nearly all of the
guests being members of different churches, expressed themselves quite
freely, with a variety of opinions, until the host, with annoyance
plainly expressed on his proud face and in his hard cold voice, said:
"You must not think, ladies and gentlemen, that because I and my family
are members of the Jerusalem Church, that we agree with Rev. Cameron
in his outlandish ideas. We have never been accustomed to associating
with such low characters as he delights in forcing us to meet in the
congregation; and if he don't change his line of work some, he will
drive all the best people to other churches."

The guests all nodded emphatic approval and each silently resolved to
send his pastor to interview the Goodrich's without delay.

Adam continued: "As for that tramp printer and his fool plan, I say
that it's just such stuff that causes all the discontent among the
lower classes and makes them unfit to serve their betters, and that
_my_ children shall have nothing to do with it. I have not brought
them up to follow the lead of a vagabond and a nobody."

Amy's face flushed painfully and she lifted her head as though to
speak, when Mrs. Goodrich silenced her with a look, and skilfully
changed the subject by saying: "It's too bad Frank won't be here
to-night. He enjoys these evenings so much and plays so well. But he
and Mr. Whitley are spending the evening with a sick friend. The dear
boy is so thoughtful of others and is always ready to give up his own
pleasures. And Mr. Whitley too; he will miss the game so much, and Amy
loses a strong partner." The company took the hint and talked of other
things until the all-absorbing game began.

And so, while the son played with his friend Whitley, and the two
professional gamblers at the hotel, played with fear in his face and
a curse in his heart, to save himself from sure disgrace, his fond
parents and beautiful sister at home, forgot his absence in their eager
efforts to win with the cards the petty prize of the evening, a
silver-mounted loving cup.

One, two, three hours passed. The storm had spent its strength; Mr.
Goodrich had won the coveted prize, and the guests of the evening had
returned to their homes. The last of the pile of ills before Frank was
placed in the center of the table. The silence was unbroken save for
the sound of the shuffling cards and the click of a whiskey glass as
one of the men helped himself to a drink.

Suddenly young Goodrich leaped to his feet with a wild exclamation:
"Tom Wharton, you're a liar and a cheat!" As he spoke, a heavy chair
whirled above his head and fell with a crashing blow upon the man who
sat at his right. Instantly all was confusion; the table was overturned;
the cards, money and glasses scattered over the room. Whitley and the
other man stood in blank astonishment at the sudden outburst. Frank
leaped at his prostrate victim, with a chair again raised to strike,
and had the second blow fallen, he would have been a murderer, for the
intent to kill shone from his glittering eyes. But Whitley, just in
time, caught his arm, while the other drew a knife and stepped between
the crazed man and his victim.

"Stop, you fool!" said Whitley. "And you, Jack, put up that knife and
look after Tom. This is a nice mess for us to be caught in." The gambler
did as he was bid, but Frank struggled in his friend's grasp. "Let me
go, Jim. Let me at him. I'm ruined anyway and I'll finish the man that
did it before I go myself." But Whitley was the stronger and forced
him backward, while the other man was busy with his fallen partner.

"Ruined nothing," said Jim in Frank's ear. "I'll stand by you. You get
out of this quick and go to my room. I'll come when I've settled with
them." He unlocked the door and pushed Frank into the hall, just as
the man on the floor struggled to his feet.

The two gamblers turned on Whitley in a rage when they saw Frank had
escaped. Standing with his back to the door, he let them curse a few
minutes and then said calmly: "Now if you feel better let's take a
drink and talk it over."

When he had them quiet again he continued, in a matter-of-fact tone:
"Suppose you fellows raise a row about this, what will you gain?"

"We'll teach that young fool a lesson he won't forget soon," snarled
the one who had fallen.

"Yes, and you'll pay big for the lesson," replied Whitley quietly.

"What do yon mean?"

"I mean that if this gets out young Goodrich is ruined and you won't
get a cent on the paper you hold."

Wharton's friend nodded, "That's straight, Tom," he said.

"Well," growled the other; "What of it, the old man won't pay it
anywray."

"Yes he would," returned Jim quickly, "if you didn't make it public;
but I don't happen to want him to know about this little deal."

"What's it to you?"

"Never mind what it is to me. I know what I'm doing, and I don't want
this to get out."

"How'll you help it?"

"This way." He took a check-book from his pocket. "Make the notes over
to me and I'll add two hundred to the amount. Go after Frank and you
get nothing. Go to the old man and you get what the paper calls for.
Keep your mouth shut and sell me the notes and you get an extra hundred
apiece. What do you say?"

"I say yes," exclaimed Jack, with an oath; "I'm no fool." And the other
grumbled a surly "All right. But I'd like to get one crack at that
kid's head."

"You'll have to pass that little pleasure this time." said the other
with a laugh. "Write your check, Whitley and let's get out of this.
I'm sleepy."

When Whitley reached his room after settling with the two gamblers,
he found Frank pacing the floor, his face white and haggard.

"Sit down. Sit down, old man; and take things easy. You're all right.
Look here." And he drew the notes from his pocket.

Frank sank into a chair. "What have you done?" he gasped. "How did you
get those?"

Whitley laughed. "Just invested a little of my spare cash, that's all,"
he said.

"But I tell you I'm ruined. I can't pay a third of that in six years."

"Well, perhaps you won't have to." Frank stared. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Amy," the other replied coolly. "You poor idiot, can't you
see. I can't afford to have you disgraced before the world under the
circumstances. If I wasn't in it, I'd let you go to thunder and serve
you right. But a fine chance I'd have to marry your sister if she knew
about this business tonight. If it wasn't for her I'd let you hang
your fool self too quick, before I'd spend a dollar on your worthless
carcass; but I've said that I would marry that girl and I will, if it
costs every cent I've got, and you'll help me too."

Frank was silent for a time, completely cowed by the contempt in the
other's voice, too frightened to protest. But at last he managed to
say: "There's more than those notes."

"I know that too," quickly returned Whitley, with an oath. "How much
did you steal from the old man's safe tonight?"

"What--How--How do you know?" stammered the other.

"Saw you," returned Whitley, shortly; and then added, as Frank rose
to his feet and began walking the floor again. "Oh, for Heaven's sake
quit your tragedy and sit down. You make me tired. You're not cut out
for either a gambler or a robber. You haven't the nerve."

Frank was silent, while the other went to a small cupboard and leisurely
helped himself to a glass of whiskey; then lit a fresh cigar.

"What can I do?" ventured Frank at last, in a voice but little above
a whisper.

Jim crossed the room, and unlocking a drawer in his desk, returned
with a handful of bills. "You can put that money back in the safe
before morning and keep your mouth shut." And then when Frank attempted
to grasp his hand, while stammering words of gratitude, he said, "No
thanks," and put his own hands behind his back in a gesture that there
was no mistaking. "Be a good boy, Frankie. Listen with more care to
your pastor's sermons; keep your Young People's Society pledge; read
your Bible and pray every day, and take part in all the meetings, and
when I marry your sister I'll make you a present of these papers. But
Oh Lord," he added, with a groan, "you'll make a healthy brother-in-law,
you will."

"How much did you say?"

Frank muttered the amount he had stolen.

Jim quickly counted it out and threw the bills on the table. "There
you are. And now you better go quickly before you slop over again and
I kick you." And turning his back he poured himself another glass of
liquor while Frank, with the money in his hand, sneaked from the room
like a well-whipped cur. And over his head, as he crept stealthily
down the street toward his father's store, the stars shone clear and
cold in their pure, calm beauty, while the last of the storm-cloud on
the far horizon covered the face of the bright new moon.




CHAPTER XIII


The committee appointed by the Society called on Mr. Wicks at his
office, and found him deep in a letter to an old lady, whose small
business affairs he was trying to straighten out. He dropped the matter
at once when they entered, and, after shaking hands, as though he had
not seen them for years, said: "Now tell me all about it. To-be-sure,
Charlie here has had some talk with me, but I want to get your ide's."

"Our brightest idea, I think," said the leader, with a smile, "is to
get your help."

Uncle Bobbie laughed heartily. "I reckoned you'd be around," he said.
"I'm generally kept posted by the young folks when there's anything
to do. To-be-sure, I aint got much education, 'cept in money matters
an' real estate, but I don't know--I reckon education is only the
trimmings anyhow. It's the hoss sense what counts. I've seen some
college fellers that was just like the pies a stingy old landlady of
mine used t' make; they was all outside--To-be-sure, they looked
mighty nice though. Now tell me what ye want."

When the young people had detailed to him Dick's plan, and he had
questioned them on some points, the old gentleman leaned back in his
chair and thoughtfully stroked his face. Then--"Now I tell ye what ye
do. Mebbe I can handle the property end of this a little the best.
To-be-sure, folks would talk with me when they might not listen to
you; 'cause they'd be watchin' fer a chance to get me into a deal, you
see; fer business is a sort of ketch-as-ketch-can anyhow you fix it.
So jes' let me work that end an' ye get Charlie here and some more to
help, and drum up the store-keepers to find out if they'll let ye have
their barrels and boxes. An' then go fer the citizens and see how many
will buy kindlin'-wood. Tell 'em about what it will cost--say ten cents
a week fer one stove. To-be-sure, some will use more'n others, but
give 'em an ide'. Then we'll all come together again and swap reports,
an' see what we've got."

For the next few days, the young people went from store to store, and
house to house, telling their plan, and asking the citizens to support
it by their patronage. Some turned them away with rudeness; some
listened and smiled at their childish folly; some said they couldn't
afford it; and some gave them encouragement by entering heartily into
the scheme. With but few exceptions, the merchants promised the greater
part of their boxes and barrels, and one man even gave them the ruins
of an old cow shed, which he said he would be glad to have cleared
away.

Meanwhile, Uncle Bobbie interviewed the business men, members of the
church, and those who were not Christians. He argued, threatened and
plead, studied plans, consulted architects and contractors, figured
and schemed, and, when besieged by the young people for results, only
shook his head. "Jes' hold your hosses and wait till the meetin'. It
don't pay to fire a gun before ye load it." And none but Charlie Bowen
noticed that the old gentleman's face grew grim whenever the subject
was introduced, and the young man guessed that the outlook was not so
promising as Uncle Bobbie would like. Then one Wednesday night, the
Society met again in the church. The weather was cold and stormy, but,
as at the previous meeting, nearly every member was present. When the
committee had made their report and it was known that the merchants
and citizens would support the movement by their patronage and
contributions, a wave of enthusiasm swept over the room while the call
for Mr. Wicks was enforced by loud applause.

Uncle Bobbie, who had been sitting by Rev. Cameron's side, arose and
came slowly forward. Turning, he faced the little company and his
honest old eyes were wet as he said in a trembling voice: "I didn't
want to come here tonight, young folks; I jes' tell ye I was ashamed
to come; but I knew I ought to; and now I am ashamed that I didn't
want to. I might have known better. Fer I can see right now as I look
into your faces, that Brother Cameron is right, and that what I have
to tell won't make no difference." An ominous hush fell upon the
company. "To-be-sure, we may have to wait a bit, but God will show a
way, and we'll conquer this old devil of indifference yet." He paused
and drew a long breath. "Well, I found a big house that is for sale;
jes' the thing we need; and it could be bought and fixed up in
first-class shape fer about nine hundred dollars. I sold the property
myself to Mr. Udell, fer fifteen hundred, 'bout a year ago; an' I want
to tell you young folks, right now, that whether he's a Christian er
not, George Udell is the whitest man in this city, and the fellow what
says anythin' again him's got me to whip." The old gentleman paused
and glared about him, without a thought of how his words sounded; but
the young people, who knew him well, only answered with a clapping of
hands, which was a tribute to Uncle Bobbie's heart and character,
rather than to his unconscious recklessness of speech or love for the
man whom he championed. But when he went on to say that of all the men
he had interviewed, church members and all, only Udell had met him
half way, and had agreed to give the lot if they would raise the money
to pay for the house, they applauded with a vim, the generosity of the
printer.

"Just think," said Uncle Bobbie, "that among all the church members
in this city, I couldn't raise two hundred dollars fer such a cause.
One of 'em said no, because he'd jes' bought a new span of carriage
hosses. Huh! I told him he might ride to Hell behind fine bosses but
he'd not feel any better when he got there. 'Nother said he'd jes' put
five hundred dollars into the new lodge temple, and that he couldn't
spend any more. I asked him if Jesus was a member of his lodge, and
he said he reckoned not. I said, Well, we want to build a home for
Christ, and you say you can't. Seems to me if I was you I wouldn't
call Christ my redeemer in prayer meeting so much. 'Nother had just
fixed his home. 'Nother had just put in a new stock of goods; and so
with 'em all. They all had some excuse handy, and I don't know what
to do. I'm up a stump this time fer sure. We've got the material to
work up; we've got the people to buy the goods; we've got the lot; and
there we're stuck, fer we can't get the house. _I_ can't anyway. We're
jes' like the feller that went fishin'; had a big basket to carry home
his fish; a nice new jointed pole with a reel and fixin's, a good
strong linen line, an' a nice bait box full of big fat worms, an' when
he got to the river he didn't have no hook, and the fish just swum
'round under his nose an' laughed at him 'cause he couldn't touch
'em--and still I believe that God will show us the way yet, 'though
mebbe not. Perhaps taint fer the best fer us to do this; to-be-sure
though I thought it was, and so did Brother Cameron; and so did you.
But I don't know--" And the old man took his seat.

After a long silence, one or two offered suggestions but could not
help matters. Rev. Cameron was called for and tried to speak
encouragingly, but it was hard work, and it seemed that the plans were
coming to an inglorious end, when Clara Wilson sprang to her feet.

"I'm not a bit surprised at this," she said, while the young people,
forgetting the praise they had just bestowed upon George Udell, thought

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