IT was not till early autumn that the two friends reached their far-off destination. Fred’s watch had been sold; they had saved the greater part of their earnings from the various odd jobs at which they had worked, and had made of their journey by rail. It was Walton’s idea that they must put their best foot to the front in Gate City, and start out with a good appearance in their new home, and so the most of their funds were promptly invested in new clothing. Notwithstanding their spick-and-span appearance, however, luck seemed against them, for every application they made for work—Dick as a telegraph operator and Fred as an accountant—was refused them.
The city was a bustling new place with prosperity and activity in its very air. There were great railway-shops, factories of several kinds, and various other enterprises. It was a typical Western “boom” town. Its buildings were modern, its streets regular and well-paved. Men and women, as they drove through the streets in their carriages, thought nothing of it if a mounted horde of yelling cow-boys galloped past with their revolvers playfully flourished, nor saw anything unusual in the gangs of blanket-draped Indians who hung about the bar-rooms, dance-halls, or gambling-houses. The new-comers liked the place; Dick believed they would eventually secure work, and Fred had the first sense of security which had come to him since leaving Stafford. Here, under his new name, in this remote place, he was sure he would meet with no familiar face, nor catch any discordant echoes of the life he had left behind him, and which he was trying to banish from his memory.
There was in the town a certain Stephen Whipple, a man about sixty-five years of age, who had come from one of the Southern States shortly after the Civil War. He had established himself, first, as a small grocer, but, having acquired considerable wealth, he was now the owner of the only wholesale grocery store in the place, an establishment which was known for miles around.
He was an earnest member of the Presbyterian church of the town, and its chief pride, owing to his influence in the community. It had been his money which had built the church to which he belonged, and it was said that he practically paid the salary of its eloquent young preacher.
In his great red-brick, four-story business-house on the main street Stephen Whipple had his private office. It was in the rear of the counting-room and was of unusual size, and by many deemed a curious place. Indeed, it was put to strange, unbusiness-like uses, for it was here that the owner of the establishment personally received all sorts of applications for aid. There were half a dozen plain chairs in the bare, uncarpeted room, and the Rev. Luke Matthews, who had the entrée to the office at any moment, often found a motley gathering of supplicants on hand, each patiently awaiting his turn to be beckoned to the seat close to the portly, shaggy-browed merchant. There were individuals who called the old man a deep-dyed hypocrite, for they held that no really self-sacrificing toiler in the Lord’s vineyard could have amassed the great wealth old Whipple was known to possess. But this was disputed by all the men in his employment, at least, for they were ready to attest that Whipple had often held over important business matters till the case of some suffering applicant could be investigated and relief supplied. There were other uses to which this room was put. Old Whipple, in order to render his pet church more attractive to the public, selected and paid out of his own pocket the salaries of the best choir in town. He was no expert musician, but he had them meet in his office and practise on every Saturday afternoon, and he was always present, seeing to it that refreshments were served and the singers made comfortable.
It was one morning when Dick Warren and Fred Walton had been in the town for a month, and had reached the lowest ebb of their resources, that the minister dropped in to see the merchant. The Rev. Luke Matthews was of unusual height, measuring six feet four, very slender in build, and of markedly nervous temperament. He was under thirty, unmarried, wore his black hair long enough to touch his shoulders, and had the thin-lipped, unbearded face of an Edwin Booth. It was said of him that he couldn’t keep a coin in his pocket—that it was promptly given to the first beggar he met.
“Well, brother, how are your bones?” was the halfjesting greeting he gave the old man, as he bustled in, buttoning and unbuttoning his long black coat and swinging his broad-brimmed hat at his side. “Not holding court this morning?” He laughed as he looked over the empty chairs.
“No; I sent the last prisoner up for life an hour ago,” the merchant responded, jovially. “Set down, set down!”
The long-legged man with the poetic face complied. “Well,” he said, “you’ll have to be a judge in that sort of tribunal so long as you inhabit this globe.” He smiled, showing two fine rows of white teeth. “It looks like the Lord is pushing you on to unlimited prosperity, and your work for humanity will increase instead of letting up. Say, brother, I know the sort of thing you glory in, and I’ve had an experience—the sort of experience that makes a fellow feel like preaching is worth while. It was exactly the kind of thing you are interested in yourself.”
“What have you run across now?” Whipple asked, as he leaned his elbow on his desk and rested his florid face on his hand.
“The genuine thing, brother—a genuine reformation in a young chap hardly out of his teens. He’s been coming to my special meetings for young men, and, as I’m a close observer, I was attracted by his face. It interested me more than that of any boy’s I ever saw. Finally, I ventured to approach him. I never scare them off if I can help it, but I singled him out from the rest last Thursday evening and spoke to him. I saw that he was greatly moved, and I invited him into my study, and we had a good long heart-to-heart talk. Brother Whipple, I never felt the glory of God bearing down on me in my life as I did while that boy was talking—while he was telling me his past history. Crying like his heart would break, he confessed to having been almost everything a boy could be—a thief, a tramp, and an all-round, good-for-nothing idler, from his childhood up to his sudden awakening to what was right.”
“Good, good!” Stephen Whipple ejaculated, his features working, his kind old eyes twinkling.
“But now comes the climax to my experience,” the minister went on. “You and I meet a converted person now and then, but we don’t often run across individuals in private life who are leading lives which convert. The boy went on to tell me, brother, how he was rescued from arrest by a young man who was a tramp like himself. They began searching for work side by side. The boy told me how his new friend—without ever saying a word that was preachy—gradually won him from his ingrained tendencies and taught him the difference between right and wrong. He gave me scores of touching and inspiring incidents that had happened between them during their wanderings here and there, trying to get work. Somehow I became even more deeply interested in the fellow I hadn’t met than the one I had in tow, and so I asked the boy if he would introduce me to his friend. He hesitated for a while, and then finally agreed to take me to the room they had together. It was away over beyond the railroads, in the slums of our ‘tenderloin’ district. It seemed to be the only room whose price they could afford, and they were unwilling to contract for what they could not pay. It was an awful place, brother, up a narrow flight of shaky stairs, in the attic of a negro shoemaker’s house, in the worst part of ‘Dive-town.’ The man, this Fred Spencer, when we came in, was seated at the little dingy window reading a newspaper. He seemed very much surprised, and flushed red as he stood up and shook hands. He was fine-looking—strong and tall, well-clad and neat from his feet to his carefully combed hair, but his great big sad eyes haunted me long after I left him, and when he spoke his voice seemed to come from a proud spirit that was crushed and broken. He began by saying that his friend had spoken to him of my meetings, and that he was exceedingly grateful for my interest and courtesy in calling. He tried to apologize for the appearance of the room, and insisted on my taking the only chair while he and his room-mate sat on the bed, which, by the way, was unfit for a convict to sleep on. They used it together, and yet it was barely wide enough for one. The straw in the mattress was crumbling to powder and falling to the floor.”
“Poor chaps,” the merchant sighed, “and they have evidently seen better days.”
“Spencer, the older one, has decidedly,” the minister answered. “He is evidently Southern, for he has the soft accent of Virginia, I should say, and the manner of the old aristocracy. I told him that I had heard of his good influence over the boy, and he got redder than ever, and tried to make light of what he had done, endeavored, in fact, to convince me that the boy had only spoken as he had out of personal friendship. Finally I offered my assistance toward finding employment for them both, and Spencer showed real embarrassment—as ............