Part 2 (1/2)

”Aw, yer go on,” replied the boy. ”Yer don't know wot you're talkin' about. Dis ain't no graft dat we's a-workin'. Jesus is our friend an' He loves us; dat's why He takes care of us.

He'd love yer, too, if you'd let Him, but when yer takes Him for your friend yer got to cut out dose cuss words an' de growler, too. Dat's wat me an' Pa has done, and we belongs to Jesus now.

'Twouldn't be de square ting by Him for us ter tank anybody else, and we ain't afeard but wat He'll give us all we needs.”

As for Moore, while he never doubted his salvation, there were times when he was despondent and gloomy. The memory of his misspent life and the consciousness that he had nearly reached the end lay heavily upon his mind, and, left alone as he was for hours at a time, with no one but Jimmie and the other children in the house, he brooded upon his troubles until he grew very miserable. At such times it was interesting to hear Jimmie hold up Jesus and preach the gospel of love as his juvenile mind comprehended it.

”Pa, yer act jus' as though Jesus didn't love yer,” he said one afternoon, when the superintendent's wife was present. ”He knows yer coughin' spells hurt yer, and He'll help yer to stan'

'em, 'cause He was hurted once Hisself. Ain't He takin' care of us, and didn't He send der Mission Guy ter help us? Yer ain't got no right ter worry; just look how good He's been ter all of us.”

One morning when Dr. Snyder, who had been called in on the advice of the Cook family, came to see the sick man, Moore anxiously inquired if there was no chance of his recovery. While he was conceded to be an able man in his profession, the doctor, himself a drinking man, was sometimes rough and heartless in his manner, and, replying to the question, said:

”Well, if you've got any unfinished business on hand you better call a special session and close it up. You'll be pus.h.i.+ng clouds within a week.”

”Do you mean he's goin' ter die?” asked Jimmie, whose quick ears had caught the remark.

”That's just the plain English of it, my boy,” replied the doctor.

”The old man's a goner, and no doctor on earth can save him.”

”Well, he'll go straight ter Jesus,” said Jimmie, ”'cause he got saved las' Friday. Gran'ma and Gran'pa er up dar, and Pa an' Ma an' the rest of us is all a-goin'.”

”What's the matter with the kid, Moore?” asked the doctor. ”Has he gone daffy?”

”No, Doc, the boy's all right. Leastwise if he's daffy, as you call it, I wish to G.o.d we'd all got that way long ago. Then we wouldn't be in the condition you find us to-day. Say, Doc, don't you ever expect to be a Christian? If you were in my place you'd see what it means to face death without G.o.d.”

”Gee, you're good!” said the physician. ”The way you talked to Gene Dibble when I sewed up your head after the fight didn't sound much like a prayer to me. You want to get forgiven here before you ask G.o.d to do anything for you there. Now, kid, you'd better forget about this religion and tend to the old man. Give him his medicine every hour, and I'll be in again to-morrow.

Good-bye.”

He slammed the door, and Jimmie sat for a moment in deep thought.

Then he turned to his father and said: ”Pa, Gene'll forgive yer if yer ast him. I'll go over ter f.a.gin's and if he ain't dere I'll tell Mike ter send him over wen he comes in.”

”How's the old man, Jimmie?” asked f.a.gin as the boy entered the saloon.

”Doc says he's dyin'. Is Gene Dibble here? Wish't you'd tell him Pa wants ter see him,” said the boy as he turned to go.

”Wait a minute, Jimmie; I want to send a little medicine to your father.”

He took a bottle from the back bar and began to wrap it up in a sc.r.a.p of old newspaper. ”This is about all the poor devil lived for,” he said to himself, ”and he ought to have a taste now that he's dyin'.”

”Is dat booze?” asked Jimmie.

”It's just a nip for the old man. It's his favorite brand,”

said f.a.gin.

”Not his'n; he's got saved an' don't need it in his business,”

replied the boy, starting for the door.

”Come here, you little fool, and take this bottle to your dad with my compliments,” said the saloon-man in anger.

”It's your compliments wat's ailin' him now,” answered Jimmie.