“Yes, Mr. Vance, I kn do without it altogether.”
“Then I’ll leave you for two hours.”
“One word, Mr. Vance.”
“What is it?”
“Did yer ever pray?”
“Yes; every man prays who tries to do good or undo evil. You’ve been praying for the last hour, my friend.”
“How did yer know that? I’ve been thinkin’ of it, that’s a fak. But I’m not up to it, Mr. Vance. Could you pray for me jest three minutes?”
“Willingly, my poor fellow.”
And kneeling at the little cot, Vance, holding a hand of the sufferer, prayed for him so tenderly, so fervently, and so searchingly withal, that the poor dying outcast wept as he had never wept before. O precious tears, parting the mist that hung upon his future (even as clouds are parted that hide the sunset’s glories), and revealing to his spiritual eyes new possibilities of being, fruits of repentance, through a mercy which (God be thanked!) is not measured by the mercy of men.
Leaving the hospital, Vance stepped into an office, and drew up, in the form of a deposition, all the facts elicited from Quattles. His next step was to find Amos Slink. That gentleman had settled down in the second-hand clothing business. Vance made a liberal purchase of hospital clothing; and then adverted to the past exploits of Amos in the “nigger-catching” line. Amos proudly produced letters to authenticate his prowess. They bore the signature of Charlton. “I want you to lend me those letters, Mr. Slink.”