The Salvationist looked through the door at the line of straw dummies hanging in a row, and then he looked back and faced the Major-General for a full minute before he said anything.
Tall and strong, with soldierly bearing, with ruddy health in the glow of his cheeks, and fire in his keen blue eyes, the Salvationist looked steadily at the Major-General and his indignation grew. Then the good old Scotch burr on his tongue rolled broadly out in protest:
“On my way up here in your automobile”—every word was slow and calm and deliberate, tinged with a fine righteous sarcasm—“I saw three men entering your Guard House who were not capable of directing their own steps. They had been off on leave down to the town and had come home drunk. They were going into the Guard House to sleep it off. When they come out to-morrow or the next day with their limbs trembling, and their eyes bloodshot and their heads aching, do you think they will be fit for warfare?
“You have men down there in your Guard House who are loathsome with vile diseases, who are shaken with self-indulgence, and weakened with all kinds of excesses. Are they fit for warfare?
“Now, look at me!”
He drew himself up in all the strength of his six feet, broad shoulders, expanded chest, complexion like a baby, muscles like iron, and compelled the gaze of the officer.
“Can you find any man—” The Salvationist said “mon” and the soft Scotch sound of it sent a thrill down the Major-General’s back in spite of his opposition. “Can you find any mon at fifty-five years who can follow these in your regiment, who can beat me at any game whatever?”
The officer looked, and listened, and was ashamed.
The Major rose in his righteous wrath and spoke mighty truths clothed in simple words, and as he talked the tears unbidden rolled down the Major-General’s face and dropped upon his table.
“And do you know,” said the Salvationist, afterward telling a friend in earnest confidence, “do you know, before I left we had prayer together! And he became one of the best friends we have!”