The boys have given me the privilege of talking straight to them. “If you don’t write, you know what you’ll get,” I said, and I began to give out the note-paper. I can give boys writing-paper and envelopes and sell them a cup of coffee or a packet of cigarettes with as much religion as I can stand in a pulpit and talk about them. Why, my Master washed people’s feet and cooked a breakfast for hungry fishermen. He kindled the fire with the hands that were nailed to a tree for humanity. There are no secular things if you are in the spirit of the Master—they are all Divine.
I went on dealing the note-paper out, and presently a clergyman came to me and said, “Gipsy Smith, a man in my room wants to see you.”
When I got there, I saw he was crying, sobbing.
“I am not a kid,” he said; “I am a man. I’m forty-one. You told me to write to my mother. Read that,” he said, throwing down a letter; and this is what I read:
“My dear Mother,
“It’s seven years since I wrote you last. I’ve done my best to break your heart and to turn your hair grey. I’ve lived a bad life, but it’s come to an end. I have given my heart to God. I won’t ask you to believe me, or to forgive me. I deserve neither. But I ask for a bit of time that I may prove my sincerity.
“Your boy still,
“Jack.”
“Shall I put a bit at the bottom for a postscript?” I asked. “But first of all, let us pray.”
We got on our knees, and I said, “You begin.”
“I’m not used to it,” he replied.
“Begin; never mind how. Did you ever pray?”
“Yes,” he said; “I prayed as a child.”