A moment more and he was launched on a vivid and exciting description of the last Army and Navy football game he had seen, and for twenty brisk minutes he had the undivided attention of the most “difficult” class in the Sunday-school.
“He’ll do,” whispered Marlowe to the minister as they stood together on the platform looking toward Murray, with his head and shoulders down and the knot of seven heads gathered around him. “We picked the right man all right. He’s got ’em from the word go.”
The minister nodded with shining eyes.
“It looks that way. It certainly does,” he beamed, and the two good men turned to other problems, fully satisfied that the seven worst little devils were well started on the way to heaven, led by this wonderful young Christian, who had not yet stopped at anything he had been asked to do. They began to plan how much more they could get him to do in places where they sorely needed help.
The superintendent’s warning bell rang before Murray suddenly came out of that football game, and realized that something had been said about a “lesson”—that, in fact, the lesson had been supposed to be the principal thing for which they were here as teacher and pupils. It would not do to ignore that utterly. Some of these young scamps would be sure to go home and tell, and his good name, of which he was beginning to be a little proud, would be damaged if he made no attempt at all to teach something sort of ethical. That was his idea of Sunday-school teaching. “Boys, you must grow up to be good citizens,” or something of that sort. He supposed there was some kind of a code, or formula, for the thing, and he recalled that he was to ask the boys to tell him, so he straightened back and began:
“But we must get at our lesson, kids, the time is almost up.”
“Aw shucks!” spoke up the boldest child impudently. “We don’t want’ny lesson. We want you to tell us more about that game.”
“I’ve talked enough now, it’s your turn. What’s your lesson about? Who can tell me? I’m a stranger here, you know.”
“’Bout Paul,” said another boy, whom they called “Skid” Jenkins.
“No, ’twas Saul,” said “Gid” Porter.