“With help, Alex.”
McKenzie said nothing for a moment. Then he looked up. “You mean,” said he, “that I need another team of leaders?”
“The Great Leader, Alex.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” said McKenzie: “you mean that I need the help of Jesus Christ.”
No need to tell what Higgins said then–what he repeated about repentance and faith and the infinite love of God and the power of Christ for salvation. Alex McKenzie had heard it all before–long before, being Scottish born, and a Highlander–and had not utterly forgotten, prodigal though he was. It was all recalled to him, now, by a man whose life and love and uplifted heart were well known to him–his minister.
“Pray for me,” said he, like a child.
McKenzie died that night. He had said never a word in the long interval; but just before his last breath was drawn–while the Pilot still held his hand and the Sister of Charity numbered her beads near by–he whispered in the Pilot’s ear:
“Tell the boys I made the grade!”
Pat, the old road-monkey–now come to the end of a long career of furious living–being about to die, sent for Higgins. He was desperately anxious concerning the soul that was about to depart from his ill-kept and degraded body; and he was in pain, and turning very weak.