He spoke in a low voice, that what he said might not reach the ears of the little ragamuffin who trudged by his side.
Abram looked down on the child with a sympathetic heart.
"What made you steal dem cakes?" he asked kindly.
"I was hongry," was the simple reply.
The old man said no more until he had reached the parsonage, and then when he saw how the little fellow ate and how tenderly his son ministered to him, he murmured to himself, "Feed my lambs"; and then turning to his son, he said, "Robbie, dey's some'p'n in 'dis, dey's some'p'n in it, I tell you."
That night there was a boy's class in the lower room of Robert Dixon's little church. Boys of all sorts and conditions were there, and Abram listened as his son told them the old, sweet stories in the simplest possible manner and talked to them in his cheery, practical way. The old preacher looked into the eyes of the street gamins about him, and he began to wonder. Some of them were fierce, unruly-looking youngsters, inclined to meanness and rowdyism, but one and all, they seemed under the spell of their leader's voice. At last Robert said, "Boys, this is my father. He's a preacher, too. I want you to come up and shake hands with him." Then they crowded round the old man readily and heartily, and when they were outside the church, he heard them pause for a moment, and then three rousing cheers rang out with the vociferated explanation, "Fo' de minister's pap!"
Abram held his son's hand long that night, and looked with tear-dimmed eyes at the boy.
"I didn't understan'," he said. "I didn't understan'."
"You'll preach for me Sunday, father?"
"I wouldn't daih, honey. I wouldn't daih."