The old man got up. “What’s he doing? Let me look at him.”
The two traversed the halls of a great business establishment and finally came to the department where the youth was working. The father, eager but cautious, scanned the room and saw his son, himself unnoticed. He was sticking type, a green shade over his eyes.
For a moment the parent hesitated, then went over.
“Harry,” he called.
The boy jumped.
“Father!” he cried.
It was described as a moment of intense emotion. The boy broke down and wept and the father shed tears over him. Finally he sobered himself and said: “Now you come with me. I guess you’re all right enough to be my son again. You can set more type to-morrow.” And he led him away.
Truth? Or Romance? I do not know.
The final answer to this form of service, however, is in the mission itself. Nightly you may see them rise and hear them testify. One night the speaker, pouring forth a fiery description of God’s power, stopped in the midst of his address and said: “Is that you, Tommy Wilson, up there in the gallery?”
“Yes, sir.”