The old man forced open the envelope with his big fingers, and read this:
“Capt. Elliott;
“Dear Sir,—I am aware that the time on my mortgage is up, and I know you have a right to come over and take my house. I thought perhaps you might give me a little time, as it is very hard just now to raise any money. If you could do this, it would be a great favor to me. I am a good deal worried about it, and am sorry you can’t have your money. Hoping you can oblige me, I am,
“Truly yours,
“Boardman Blake.”
“Can’t pay!” sneered the captain. “How does he get money to live on? How does he s’pose I can live? Wants a little time? Well, hasn’t he had it? It is that old mill into which his money has gone, and now he wants more time. Nonsense!”
Capt. Elliott put the document in his pocket and tried to pray once more, but he couldn’t. The step he wanted to climb up was so hard, or rather that paper in his pocket was so weighty! “A little time,” he kept mumbling to himself. Gray–headed old man, chafing because a worried neighbor begged him not to take his house, but give him a little time in which to attempt payment, while he himself was only a beggar at God’s throne, and had not that Heavenly Father given him a long time for repentance? Who was he, thus gripping another unfortunate by the neck and refusing him the solicited favor? Get up from your knees, Capt. Elliott. Stop your praying and go to writing. Tell Boardman Blake he shall have his “little time.” Then kneel again and ask God to have mercy on you, an undeserving old beggar. As it is, that note in your pocket clogs your progress, holds you down and holds you back. You thought you were getting along rapidly, and had mounted several stairs and were up quite high. Now you feel bruised and sore, and down in the depths, as if you had had a tumble and were lying at the foot of the stairway again. A bad case indeed.
Ah, God will not take us unless we come to him whole–hearted in our desire to serve Him, and not only ready to give up every sin, but actually giving it up, letting go old grudges, willing to do the just and honest and generous thing by our neighbor. Then He takes us up in His arms and calls us, “Son, Daughter!”
Another bad case, and that very day too. The day was not stormy, and yet threatening. The sea looked cold, and the white crests of the waves were like patches of snow, pure but chilling, while between these wintry tufts were black hollows of water. A mist had advanced so far toward the station that the shore could not be inspected from the lookout two miles either way. The patrols were on duty therefore, and Walter was at the Crescent end of the beach, as that part facing the rocks in the river was called. Wrapped in his thick, warm fisher jacket, he faced the keen, chilly though not violent wind blowing from the north–east. Now he made broad footprints in the gray sand with his big rubber boots, then he stumbled over rocks matted with the rich brown of the sea–weed, or some bold encroachment of the sea would compel him to withdraw to the top of a high wall of rock. He was near the end of his beat, and halted a moment to watch the play of the waves about the Chair.