Produced by Benjamin Klein

Jimmie Moore of Bucktown

By Melvin E. Trotter

Chicago

The Winona Publishing Company

MCMIV

Copyright, 1904

by

The Winona Publishing Company

August.

Contents

I. The Invasion Begun
II. "Der Gang"
III. "The Busted Funeral"
IV. Jimmie's New Pa
V. Mrs. Cook's "Opery"
VI. Mrs. Cook's First Prayer
VII. Floe
VIII. Bill's Pension
IX. "Auntie's Favorite Horse"
X. Jimmie's Education
XI. The Meeting in the Market
XII. Fred Hanks
XIII. "Fagin's Meetin'"
XIV. Fred and Doc
XV. The Picnic
XVI. Dave Strikes His Gait

Jimmie Moore of Bucktown

CHAPTER I

The Invasion Begun

"Please kin yer tell me where is der boss of dis Mishun?"

The superintendent turned sharply about and beheld a boy of singularly striking appearance. His stature was that of a child of ten or twelve years and his face that of a worn-out, heart-broken, disappointed old man. His eyes, set far back in his head under heavy eyebrows, indicated an almost abnormal development of the perceptive faculties. In other respects the contour of the head was not remarkable; but the face was one, once seen, never to be forgotten. The nose was pointed and pinched, the cheeks hollow, and the glance of his eye at once appealing and defiant. There could be no doubt that this boy was a bread winner, and that the burdens he carried were altogether too heavy for such young shoulders.

From the ragged cap which he turned nervously in his hands to the large pair of sharp-pointed ladies' shoes on his feet, every garment was a misfit. The loss of a button from the neckband of his blouse-waist permitted it to gap wide open and disclosed the fact that he wore no underclothing. The day was bitterly cold; and the boy's shivery look showed how greatly he suffered.

As the superintendent took in all these facts he realized that, despite his unseemly attire and generally distracted appearance, the boy was by no means an ordinary character. Down deep in the dark gray eyes that never wavered under his steady gaze he saw the making of a man mighty for good or evil.

"I guess I'm the man you want," said Morton, kindly. "Come into my office."

Leading the way, he was followed by the boy into a small private office at the back end of the big mission hall. Offering the lad a seat, he turned to his desk, on which stood two telephones. In an instant that boy was again upon his feet. Looking with wide-open eyes, he inquired, "Be yer goin' ter call der bull? I ain't as't yer fur nuthin'. Me Pa said yer was a good guy and wouldn't squeal. I mus' go."

Morton intercepted the boy at the door. But it was some time before he could persuade him that it was not his intention to turn him over to the police, "the bull," for begging.

"I want to help you," he said. "I'll be your friend, and I won't squeal on you either."

"Well, be yer Mister Morton?" asked the boy.

"Yes, that's my name," replied the superintendent. "And now I want you to tell me all about your trouble. Who sent you to me?"

"Me Pa. He heard your talk on der gospel wagon down at der square. He don't talk about nuthin' else and he wants yer ter come an' see him."

"Is he sick?"

"Sure he's sick. He's been in bed ever since Wednesday. Ma says he's outer his head. Tuesday night he didn't come home home from work, and Ma says, 'I guess he's drunk ag'in.' We waited fur him till eleven o'clock and den I couldn't stay awake no longer. 'Sides, der wood was all burnt up and we had ter go ter bed ter keep warm. At five in der mornin' Mike Hardy, der bar-keep' at Fagin's, saw Pa layin' in Rice's wagon box, out in front of der market. It snowed on Pa, and he was near frozed. Mike calls Bill Cook and dey brings Pa home. Bill and Pa is chums; an' Bill gets drunk, too. Ma says dey bot' works fur Fagin. When dey gits paid dey take all der money straight to Fagin's and spends it for booze."

"Well, what's your name and where do you live?" interrupted
Morton.

"Me name's Jimmie Moore, and we live down in Bucktown near der market."

"Go on with your story, sonny," said Morton.

"After dey got him in der house Ma and Bill gits his clothes off and Bill goes and gets some wood and built a fire. I carried me mornin' papers, and when I gits back I stayed wit' Pa while Ma went ter Ransome's house up on der Avenue to do deir washin'. Pa he slept all day till four in the afternoon, and den he raised up straight in bed and, lookin' at somethin' in der corner of der room, said, 'Can't yer see me hand? I raised it twice. Why don't yer come and git me?' I couldn't see nuthin', but he keeps on talkin' dat way fur a long time. Den he laid down again and cried and said he wanted der mishun man ter come and see him. When Ma gits back she sent me to der barber shop to git Fred Hanks ter telerphone ter Dr. Possum. He's der city doctor. He looked at Pa and said he had ammonia. Den Ma she cried, 'cause she had no money ter git supper for us kids and fer the doctor's paper, too."

"Pretty soon Mrs. Cook, that's Bill's missus, comes in and she said she'd help take care of Pa. The neighbors done all dey could, but we ain't got no money, er no wood, and der rent ain't paid. We ain't had no fire since yisterday, and dis' mornin' Ma sits down and cries 'cause der's nothin' for der kids ter eat. Her and me don't mind, but we got four girl kids that's hungry all der time. Pa set up in bed and said, 'Go to der mishun man and tell him I mus' see him.' Ma sent me up ter see if yer won't come down ter see Pa."

Finding a knitted scarf for the boy to tie about his neck, the superintendent and Jimmie started for the sick man's bedside. The section of the city where the Moore family lived, locally known as Bucktown, contained the only real slums to be found in the busy and rapidly growing metropolis. It was located on a low tract of ground between the city market and the river, and was inhabited chiefly by negroes and very poor white people.

On the way Jimmie continued his story, and the superintendent tried to tell him about the Father above who loves the poor and who sent His Son to die that all the world might live and have access to the unsearchable riches of God. "The only help that is sure and lasting," he said, "comes from God. He can find a way out of your trouble for you."

"I don't see how He kin help us," replied the boy. "They won't give us no help at der city hall, 'cause we ain't been here long enough. We ain't no city case er nothin' else, I guess. The man said he would put us kids in der Children's Home and Pa in der poorhouse, er send us all back ter Dalton. Ma said she'd die widout us kids."

When the boy stopped talking Morton took him by the hand and told him about the Jesus who loves little boys and their fathers and mothers, and how He would do all things for them. "If you believe in Him," said the superintendent, "you can ask for anything in His name and get it."

"Where is Jesus?" asked Jimmie.

"He's right here now," replied Morton. "You can't see Him, but
He's always with us to watch over us and care for us."

This was a stunner for Jimmie. For a full minute he looked straight ahead of him, as if in deep thought, and then raising his eyes until they met Morton's, said: "Watcher givin' us, Cully? Do yer tink I am bug-house?"

"No, I don't think you're crazy, but what I have said is true, Jimmie. You can't see the wind, but you know there is wind because you feel it. I cannot see Jesus with my natural eye, but I know He is here, just as well as you know that the wind is blowing. I trust Him for everything, and He supplies all my needs. I have loved Him and He has kept me for seven years. I never help any one myself; I do it for Him. He gives me the love and the money, and if I help you, you must thank Him and not me."

"Maybe He loves good boys; but I'm no good, ner never was. He can't love no kid like me, kin he?"

"Yes, my boy, just as much as He does me."

"Den He don't know me, for everybody dat knows me says I'm bad.
Me Ma, even she says so. I guess He don't love no one in Bucktown."

"Yes, He loves every one in Bucktown, and He will care for you all if you will trust Him and ask Him for what you need."

"Kin I ask Him fur somethin' ter eat."

"Yes, you can, and you'll get it too. But you must love Him and thank Him for what you get."

Jimmie looked up to see if Morton really meant what he was saying. When he saw the look of intense earnestness on the superintendent's face he knew that he was not deceiving him.

"I hope He'll help Pa," said Jimmie thoughtfully. "I guess he needs it mor'n der rest of us do."

"If your Pa will tell God what a sinner he has been and will ask Him for forgiveness, He will help him. God is a friend of sinners, Jimmie."

"This is where we live," said the boy, turning to go into a miserable shack.

The house was one of the most disreputable looking places in the neighborhood. It consisted of a lean-to portion of a house from which the original building had been moved away. There was no wall beneath; the building stood on four posts, one at each corner, and open on all sides, the wind having a clean sweep beneath the floor in every direction. Within there were two rooms. In the front one was a bed upon which the sick man lay, an old table, two chairs and a box to sit on. In the next room an old wood-burning cook-stove, a big box for table and cupboard combined, and a broken mirror constituted its complete furnishing. The roof leaked, and most of the spaces in the window sashes were filled with rags and paper instead of glass.

A baby of six months, lying in a market basket, was being pulled about the room by an older sister. When Morton entered, two other girls, older than the baby, one two, the other past three years of age, darted under the bed and peeked from beneath the ragged comfort hanging over the edge.

"Dis is Mister Morton from der Mission," said Jimmie proudly, still clasping the hand of the superintendent, "and he says dat Jesus loves every bloomin' one of us, and'll be our friend and owns the whole business. If we lives fur Him, He lives fur us, and—and—"

"You shut up, Jim," said his mother, as with her apron she wiped the dirt off the seat of the nearest chair.

"Sit down, Mister Morton," she said. "Glad to see you. We ain't got much of a place here; but Robert wanted to see you so bad, I sent Jimmie up to the Mission to bring you."

After greeting the little ones, Morton went to the bed and spoke to Mr. Moore. He was sick indeed; and the superintendent knew that he was facing a man who would never stand upon his feet again.

"Oh, sir," said the sick man, "I'm dying, and I'm not saved. I know I'm not fit to go, and I don't know the way to git fit. I heard you talk on the gospel wagon and I've tried to find God by myself, but I don't seem to get any answer to my prayers. Back in Pennsylvania, at a meeting in our little country schoolhouse, I promised God I would live for Him, but after we was married I came out West, and settled in this country where it was wild. Maybe you know how it is. I learned to drink, and that has spoiled all my chances. Since I've been sick here I've seen it all over again, and I want God to save me before I die. I know I've been awful wicked, but I heard you say God loved everybody; now I want you to pray for me."

Moore broke into tears as he thought of his awful sin, and he was weeping bitterly. The superintendent read the third chapter of John slowly and with emphasis, and told of the marvelous love of God that makes the way for the salvation of even the most unworthy. The man said he was ready to give up, but wanted first to confess his wickedness. The story of his life was one of toil and privation. He had learned to drink after he became a man and had a family. From that time on his descent was rapid. He made no attempt to shield himself, but laid bare before the superintendent and before his own family all the secrets of his sinful career. He left his home at Dalton to escape arrest, and when times got hard in the city he feared to go back to his old home on account of the possible consequences of his sin.

When he had finished, the superintendent pointed him to the One who alone could help him. The sick man said he would believe and trust God. That little gathering, with the prayers that followed, was an experience that Morton will remember as one of the events of his life. The wife also expressed a desire to know the Saviour, and both prayed for forgiveness.

There was a joy there that seemed to fill the old shed with the glory of God. Moore's eyes beamed with love, and the whole family seemed to rejoice in the peace that had come to him on his sick bed. Then the superintendent sung a hymn, and little Jimmie, standing close by his side, grasped his hand, and, looking up into his face, said, "If Jesus will love me I'll love Him and be his boy." Morton took him to the grocery and market. When he left him on the corner, with a basket well filled with good things to eat, he said, "Now, Jimmie, I'll see you in the morning. You tell your Ma and every one that Jesus is your friend and sent you this basket."

"I'll do it, yer bet; and I'll tank Him for dis lot of stuff.
Gee! We'll eat till we bust!"

CHAPTER II

"Der Gang"

Socially and terrestrially Bucktown was situated beside a river. Once a year, when the spring freshet caused the Big Grandee to overflow its banks, the whole tract was inundated. At such times most of the people were compelled to leave their homes and find temporary quarters elsewhere. Along the Market side of the district the ground was a trifle higher, and here a few houses were beyond the reach of the floods. One of these was the shack in which the Moore family lived. Other near-by sections of the city had been filled in to raise them above the level of the high water mark, but Bucktown remained as it was in the beginning.

Its houses were the oldest in the city, and some of them in their day had been the residences of the best citizens. Some were first erected where they now continued to stand; but many others had been moved to make room for the rapidly growing business district, and had been set down here because land was cheap and nowhere else would such worn-out, dilapidated structures find tenants.

Unlike the slums of larger and older cities, Bucktown was largely peopled by men and women who, like its houses, had come from happier and more elegant surroundings. Few of its older inhabitants were born in the slums, and among its people were to be found many whose careers in life were begun under really favorable circumstances; but, like driftwood, they had been crowded out of the busy stream of human effort into this pool of stagnant humanity. In this way the neighborhood had become the dumping ground for everything that was undesirable in a population of more than one hundred thousand souls.

Stall saloons and houses of ill-fame were numerous, and sin and wickedness stalked forth in open daylight with a boldness that knew no hindrance. One-third of the population was colored, and the whites were made up of almost every known nationality. No effort was made to draw the color line. Negroes and whites lived in the same or adjoining houses, and in some families the husband was of one color and the wife of another.

The second house from the Moore home was the celebrated "Dolly" resort, known everywhere as the most dangerous place of the kind in the city. It was luxuriously furnished and was famous for its pretty girls and its dances.

In an old shanty back of Moore's home lived "Yellow Liz," or "Big Liz," a monstrously hideous woman who had once been the wife of Abe Tobey, now doing a long term in State's Prison for murderous assault. "Big Liz" had a wart as large as an acorn in the middle of her forehead and wooly red and black whiskers on her chin and lower jaw. She was recognized as one of the features of the neighborhood, and slumming parties from "uptown" never failed to visit her domicile.

Another house close by had been the home of Tom Beet, who murdered his wife by saturating her clothing with kerosene oil and setting fire to her body while she lay in a drunken stupor on the bedroom floor.

There was no high-toned moral element in the slums. Nobody made any pretense of being good. Every man, woman and child in the community knew that he was a sinner and recognized the fact that other people knew it too. "Oily Ike" Palmer, whose junk shop was the resort of thieves, and who acted in the capacity of a "fence" for all of them, together with Dave Beach, the horse trader and political boss of the ward, were the heroes of the community. "Oily Ike" was known to the police as a criminal, but although many offenses had been traced to his door, the evidence necessary to place him behind the bars was always lacking and he had never been convicted of a crime. He was also an opium eater and a drunkard, while it was said he had once held an honorable position in society. His vices had been the cause of his downfall, and at the time Superintendent Morton of the City Rescue Mission made his acquaintance he was a crafty, unscrupulous rascal, with the qualities of a beast of prey rather than those of a man.

Beach, the horse trader, sometimes called the "Mayor of Bucktown," was proprietor of a "Traders'" barn, a once prosperous livery stable on Brady Street. His place was a "growler joint," and was frequented by all the toughs and criminals in the neighborhood. In his own way, Dave was an autocrat of no mean power. When he O.K.'d a man, that man stood ace high; but when he said "Jiggers," everybody shut up like a clam. Beach was a bad man; but he had brains, and everybody paid court at his throne. It was said he could deliver the vote of Bucktown intact at election time, and there could be no doubt of the effectiveness of his pull with the authorities. He could drink more whisky, and stay sober, than any man in the community. If any one could whip him in a rough and tumble fight, the fact had not been demonstrated; and no one seemed anxious to establish it.

Gene Dibble, a good-natured, big-hearted fellow, worked in the
North Woods in the winter, but came to Bucktown every spring
to spend his money. He was a fine singer, and could dance the
Buck-and-wing, Turkey-in-the-Straw and the Rag like few men.
He was a favorite in Bucktown, and a warm friend of Dave Beach.

When it was noised about that Moore had sent for the "Mission Guy," as Morton was known in Bucktown, most of the neighbors waited for Beach to speak before they expressed any opinion. People had been sick and died before; but none had ever been so bold as to send for the mission man, and though they said nothing, some of Moore's best friends thought he must be out of his head.

The day following Morton's visit to the sick man little Jimmie stopped at Dave's barn and told a crowd of fellows who were present what had happened.

"Der main squeeze of der Rescue Mission was down ter our house last night, and he tol' Pa dat Jesus loves us and will give us anyting we wants. De doc says Pa is goin' ter die; but Pa tol' de Mission Guy he believed and now he's saved. He ain't goin' ter drink no more booze er nuthin'. We all belongs ter Jesus now, and He's goin' ter take care of us. Yer kin as't Him fer anyting yer wants, and if yer love Him and confesses Him you'll git it. Dat's wat der Mission Guy tol' Pa."

Although a favorite with the crowd that hung around the barn, Jimmie's little speech provoked a derisive laugh, and, catching the boy by the coat collar, Jewey Martin, an ex-convict, started to fire him out of the door with the advice to "chase himself." Before he had taken three steps Dave Beach had his great fist about Jewey's throat and had shoved him back into a corner.

"You let the kid alone. He's all right and knows what he's talking about. If you was more like that boy, mebbe you'd git to heaven sometime. You don't have to believe what he says if you don't want to, but you want to recollect what I tell you, that you better let him alone around here."

Some religious apologists might question the conversion of a boy of Jimmie's make-up; but among the people of Bucktown there was no doubt about his sincerity and his belief that Jesus loved him and heard and answered his prayers. With Dave Beach back of him he did not hesitate to repeat his story, and it was not long before every one about the market place had heard the tale from his lips.

As Morton would not allow Jimmie to thank him, but taught him that he must thank God for everything, he learned to call Morton "Jesus' storekeeper," and "Jesus' hired man"; and he sang his praises from daylight until dark. In this way he helped Morton to gain a foothold in the neighborhood, and when the people found that he wanted to help them rather than to pry into their affairs he was made welcome when he visited Bucktown.

Jimmie had never learned to read; but one day he told Morton he wanted a little red Testament, such as the superintendent had given his father.

"You jus' tell me some of dem verses like I heard yer read to Pa an' gimme der book, an' I can make a bluff at readin' 'em anyhow."

Using colored inks, Morton marked John 3:16, John 10:28, and other well-known texts. He also explained their meaning to the boy. "Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find," and "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these," were Jimmie's favorites, and although he quoted them in language all his own, he never failed to convey their full meaning.

The days that followed Moore's conversion were trying ones for the family. When the fever broke the sick man's cough grew worse, and he required constant attention. Through the Mission, Mrs. Moore found work enough to keep her busy six days in the week, and the task of caring for the sick man fell upon Jimmie and Mrs. Cook, who proved to be a woman of generous impulses and an excellent neighbor. She ran in many times a day to see how they were getting along. Jimmie had a morning newspaper route and in the afternoon sold papers on the street. At other times he stayed close at home and never tired of talking with his father about Jesus and His love for wicked men and women.

His childlike faith in God was wonderful. He was quick to learn and often surprised Morton by his aptitude; but his chief characteristic was his almost phenomenal grasp of spiritual truths. He prayed to God for food, coal, wood and clothes; and when he had told Jesus what he wanted he always counted it settled.

Mrs. Morton, wife of the superintendent, was a frequent visitor at the home, and brought many things to make the bed more comfortable and the two rooms more cheerful for the sick man. No matter what the articles might be, Jimmie always said, "Jesus sent 'em."

On one occasion, when the Mission woman had gone, Mrs. Cook, who was present, turned to Jimmie and said, "I sh'd think you'd thank her for all she's doin' for you folks. She's the best friend yer ever had, and I'll bet none of yer ever even said 'Much erblidged.'"

"We don't have ter tank her," said Jimmie. "Jesus is der one we're ter tank. Everyting belongs ter Him, and I'm His'n, too. When we needs anyting we jus' tells Him an' He sends it."

"Well, she's the one who brought that flour this morning, fer I seen her come," said Mrs. Cook, "and none of you thanked her at all."

"Aw, yer go on," replied the boy. "Yer don't know wot you're talkin' about. Dis ain't no graft dat we's a-workin'. Jesus is our friend an' He loves us; dat's why He takes care of us. He'd love yer, too, if you'd let Him, but when yer takes Him for your friend yer got to cut out dose cuss words an' de growler, too. Dat's wat me an' Pa has done, and we belongs to Jesus now. 'Twouldn't be de square ting by Him for us ter tank anybody else, and we ain't afeard but wat He'll give us all we needs."

As for Moore, while he never doubted his salvation, there were times when he was despondent and gloomy. The memory of his misspent life and the consciousness that he had nearly reached the end lay heavily upon his mind, and, left alone as he was for hours at a time, with no one but Jimmie and the other children in the house, he brooded upon his troubles until he grew very miserable. At such times it was interesting to hear Jimmie hold up Jesus and preach the gospel of love as his juvenile mind comprehended it.

"Pa, yer act jus' as though Jesus didn't love yer," he said one afternoon, when the superintendent's wife was present. "He knows yer coughin' spells hurt yer, and He'll help yer to stan' 'em, 'cause He was hurted once Hisself. Ain't He takin' care of us, and didn't He send der Mission Guy ter help us? Yer ain't got no right ter worry; just look how good He's been ter all of us."

One morning when Dr. Snyder, who had been called in on the advice of the Cook family, came to see the sick man, Moore anxiously inquired if there was no chance of his recovery. While he was conceded to be an able man in his profession, the doctor, himself a drinking man, was sometimes rough and heartless in his manner, and, replying to the question, said:

"Well, if you've got any unfinished business on hand you better call a special session and close it up. You'll be pushing clouds within a week."

"Do you mean he's goin' ter die?" asked Jimmie, whose quick ears had caught the remark.

"That's just the plain English of it, my boy," replied the doctor.
"The old man's a goner, and no doctor on earth can save him."

"Well, he'll go straight ter Jesus," said Jimmie, "'cause he got saved las' Friday. Gran'ma and Gran'pa er up dar, and Pa an' Ma an' the rest of us is all a-goin'."

"What's the matter with the kid, Moore?" asked the doctor. "Has he gone daffy?"

"No, Doc, the boy's all right. Leastwise if he's daffy, as you call it, I wish to God we'd all got that way long ago. Then we wouldn't be in the condition you find us to-day. Say, Doc, don't you ever expect to be a Christian? If you were in my place you'd see what it means to face death without God."

"Gee, you're good!" said the physician. "The way you talked to Gene Dibble when I sewed up your head after the fight didn't sound much like a prayer to me. You want to get forgiven here before you ask God to do anything for you there. Now, kid, you'd better forget about this religion and tend to the old man. Give him his medicine every hour, and I'll be in again to-morrow. Good-bye."

He slammed the door, and Jimmie sat for a moment in deep thought. Then he turned to his father and said: "Pa, Gene'll forgive yer if yer ast him. I'll go over ter Fagin's and if he ain't dere I'll tell Mike ter send him over wen he comes in."

"How's the old man, Jimmie?" asked Fagin as the boy entered the saloon.

"Doc says he's dyin'. Is Gene Dibble here? Wish't you'd tell him Pa wants ter see him," said the boy as he turned to go.

"Wait a minute, Jimmie; I want to send a little medicine to your father."

He took a bottle from the back bar and began to wrap it up in a scrap of old newspaper. "This is about all the poor devil lived for," he said to himself, "and he ought to have a taste now that he's dyin'."

"Is dat booze?" asked Jimmie.

"It's just a nip for the old man. It's his favorite brand," said Fagin.

"Not his'n; he's got saved an' don't need it in his business," replied the boy, starting for the door.

"Come here, you little fool, and take this bottle to your dad with my compliments," said the saloon-man in anger.

"It's your compliments wat's ailin' him now," answered Jimmie. "Yer got his nine dollars last Tuesday night, and now he's dyin'. I seen yer Ralph goin' ter school wid new shoes and rubbers dis mornin', an' I'm wearin' yer compliments," said the boy, holding up one of his feet encased in a worn-out lady's shoe. "I promised Pa dat I'd take care of Ma an' der kids, and we don't need no booze ter help us, not us."

Jimmie ducked and dodged out of the door just in time to escape a soaking wet bar towel the saloon-man had thrown at him, and at a single bound jumped to the middle of the sidewalk just in time to collide with Bill Cook.

"Hello Bill," he said. "Why ain't yer workin'? Drunk agin? Gee! you'll be seein' 'em agin. Der las' time yer was crazier den a bed bug."

"You be d——!" said Bill. "Guess I'm all right. Only had three drinks. You's is gittin' too good for this neck o' woods. Yer orter move up on der boulevard amongst der bloods."

"Don't Ma do washin' up dere now, smarty? We got friends up dere; see? Why don't yer come over an' see Pa? He's dyin'."

"Go on!" said Bill. "Ye don't mean it! Kin I see him?"

"Sure, come on."

Bill staggered into Fagin's and took two more big drinks and then followed Jimmie across the street. He was badly intoxicated, but the sight of Moore's pinched features and fever-lighted eyes nearly brought him to his sober senses.

Bill was rough and wicked; but his heart within was almost as tender as a babe's. Drink was his worst trouble, and when he was sober he was rather a decent sort of fellow. His effort to appear at ease and say something encouraging to Moore was painful. He stammered and hawed and finally said, "It's all off, Bob; I can't make no speech. Let 'er go t' 'ell."

He pulled up the box, sat down at the bedside and began to cry. The sick man stretched forth his emaciated hand, and, placing it on Bill's head, said:

"Never mind, old man, I know what yer mean. You're my friend all right; but you can't say nuthin' that will help me now. I guess I must cash in pretty soon; but I ain't no coward, Bill; I've just been prayin' and everything is all right 'tween me and God. I don't know what'll become of the old woman and the kids, but I guess He'll take care of them. Maybe they will be better off when I'm gone than when I'm here. I'll tell you, Bill, booze don't get yer much when the doctor says you're up. I wish I'd cut 'er out the first time we saw the gospel wagon down on the square. The Mission man was here just a little while ago, an' he says he will help Jimmie take care of Ma and the kids. He says Jesus loves me, and when he prayed I put in too and says, 'I'm ready, Lord.'"

Moore's effort to talk exhausted his strength and brought on a sinking spell. He gasped and coughed and grasped his throat as though he was strangling. Bill thought he was dying, and grabbing his hat started for the door, telling Jimmie to stay there while he brought the doctor. The scene had been too much for his shattered nerves, and, reaching the middle of the sidewalk, he stood and yelled at the top of his voice:

"Moore's dyin'! Moore's dyin'! Git the doctor and the undertaker and der Mission man, quick! Moore's dyin'! Moore's dyin'!"

CHAPTER III

"The Busted Funeral"

The commotion that followed made dying a hard matter for Moore. When the doctor and Mrs. Moore reached the house it took them ten minutes, with the help of Dave Beach, to clear the room of the people. When Mr. and Mrs. Morton came, quiet had been restored on the inside, but on the street and at Fagin's they were talking about the funeral expenses, etc., before they had a corpse. In this neighborhood a funeral was looked upon as something of a party or social function, not to be missed. Every one turned out, never failing to dress for the occasion. Mrs. Rose, Mrs. Kinney and Mrs. Washington (colored) were easily in the lead when it came to professional mourners. As Dave Beach said one time, they "could cry real tears at a moment's notice, and keep it up as long as the water lasted and occasion demanded." When Charlie Slater was drowned in the Slough they cried for three days with Mrs. Slater, never going home for meals. Both they and their children put black crape on their arms and lived and cried with Mrs. Slater until Charlie was found. Mrs. Rose kept the crape, and after a funeral would wash and iron it and put it in the "burer" drawer until some one else died. When she heard Bill's cry, she came running with a piece tied on each arm and at least twenty pieces in her hand to supply the neighbors. That she considered her first and solemn duty. Inside of five minutes after Bill yelled and gave the alarm, every one of the regulars was decorated for action.

Bill went to Fagin's and got three big drinks without money, on the strength of Moore's death. He went into the back room, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. He was honest in his weeping, but he had too many drinks aboard and his snores soon told their own story. Bill's cry of "Moore's dyin'!" was soon turned to "Moore's dead; Bill says so." Of course Bill knew nothing of the disturbance he had created, and slept peacefully on in Fagin's back room. In the meantime Mrs. Cook was trying to "square" Bill with the neighbors. After the mistake was discovered every one blamed Bill that Moore was alive. Bill and his wife would fight with each other almost daily. Bill would swear that he had not tasted a drop when he was so drunk he could scarcely see. He contended that he was never drunk so long as he was sober enough to deny it. Mrs. Cook was possessed of an uncontrollable temper, and when she became angry—and she always did when Bill lied to her—she would completely lose control of herself. As Jimmie said one day:

"Gee, der old girl'll bounce irons er any old thing she can git her mitts on when she's sore. Her nose and her chin comes together so fast when she talks dat she's got corns on both of 'em."

She washed and worked until three or four o'clock in the morning to care for her children, and would do anything she could for any one, but when she got "sore," as Jimmie said, every one gave her the right of way. "She calls Bill every name on der calendar, but when it comes ter any one else saying a word about him, she won't stand fer it."

"If Bill said that Bob Moore's dead, he's dead, er soon will be," she said. "He knows a dead one when he sees it. It's a sure thing anyhow, and what difference does an hour or two make? The doctor says he's done fer anyhow."

As Mr. Morton left the house after Moore's death, he led Jimmie by the hand. The little fellow had made some big promises for one so small and frail, but he said God could and would help him. He knew that he could do no more window work for Jewey and his gang, neither could he work the depot crowds on Sunday excursion trains with Fred Hood. As he passed Mrs. Cook he simply said, "He's dead." Before leaving the house Morton had promised Mrs. Moore to help her hold her family together and not allow them to be sent to the Children's Home. Perhaps the promise was not a wise one, but it is hard to refuse a mother such a request in the presence of her dead husband. To raise girls in Bucktown and have them turn out right would be the eighth wonder of the world. The Children's Home would be much the best place for them; but the mother heart revolts at separation.

"We must pray for money to pay your father's funeral expenses, Jimmie," said Morton. Not knowing whence any of it was coming, but believing that He would provide, they went to the undertaker and made arrangements for the funeral. The next day being Sunday, Morton spoke in one of the big down-town churches, and at the close of his talk on "City Missions" he stated to that fashionable audience just what was needed in the Moore household. After the meeting enough money was placed in his hand to pay for one-half of the entire expense. The next day was a busy one at the Mission. To get clothes for all the children and to keep them clean enough to go to the funeral at two o'clock was no easy matter. The clothes room in the City Rescue Mission is a room where old clothes sent in by well-to-do people are kept for the poor, and hundreds of the less fortunate are cared for every year. Three nurses from the hospital helped Mrs. Morton with the work. With a tub of hot water, ivory soap and sapolio the scrubbing started. They polished their faces until Jimmie said, "They shine like a nigger's heel." The dressing was the hard part. A blue skirt to fit the oldest girl could only be matched in size by a bright green waist, and by her own choice a red ribbon for a belt, with yellow ribbons for her stiff "pig-tails." Mrs. Cook said "she looked like the pattern in a false-face factory." Cast-off shoes were secured for all but Jimmie, and Mr. Morton was compelled to take him to a shoe store and buy him his first pair of new shoes. He had always worn shoes that some one else had discarded. He could not keep his eyes off them as he walked along the street. His warm underclothing and suit from some rich boy's wardrobe, with new shoes, all in one day, was more than he could stand. He was spotted by one of his friends who was yelling, "Extra Press; read all about it!" Mr. Morton and Jimmie came along and to them he said, "Paper, Mister?"

Jimmie raised his eyes from his shoes long enough to say, "Hello,
Swipsey! How'd yer like 'em?"

"Where'd yer git 'em?" asked Swipsey.

"Git 'em? I got 'em, ain't I? How'd yer like 'em?"

"Dead swell. Do I git yer old ones?"

"Ain't got no old ones; I give 'em ter the shoe store man. We got a funeral at our house ter-day. Me Pa's died."

As Morton and a quartet reached the house with the children a wonderful gathering was there to greet them. The old bed had been taken down; the casket had been placed between the two windows. Folding chairs, furnished by the undertaker, were placed in rows before the casket. They were nearly filled by the friends and mourners. Bill Cook sat close by the door, so that he might be free to spit without getting up. "Big Liz" sat next to him, smoking her pipe, but at the sight of Morton she put it under her old apron. Several of the girls from the Dolly resort were there to pay their respects. All the neighbors were there, either in person or by proxy. As the quartet started to sing the old song, "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," every one seemed to take it as a signal to cry. No one seemed to know why they cried; but all did their part in making the funeral a "howling success," as Mrs. Rose said. Before the song was ended "Big Liz" was weeping louder than all the four singers could sing. Morton knew that he must have a brief service, and after a short prayer and Scripture reading he spoke words of comfort to the family and told of Moore's wonderful conversion. As he pictured the glories of heaven that await the redeemed and contrasted them with the awful condition of the unrepentant in sin and hell, every one trembled. Morton was very anxious to bring the people to a decision, and felt that the time had come for a final invitation. Bill Cook's eyes were fastened on Morton and, as he spoke of hell and judgment, he was sure it was all intended for him. "Big Liz" had forgotten the pipe in her lap. It had fallen over and the contents had set her dress on fire. The smell of smoke caused by the burning of cotton, wool, and dirt together did not make a pleasing accompaniment for Morton's words. When the smell reached Bill, he leaped into the middle of the room and shouted, "Hell's here now!" Just at that moment "Big Liz" felt the heat from the fire, and she jumped to Bill's side and said, "Yer right, honey, and I'm sure in it." Morton saw what was causing the trouble, and with the help of the undertaker succeeded in getting Liz out upon the street. He called Bill and told him to help her put out the fire. Bill was very much excited, and he took Liz by the hand and started for the big watering trough at the corner of the market. When he reached it he pushed her into the water backward. "That busted up der funeral," as Jimmie said. Such screaming had never been heard in Bucktown. When she at last managed to get out of the icy water she started for Bill, determined to kill him. Dave Beach headed him away from Moore's funeral and gave Morton a chance to close with a feeble prayer. The chance that he had prayed for so long, to reach the people of Bucktown with the gospel, had come and he had lost. He was heart-broken and felt the disappointment keenly. Jimmie was quick to see it and, as the people viewed the remains, he slipped up to Morton, and, pressing his hand, said, "Don't yer care, we'll git 'em all yet."

CHAPTER IV

Jimmie's New Pa

Jasper, the reporter on the Press, knew a good story when he had found one. A quiet visit to the Moore domicile the next afternoon, a brief call at Bill Cook's, and a few liberal potations at Fagin's, were responsible for the write-up which appeared in the evening Press. The pathetic story of sickness, death and privation appealed in a powerful manner to the community. Many well-meaning people flooded the place with provisions and a miscellaneous assortment of wearing apparel, running from silk dresses and opera cloaks to cotton jumpers and soleless patent leathers. As is the case generally, this kind of charity did much more harm than good. For a week they had provision enough to feed every man, woman and child in Bucktown. Mrs. Moore thought it would always be so. She gave up her work and said "she would do nothin' fer nobody."

Five days after the funeral Jimmie rushed into Morton's office at the Mission and said, "Say, I got er new Pa at my house."

"A new what?" asked Morton in surprise.

"A new Pa," said Jimmie. "Me Ma says that Charlie Hathnit would be me Pa from now on; he's been livin' with us fer two days now."

Morton was dumfounded. He sat looking at Jimmie a moment; then he said, "Jimmie, this is all wrong. God cannot bless your home with that man there." Morton, reaching out, drew Jimmie to his side and continued, "You promised your father you would run the house and help your mother to care for the family."

The diminutive figure of Jimmie suddenly straightened and seemed to increase an inch in height as he answered, looking Morton straight in the eyes, "So I did, and I meant it, too."

Then said Morton, "You must not allow that loafer there at all."

A moment later Jimmie was at the door. "Where are you going?" inquired Morton.

"I'm going home ter clean house," said Jimmie, as he dashed down Brady Street. As he entered the house a few minutes later he was not the little Jimmie of an hour before. Almost unconsciously there had been born within him a stern resolve to right wrong; an invisible line had been passed; dependent childhood seemed to fade away and in its place came manhood; he stood there another recruit to the great army of child heroes, the great army of those who are forced to face the stern realities of life. As he looked up into his mother's face the little tempest which had gathered within him for a moment was calmed; he caught her hand in both of his, pressing it against his cheek, an old habit of his when he had sought to comfort his mother or to express some emotion when lips would fail.

"What the h—l ails the kid?" snarled Hathnit.

Jimmie, realizing that there was stern business at hand, and ashamed of his momentary emotion, replied:

"Jus' dis: I got somethin' ter ast yer; what are yer doin' in our house anyhow?"

"Hush, Jimmie," interposed Mrs. Moore. "Yer mind yer business."

"That's jus' what I'm doin', Ma. I seen Morton, an' he says it's all wrong fer yer ter keep this piker here, and yer know I promised Pa der night Jesus took him up dare——"

A curse followed from Hathnit which was so awful that it would have shaken anything but Jimmie's determination. "Go an' tell dis Bible-banging Morton to keep his d—— advice to himself. I'm a peaceable man, but if I mix with this Mission galoot he'll cut out givin' his advice to you kids. As fer you, you better duck till you git this nonsense out of yer head." Hathnit strolled to the door and opened it, and Jimmie was compelled for the time being to leave the house.

"It's no more than I expected," said Mrs. Cook to Jimmie as he related the events of the morning. "When I heard Hathnit was a-livin' ter yer house, I jus' told Bill that no good would come from it. Poor Jimmie, you jus' wait till I git these here clothes out of this here bluing water; I'll go over wid yer to see what can be did."

Soon the last towel was through the wringer, and Mrs. Cook, hastily drying her hands on her apron, accompanied Jimmie to his home. The conference that ensued was not productive of any good. Hathnit was a man devoid of all manly principles, lazy to the limit, ill-bred, ill-kept, illiterate, but still possessing one noticeable characteristic—a keenness which cannot be overlooked in men of his ilk.

Mrs. Cook came to the point at once. "Mis Moore," she said, "yer boy Jim tells me you've took Hathnit here for yer man."

"Right yer be," replied Hathnit. "Yer needn't guess again."

"But yer ain't married yet," said Mrs. Cook.

"Well, yer see it's dis way," proceeded Hathnit. "She said she wanted me and I said I wanted her, so that's ernough. It used ter be the style ter go before the Justice with your dollar and a quarter paper and git tied, but that's a dead one now."

"Well, where's Mollie? She's yer wife, ain't she?" asked Mrs.
Cook.

"Naw, Tom Ellen's got her now; he took her while I was doing a two-year contract fer the State."

"But it's wrong," burst out Jimmie. "Mr. Morton says so."

"To h—l with Morton!" said Hathnit. "Now look here, the high-tone guys do that right along, only they spends their good money fer lawyer's licenses and divorce cases. I found this mornin's Herald at the depot, and it says there was six marriage licenses and eight divorces granted in this town yisterday. Fer every five marriages in dis whole State last year there was one divorce. Der people gits married ter-day with the understanding that if they don't like each other they can get a divorce. If that's all marriage amounts to—and it is—I think a man's a blooming sucker ter blow his good money to der lawyers. In dis town a dozen lawyers lives on divorce money alone. Society, so-called, says it's right, and when they gits up deir dancin' parties they have ter git an expert to keep from invitin' hubbie number one, two and three at the same time. If the bloods kin have two or three wives by payin' some cheap lawyer their good dough, I can have two or three an' save my money fer weddin' celebrations. The women all over the country went wild about Smoot and Polly Gamy."

"Yer means Pollie Gainey, that lived over Fagin's last year, don't yer?" asked Mrs. Cook.

"Naw, I means jus' what I said; Polly Gamy means yer can have all kinds of wives," said Hathnit. "Now, ter my way of thinkin', Smoot has as much right ter his wives as these women has ter their husbands. If he would send his money ter some cheap lawyer he'd be O.K. ter their way of thinkin'. Smoot takes care of his kids, anyhow, but these society guys sends theirs ter the Children's Home fer the city ter care fer. There's sixty-six kids there now, and fifty-two of them are from divorced families. Dis Morton that yer crackin' up ter me is kickin' about us livin' tergether without marryin'. He says it's wrong; why don't he say somethin' ter the church members? That big guy, where Bob Evans is coachman, got a divorce from his Missus and gave her the home ter live in. He built a new house on der next block and took another woman, and she took another man. Bob says that Ralph, the kid, calls one Papa and the other Daddie. They all goes ter the same church Sunday mornin' and nothin's said. Why? 'Cause they pay der lawyer. If they're all right, I'm all right; the church stands fer it, the law stands fer it, and society stands fer it. That cheap Mission guy with his old Bible don't cut much ice against that bunch.

"I know the Bible says it's wrong ter put away yer wife an' take another, but no one believes that old book nowadays. Why, I heard one of dem preachers from a dominie shop in Chicago say, when he was preaching down at the Bull Pen, dat the Bible wasn't der word of God at all, and he oughter know 'cause they got der very latest th'ology out. They discover things over there in Chicago. If the kid here don't like der way thin's is doin' he kin duck. I'm runnin' dis house now. Tell Bill ter come over ter der celebration, Mrs. Cook. So long." With this he fished a cigar stub out of his pocket, bit off a portion of it, expectorated freely into the stove hearth, and turning his back to them walked into the front room.

Mrs. Moore was about to follow him, when Jimmie plucked at her dress. When she turned around and their eyes met, the mother love had vanished.

"Ma," he said, his voice faltering, "which one goes, me or that?" pointing to the door where Hathnit had disappeared.

She turned and disengaged his hand, replying, "Ask him, Jimmie; he's runnin' the place now."

Jimmie went out into the world with a heavy heart. He did not mind the fact that he had no home so much as he did that his mother was doing wrong. "I guess I can't keep der promise I made Pa when he died; but I believe he knows that I'm doin' der best I kin."

CHAPTER V

Mrs. Cook's "Opery"

Bill Cook continued to drink day and night until it was plain to all that he would have another one of his "spells," as his wife always called an attack of delirium tremens. There was no hope for Bill when he once got started. He never stopped until he was arrested or went into the tremens. He could not borrow a five-cent piece, but could always get all the liquor he wanted. It is a fact well known to all drinking men that men will buy them fifty cents' worth of drink rather than give them five cents in money. If they wanted the money for bread for the children they could not get it; but drinks go any time.

Dave Beach had found Bill in the street, and taken him to his barn to sleep off a little of his "jag," as Dave said. Dave and Mrs. Cook never agreed as to the cause of Bill's trouble, so Dave was very careful not to get near her when Bill was coming down with one of his "spells." "He was shot in the army and has bad spells. 'Tain't drinkin' at all 'at ails Bill; he's sick," she would say. Dave found it was better to let her have her way about it; so he put Bill into a box stall, until he could send him home with Jimmie.

Every one in the neighborhood knew that Jimmie could be trusted. He was never known to tell a thing he should not, and had a way of knowing nothing when some one was looking for information.

Mrs. Cook knew that he had left home and was staying in Dave's barn at night and eating anywhere and anything he could get. When Bill failed to come home, she called Jimmie into the house as he came from up-town. "Had yer supper, Jim?" she asked.

"Yep, I'm eatin' up-town now," answered Jim.

"Better have a cup o' tea," she said as Jimmie closed the door. He had lived that day on three dry buns and a drop cookie, and tea, warm tea, sounded good to him. He pulled off his cap and jammed it into his coat pocket as he sat down at the table. "Jim, I was yer friend when yer was in trouble, now I want yer to help me. Bill's been gone all day and I'm scart fer him. Dr. Snyder told me that the next time he had a "spell" he'd die. No better man ever lived than Bill Cook, and I've been thinkin' ter-day 'at somethin's got ter be did. Last night he cried out in his sleep, jus' like he did las' time he had 'em, and at three o'clock this morning he got up an' left the house. I ain't seen nothin' of him since; the younguns think he's workin', and I don't want 'em ter know no different. Bill loves his younguns, and they think there's no one like their Pa. There never was a kinder man than Bill Cook; no siree, not a kinder man nowheres. He's been gittin' worser an' worser since yer Pa's funeral, an' honest, Jim, I'm scart."

"Well," said Jimmie, as he finished his third cup of tea, "I know jus' what he needs, but you'll have ter help."

"I'll do anyting yer say, Jim," said Mrs. Cook.

"Say, 'Hope ter die,' and cross yer heart," said Jimmie.

"I'll do it, yer bet."

"All right," said Jimmie. "Der first thing I want yer ter do is ter go ter der Mission wid me ter-night."

"Me? I can't go, Jim; I ain't got no clothes ter go there; 'sides, it's Bill yer want ter help an' not me," she said.

"Yer promised me," said Jimmie, "an' yer mustn't ast no questions.
Yer get yer duds on an' I'll be back fer yer in five minutes."
Jimmie went over to Dave's barn, told him what was on and Dave
promised to get Bill into the house while they were gone.

Mrs. Cook took the children over to Hardy's to play while she made a "call." When Jimmie returned to the house for Mrs. Cook, she was all ready to go.

"Gee, where yer git der lid?" said Jimmie.

"Never you mind, sonny; that hat's some more of yer business." As Jimmie stood and looked her over, he almost wished he had not suggested the trip. Her hat was an old straw derby with two chicken feathers stuck in it. She had put an old wine-colored skirt over her blue wrapper.

"I'm ready," she said, "but yer mustn't sit up front."

"Yer needn't worry," answered Jimmie as he looked once more at her hat.

She was very nervous at first; but after she discovered that no one was looking at her she soon felt at ease. The singing seemed to carry her out of herself. She forgot her trouble and settled down into the chair to enjoy the very best hour she had had in years.

"It's better 'n a opery," she whispered to Jimmie.

No place in the world do people sing as they do in a Rescue Mission. Every one sings there, and the one who can make the most noise is considered the best singer. Each one tries to outdo his neighbor. They sing the old gospel songs with a vim and never seem to tire of them.

The sermon that followed the singing was listened to by Mrs. Cook; but the testimonies almost drove her to say things. She hardly breathed as one after another got up and told what Jesus had done for them.

"I believe my soul, that's Lousy Kate," she whispered to Jimmie when one woman arose and told how God had found her at a jail meeting.

"Sure 'nough, it's her; I knew her when she did that very thing," she said as she followed her in her testimony. "Why, that woman was so crooked she couldn't lay down in a round-house."

When Superintendent Morton gave an invitation for all who wished the prayers of the Christians to come forward, she started for the door. When she had reached it she turned and watched the people as they went forward. She watched one poor drunken man as some of the workers helped him up the aisle. Big tears were in her eyes when she turned to Jimmie. "If that man kin be saved, drunk as he is, there's hope fer Bill, 'cause Bill's no drunkard, he's sick."

"There's hope fer you, too," said Jimmie, when they had reached the sidewalk.

"Me!" she almost shouted. "I ain't no drunkard, ner I never killed anybody, and 'sides, it's Bill yer want ter help, not me."

"The Bible says yer a sinner an' yer need fixin' jus' as bad as Bill," said Jimmie. He knew he was on dangerous ground, but he was determined to push the case as far as he dared. Without giving her a chance to answer, he continued, "Jesus says we're all sinners, an' whosever kin be saved, and that means you."

"I ain't no whoserever, I'm German, and my name's Annabella Cook, and I don't want you nor none of yer friends ter fergit it, sonny."

Jimmie was stumped for a minute. He had asked Morton what to say, but he could not remember the Scripture, so he simply said, "Yer swear, and yer drink, and yer don't pray, and if that ain't sin I don't want a cent. If yer was to die ter-night, you'd want somethin' more than 'em cuss words ter take ter Jesus. Yer Freddie is in heaven and me Pa is there, and yer got too much sense ter miss seein' 'em over there, and 'sides that yer can't never help Bill till yer helped first."

Jimmie had touched a tender chord in Mrs. Cook, and he knew it. She loved her family, and Bill was the apple of her eye. She did not get angry, as Jimmie had feared, but walked along in silence, thinking of what she had heard and how Jimmie had brought it all home to her very door. At last she said, as though speaking to herself, "Yes, I do swear when I git mad, but I don't mean it ten minutes after. No, I guess I ain't ready ter die, but, oh, Jimmie, what made yer mention Freddie? It near kills me." And she began to cry. Freddie had died a few months ago of membranous croup, and his death had caused a great sorrow in the Cook family.

Jimmie slipped his hand into hers, and said, "I'm sorry; but
I'm so bloomin' anxious ter see yer both Christians, 'cause
yer so good ter me. I guess I'll never have no more Ma but you.
Say, how'd yer like der meetin'?"

"It's jus' fine," said Mrs. Cook, glad to change the subject.
"I'm goin' agin ter-morrow night."

Bill was all tucked away in bed when Mrs. Cook got home. Dave had put him to bed. The doctor had given him a powder to quiet him.

After the children were asleep Mrs. Cook sat alone thinking of the night's happenings. The market clock struck twelve before she came to herself and thought of going to bed.

"O God, I can't see it; I can't see it," she cried; "but I want ter. I can't see it; I can't see it that way; but I want ter."

"I've seen 'nough fer both of us," said Bill, as he bolted upright in bed. "There's one under my pillow now wid a thousand legs!"

CHAPTER VI

Mrs. Cook's First Prayer

Early the next morning Jimmie was at the Morton home. After a long talk and much prayer he started for Bucktown, armed with that sword of the Spirit, the Word of God. He had some more verses marked in his Testament, and after Morton had quoted them many times he felt sure that he could handle them. Mrs. Cook had confused him the night before so that he could not answer her; but he was sure of his ground after his talk with Morton.

"I wish I could read 'em myself," he said to Morton sadly. "Der yer tink I kin ever learn?"

"Yes, Jimmie, I know you can if you will study. You have five hours that you are not busy with your papers; you can use that time to learn to read. I think that Mrs. Price, a worker in the Mission, will be glad to help you. She used to teach school before her marriage. I will ask her to-day and if she consents to take you as a pupil you must study hard."

"I will, yer bet." And so Jimmie went on his way.

As he quietly pushed open the door of the Cook home, he heard
Mrs. Cook talking with three of her neighbors on the back porch.

"Where do you suppose I was las' night, Mrs. Fagin?" she was saying. Jimmie listened with keen interest for her account of the Mission service. He knew that Bill would never get right until she did.

"How do you s'pose I know?" answered Mrs. Fagin. "Where was you?"

"I was to der Mission with Jimmie Moore," she said, "and it's the best time I've had since the balloon extension on the market, six years ago."

"I'd like ter know how yer can have a good time in church," said Mrs. Fagin.

"'Tain't no church, it's a Mission, and they have jus' as good singin' as dey do in Uncle Tom's Cabin, and 'sides, it's a good deal like dat play, too, 'cause yer laff jus' as hard as yer kin one minute and the next minute yer cry like Eva was a-dyin'. Yer couldn't guess in a thousand years who I saw there. I saw Lousy Kate, that you used ter live next door to, and that Hatfield that yer thought was such a dood. Yer oughter hear what he said—yer know every one speaks in der Mission meetin's. He ain't no dummy, that man ain't. He's been an awful drunkard, and when Morton found him he was that fur gone that his wife had ter leave him an' go an' live wid her Ma. He said he got saved, an' now they're happy, and he works in der wholesale house and——"

"Who saved him? Morton?" asked Mrs. Fagin in disgust.

"No, he said it was all Jesus and no Morton about it; that's what Jimmie says erbout Morton, too. I guess he don't amount to much nohow. He says he can't help no one, but can tell them of One who can. I thought I'd split when Hatfield said he was so low down he had to reach up ter touch bottom. Every one laffed like all git-out; but when his woman got up and said it was all true, and that her and her baby come near starvin', every one 'round me cried, and I cried, too. I tell yer, I'd know how ter sympathy with her; only Bill ain't no drunkard, he's sick."

"What's Kate doin' there?" asked Mrs. Fagin.

"She's saved, too. She got saved in jail. Now she's livin' straight an' goes ter meetin' every night. She looks so good, you'd hardly know her, looks ten years younger; but the biggest surprise of all is Morton. Yer know Dave Beach said that he know'd more 'an he looked, and I allowed he'd orter. But say, he's been through der mill and knows der ropes like an' old rounder. He said his mother teached him ter pray and be a good boy, but he got ter boozin' and soon went ter pieces. He got in trouble and fer years lived among thieves and drunkards and knows 'em like a book. He's seen 'em killed and go down in nearly every old way, but never knew any of 'em ter git anywhere until dey git Jesus. He couldn't git no work 'cause he wa'n't honest and couldn't stay sober, so he'd jus' clean up saloons fer his toddy, like Fred Hanks der barber is doin' now. I wish Morton could git Fred. One time he got a plant an' left fer Chicago; then he went into a Mission like his'n is now and got saved. You'd never think he ever did worser than pull his sister's hair, to look at him now; but he knows what's what, and that's why he was after Moore and all the rest of us, I guess. He says jus' what Jimmie says, that Jesus loves us all and wants us all. There, 'tis eleven o'clock and I've got ter give Bill his medicine. Say, I'm goin' agin ter-night. Go 'long with me?"

"Fagin would go wild if he knew I'd go there; but I'd like ter see it once," said Mrs. Fagin.

For seven nights Mrs. Cook and Jimmie went to the Mission. On the seventh night she rose to her feet and was the first one to go forward to the altar. After prayer she stood up and said she would serve God the best she knew how, and wanted every one to pray for Bill, her husband.

Every one shook hands with her and she forgot that it was getting late. She visited with all the ladies, one after the other.

Jimmie had found Morton at the platform and slipped his hand into Morton's. As their eyes met, both seemed ready to weep for joy. "The ice is broken, Jimmie. And we must not give up until the whole Bucktown gang are in the Kingdom of God. Bill comes next, and you had better get Mrs. Cook home, as it is late. You may hurt your case with Bill if you get him angry."

At last Jimmie got her started, and when they reached the house Bill was nearly wild with rage. He was very nervous and needed something to quiet him.

"Where in h—— have you bin?" he shrieked at the top of his voice. "I want a drink and I want it d—— quick."

"No doubt, sonny, yer do," said his wife, "and you'll want it quicker 'an that 'fore yer git it. Now shut yer mouth until I'm done," she went on. "I been to der Mission ter-night and I give my heart ter God, an' no more booze comes inter my house, no more, not mine. If yer tongue was hangin' out as long as a clothes line I'd tie it in knots and throw it under der bed 'fore I'd give yer a drop. All der people at der Mission are prayin' fer yer, and Jim is goin' ter der drug store fer somfin' fer yer nerves and ter make yer sleep, and if yer able ter-morrer yer goin' ter der Mission an' git saved too. And oh, Bill! we'll git a carpet fer our front room when yer gits yer pension, and you'll git a new suit of clothes and we'll git a monument fer Freddie's grave, and oh, Bill! we'll go ter be with Jesus and Freddie some day in heaven."

She stooped down and took Bill's bloated cheeks between her hands and kissed him again and again.

"I guess dis is where I lose out," said Jimmie. "I'll go ter der drug store and by that time maybe dey'll have deir love feast finished. Gee, when old Bill gits any booze ter-night, he don't!"

Jimmie spent his last five pennies for a powder for Bill, and went on tip-toe back to Cook's house.

As he opened the door he heard Mrs. Cook praying. She was kneeling by Bill's bed, and this is the prayer Jimmie heard: "O Lord, keep Bill from wantin' booze ter-night, and if he gits gay call him down fer Jesus' sake. Amen."

CHAPTER VII

Floe

Jimmie was very happy as he gave Bill and Mrs. Cook "Good-night." "Don't yer worry erbout nothin'," he said to Mrs. Cook. "Yer got Jesus ter help yer, an' he'll take care of yer all. I'll see yer in der mornin'. So long."

He started for Dave's barn, where he "roomed." His nerves were all unstrung, he was much too excited to go to bed. He sat down upon the curb in front of the barn and went over the whole evening in his mind. The best he knew how, he prayed and thanked God for answering his prayer. As he sat with his head in his hands, he heard a piercing scream which came from the direction of the Dolly resort. There was nothing unusual about a scream in Bucktown any time of the day or night; but Jimmie jumped to his feet and started on a run to the direction from which it came.

"Dat sounded like Floe's voice," he said to himself. "I hope she ain't hurted."

Floe had been very kind to Jimmie, many times giving him something to eat, and she had given him the pair of shoes he was wearing when Morton first saw him. She always put herself out to speak to him, and when he was "stuck" with his evening papers she would persuade the other inmates of the house to help him out by buying them.

Let it be understood now that Jimmie's ideals of morality were based entirely upon the Bucktown standard. Floe was the best dressed woman in Bucktown; she lived in the best house in Bucktown; she was the handsomest woman in Bucktown; and these facts, to Jimmie's child mind, put Floe and the Dolly resort far in the lead of anything in Bucktown. He knew nothing of their business, and the question of their being wrong had never entered his head. Had any one asked Jimmie a question about the character of this black-eyed woman, his answer would have been, "She's an angel, sure."

The little girls in the neighborhood would say, "When I git big I'm goin' ter have clothes like them girls, an' go ridin' in hacks with white horses. Gee, won't I shine!" The highest ideals of womanhood to these little girls were the women of the Dolly resort. Is it any wonder that Jimmie was interested when he heard Floe scream? When he reached the house he saw her lying at the foot of the stairs; he rushed to her side as others were trying to get her upon her feet. They put her upon a couch and sent for a doctor.

"Did yer fall downstairs?" asked Jimmie.

"Oh, Jimmie, what are you doing in this awful place?" she said. "This is worse than hell itself; do go out, child; I can't stand to see your pure face in a place like this."

"If it ain't er good place fer me, it ain't fer you, Floe. Yer better 'n I am, er ever could be. Are yer hurted much?"

Just then Doctor Snyder came in, and after a brief examination said he found a broken arm and three broken ribs. Floe would not tell how she happened to fall; but several who saw it said that a girl by the name of Maud, in a fit of jealousy, had pushed her downstairs.

"Hello, kid! What are you doing here?" said Doctor Snyder to
Jimmie. "You should be in bed at this time of night. How's Bill
Cook getting on?"

"Bill's better," said Jimmie, "an' Mrs. Cook got converted at der Mission ter-night, and she's happy all over. When I left there she was prayin' at Bill's bed and he was cryin'. I'll bet he gits saved next."

"You better go home and go to bed, Jimmie; you're excited to-night. You'll feel better in the morning," said the doctor, with a knowing wink at the people standing around. "We must get this girl to her room now."

"Can I come ter see yer to-morrow, Floe?" asked Jimmie.

"If the doctor will let you come; but I don't like to have you come into this awful house."

"I'll be here jus' the same; I'm goin' ter ast Jesus ter help yer," he whispered to her, and slipped quietly out into the street and started for the barn. When he reached there, Dave sat in his old office chair smoking and trying to look unconcerned; but it was plain to Jimmie that he had something on his mind besides his hat.

"Where have you been so late?" he said to Jimmie. "Sit down and tell me about it."

"Mrs. Cook got saved ter-night and Bill's comin' next, I'll bet," said Jimmie in one breath. "Yer see, we's prayin' fer him at der Mission, an' he's got ter come. Say, Dave, Floe jus' got hurted, an' I went ter see her when I heard her holler, an' she said she didn't like ter see me in such a bad house. Is that nice house bad, an' what's Floe doin' dere if it is?"

"Well, the house is anything but good, Jimmie, and I wish Floe lived somewhere else. If you can go to see her I wish you would talk to her just like you did to Mrs. Cook. Tell her about, well, tell her about yer Friend, you know."

"Who do yer mean? Morton?" asked Jimmie.

"No, I mean the Friend you say Morton works for."

"Oh, yer means Jesus," said Jimmie.

"Yes, that's who I mean; she has heard of Him before, and maybe you can do her good. The poor girl has had lots of trouble and has lost heart in life. Tell her that—that Je—er—that yer Friend loves her and will fergive her all her past and—well, you can tell it better than I can."

"I'll do it, yer bet," said Jimmie, "'cause Jesus loves every one of us, don't he, Dave?"

"Most every one, but not all of us," said Dave.

Jimmie made a dive for his Testament and turned to John 3:16; the page was so dirty and soiled from handling that it could scarcely be seen.

"Der yer see that word marked wid red ink?" asked Jimmie.

"Yes, I see it."

"Well, what is she?"

"It's 'whosoever.'"

"Well, who does that mean?"

"I guess it means just what it says; but you see, with me it is different. I was raised to do right; my father was a Methodist minister, and he taught me to pray and read the Bible when I was a child. I knew what was right, but with my eyes wide open I went into the most awful sin, and God can never forgive one who sins against the light."

"Say, read der whole verse," said Jimmie.

"I know it without reading it; I learned it at my mother's knee before I could talk plain."

"Well, git busy and say it then."

"God so loved the world——"

"Loved der what?" asked Jimmie.

"The world," said Dave.

"Go on," as Dave hesitated.

"That He gave His only begotten Son——"

"Dat's Jesus, ain't it?"

"Yes, that is who it means."

"Go on," said Jimmie.

"God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever——"

"Who?" asked Jimmie.

"Whosoever," said Dave.

"Don't that mean you?" asked Jimmie.

"I'm afraid not," said Dave.

"Den dis is der way ter read it," said Jimmie, "'Dat whosoever, 'cept Dave Beach, kin have everlastin' life.' Not on your fottygraff; it ain't writ dat way."

"Well, in another place it says that if you know to do right and do it not it's sin," said Dave.

"And dat makes yer a sinner, don't it?" said Jimmie.

"Yes, it does, and a bad one, too," said Dave.

Jimmie put his thumb into his mouth to wet it and turned leaf after leaf. At last he said, "Read dat."

Dave took the book and looked hard and long in silence.

"Read her," said Jimmie.

Dave read very slowly: "This is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners."

"Save what?" asked Jimmie.

"Sinners," said Dave.

"Are yer a sinner, Dave?"

"Yes, I am a bad one."