"'Why don't you try your hand on me, Father?' he repeated, and the smile
accompanying the words made the ugly face almost pleasing.
"There was not time for a lengthy conversation, the engine requiring
constant attention, but the tramp volunteered the information that he
answered to the name of Jim, and promised to report at the rectory in
the evening and give me a chance to try my hand on him.
"In the evening, then, I sat and waited, half fearing that he had
changed his mind and would not come. But just as the first pale stars
began to twinkle in the sky Jim pushed open the gate and I went to meet
him with both hands extended in warmest welcome. He gave me his left
hand, and for the first time I noticed that the right was
gone--amputated at the wrist. Jim saw my glance of shocked pity and
smiled as he said calmly:
"'It was the drink did it, Father--the hand and this scar on my face.
I'd been hitting it up pretty lively and didn't realize where I was
walking. The track wasn't wide enough for me and the train. One of us
had to get off, and as the engine was the stronger of the two--well, you
see the result before you.'
"'How long have you been tramping, Jim?' I asked.
"'More years than I care to think of now, Father. The drink again. In
fact, it's been the drink at every turn; it's ruined my life, made a
complete fool of me.
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