He had worn it in a
little chamois bag suspended from a string around his neck, but had not
used it in many, many years. He came regularly one evening in each week
to make his confession and to have a little chat with me. As the summer
progressed I wondered more and more at this strange new acquaintance of
mine; this rough looking tramp with the manners of a gentleman and the
speech, except for a few lapses in the vernacular of the road, of a man
of considerable education. The oddest thing of all was the feeling I had
that somewhere, at some time, Jim and I had met before. Little tricks of
voice and expression would seem strangely familiar.
"The summer gradually faded into autumn, and one evening in late
September when I stood at the gate to say good-night to my tramp, he
remarked sadly:
"'This is good-by as well as good-night, Father. I have given up my
work here and am off early in the morning.'
"'Not the road again!' I cried, and the next second would have given
anything to recall the thoughtless words. A pained look crossed Jim's
face, but he answered quietly:
"'No, Father, not the road. Never again shall I return to that life. I
have saved my wages this summer and am going back into the world to
begin life all over again. This time, with God's help, I shall not make
such a muddle of it as I did before.
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