That Printer of Udells | Page 8

it unto
one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me." Then
after a long prayer and another song, the man of God spoke a few
words about the Christian's joy and duty in helping the needy; that the
least of these, meant those who needed help, no matter what their
positions in life; and that whosoever gave aid to one in the name of
Christ, glorified the Master's name and helped to enthrone him in the
hearts of men.
"The least of these," whispered Dick to himself, then unconsciously
uttering his thoughts in the dialect of his childhood--"that's me shor'; I
don't reckon I kin be much less'n I am right now." And as one after
another of the Christians arose and testified to the joy they found in
doing Christ's work, and told of experiences where they had been
blessed by being permitted to help some poor one, his heart warmed
within him, and, in his own way, he thanked God that he had been led
to such a place and to such people.
With another song, "Praise God from whom all blessings flow," the
congregation was dismissed and began slowly passing from the
building, exchanging greetings, with more or less warmth, and
remarking what a helpful meeting they had had, and how much it had
been enjoyed.
Dick stood near the door, hat in hand, patiently waiting. One by one the
members passed him; two or three said "Good Evening;" one shook
him by the hand; but something in their faces as they looked at his

clothing checked the words that rose to his lips, and the poor fellow
waited, his story untold. At last the minister came down the aisle, and
greeting Dick, was about to pass out with the others; this was too much,
and in a choked voice the young man said, "Sir, may I speak to you a
moment?"
"If you'll be brief," replied the preacher, glancing at his watch. "I have
an engagement soon."
Dick told his story in a few words. "I'm not begging, Sir," he added. "I
thought some of the church members might have work that I could do,
or might know where I could find employment."
The minister seemed a little embarrassed; then beckoning to a few who
still remained, "Brother Godfrey, here's a man who wants work; do you
know of anything?"
"Um, I'm sorry, but I do not," promptly replied the good deacon. "What
can you do?" turning to Dick. He made the usual answer and the officer
of the church said again, "Find it rather hard to strike anything in Boyd
City I fear; so many tramps, you know. Been out of work long?"
"Yes sir, and out of food too."
"Too bad; too bad," said the deacon. And "Too bad; too bad," echoed
the preacher, and the other followers of the meek and lowly Jesus. "If
we hear of anything we'll let you know. Where are you stopping?"
"On the street," replied Dick, "when I am not moved on by the police."
"Um--Well--we'll leave word here at the church with the janitor if we
learn of anything."
"Are you a Christian?" asked one good old mother in Israel.
"No," stammered poor confused Dick; "I guess not."
"Do you drink?"

"No mam."
"Well, don't get discouraged; look to God; he can help you; and we'll
all pray for you. Come and hear our Brother French preach; I am sure
you will find the light. He is the best preacher in the city. Everybody
says so. Good-night."
The others had already gone. The sexton was turning out the lights, and
a moment later Dick found himself once more on the street, looking
with a grim smile on his hunger-pinched features, at the figure of the
Christ, wrought in the costly stained glass window. "One of the least of
these," he muttered hoarsely to himself. Then the figure and the
inscription slowly faded, as one by one the lights went out, until at last
it vanished and he seemed to hear his mother's voice: "I ax ye fair--O
Lord--take ker o' Dick--fer Jesus sake--Amen."
The door shut with a bang. A key grated in the heavy lock that guarded
the treasures of the church; and the footsteps of the church's humblest
servant died away in the distance, as Dick turned to move on again.
The city rumbled on with its business and its pleasure, its merriment
and crime. Guardians of the law protected the citizens by seeing to it
that no ill-dressed persons sat too long upon the depot benches,
sheltered themselves from the bitter wind in the open hall-way, or
looked too hungrily in at the bakery windows.
On the avenue the homes grew hushed and still, with now and then a
gleam