Charlie to the Rescue. Robert Michael Ballantyne

him another trial.”

      The old man’s brow was severely wrinkled while he indulged in these mutterings, but it cleared, and a kindly look beamed on his countenance as he gave vent to the last expression.

      Just then the door bell rang. Mr Crossley resumed the grave look that was habitual to hint and next minute Shank Leather was ushered into the room.

      The youth was considerably changed since we last met him. The year which had passed had developed him into a man, and clothed his upper lip with something visible to the naked eye. It had also lengthened his limbs, deepened his chest, and broadened his shoulders. But here the change for the better ended. In that space of time there had come over him a decided air of dissipation, and the freshness suitable to youth had disappeared.

      With a look that was somewhat defiant he entered the room and looked boldly at his employer.

      “Be seated, Mr Leather,” said the old gentleman in a voice so soft that the young man evidently felt abashed, but he as evidently steeled himself against better feelings, for he replied—

      “Thank you, Mr Crossley, I’d rather stand.”

      “As you please,” returned the other, restraining himself. “I sent for you, Mr Leather, to tell you that I have heard with sincere regret of your last outbreak, and—”

      “Yes, sir,” said Shank, rudely interrupting, “and I came here not so much to hear what you have to say about my outbreak—as you are pleased to style a little jollification—as to tell you that you had better provide yourself with another clerk, for I don’t intend to return to your office. I’ve got a better situation.”

      “Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Crossley in surprise.

      “Yes, indeed,” replied Shank insolently.

      It was evident that the youth was, even at that moment, under the influence of his great enemy, else his better feelings would have prevented him from speaking so rudely to a man who had never shown him anything but kindness. But he was nettled by some of his bad companions having taunted him with his slavery to his besetting sin, and had responded to Mr Crossley’s summons under the impression that he was going to get what he styled a “wigging.” He was therefore taken somewhat aback when the old gentleman replied to his last remark gently.

      “I congratulate you, Mr Leather, on getting a better situation (if it really should turn out to be better), and I sincerely hope it may—for your mother’s sake as well as your own. This therefore disposes of part of my object in asking you to call—which was to say that I meant to pass over this offence and retain you in my employment. But it does not supersede the necessity of my urging you earnestly to give up drink, not so much on the ground that it will surely lead you to destruction as on the consideration that it grieves the loving Father who has bestowed on you the very powers of enjoyment which you are now prostituting, and who is at this moment holding out His hands to you and waiting to be gracious.”

      The old man stopped abruptly, and Shank stood with eyes fixed on the floor and frowning brow.

      “Have you anything more to say to me?” asked Mr Crossley.

      “Nothing.”

      “Then good-morning. As I can do nothing else to serve you, I will pray for you.”

      Shank found himself in the street with feelings of surprise strong upon him.

      “Pray for me!” he muttered, as he walked slowly along. “It never occurred to me before that he prayed at all! The old humbug has more need to pray for himself!”

      Chapter Nine.

      Shank Reveals Something More of his Character

      Taking his way to the railway station Shank Leather found himself ere long at his mother’s door.

      He entered without knocking.

      “Shank!” exclaimed Mrs Leather and May in the same breath.

      “Ay, mother, it’s me. A bad shilling, they say, always turns up. I always turn up, therefore I am a bad shilling! Sound logic that, eh, May?”

      “I’m glad to see you, dear Shank,” said careworn Mrs Leather, laying her knitting-needles on the table; “you know I’m always glad to see you, but I’m naturally surprised, for this visit is out of your regular time.”

      “Has anything happened?” asked May anxiously. And May looked very sweet, almost pretty, when she was anxious. A year had refined her features, developed her mind and body, and almost converted her into a little woman. Indeed, mentally, she had become more of a woman than many girls in her neighbourhood who were much older. This was in all likelihood one of the good consequences of adversity.

      “Ay, May, something has happened,” answered the youth, flinging himself gaily into an arm-chair and stretching out his legs towards the fire; “I have thrown up my situation. Struck work. That’s all.”

      “Shank!”

      “Just so. Don’t look so horrified, mother; you’ve no occasion to, for I have the offer of a better situation. Besides—ha! ha! old Crossley—close-fisted, crabbed, money-making, skin-flint old Crossley—is going to pray for me. Think o’ that, mother—going to pray for me!”

      “Shank, dear boy,” returned his mother, “don’t jest about religious things.”

      “You don’t call old Crossley a religious thing, do you? Why, mother, I thought you had more respect for him than that comes to; you ought at least to consider his years!”