By the Way of the Silverthorns

  And out along the horizon of that wild expanse of sky there began to be etched a panorama of the young man Steve’s life and doings before he had started on this temeritous expedition alone with God. Till almost, the intrepid Steve Grant was frightened. It had never occurred to him before that he would ever be alone with God.

  Chapter 15

  Luther Waite was sitting one night at the back of the mission room while a meeting was going on. He let his eyes travel over the throng that had gathered. The weather was getting cold, and a shrill wind had blown up. This alone would bring forlorn ones into a warm lighted room, ones who would not otherwise have been attracted to a religious meeting. They drifted in by ones and twos. Many of them Luther recognized as men who had been there the year before. Some the hardened criminal type, and some merely lazy paupers who went wherever there was hope of getting anything for nothing.

  Luther’s mind, as often during these days, went to Timothy Lazarelle, wondering what had become of him. Wondering if by any chance he could have come to himself and gone back west to his family. It was a matter that was more and more on Luther’s heart. It somehow seemed to him that he owed something to that girl he had so despised. As if the only way he could possibly make up to her for his lack of interest, no, his intense aversion to a soul who was hungry, was to find that brother of hers.

  He had hired a detective, wise in finding lost people, but there was as yet no trace of Timothy. He had half a mind to write to the girl, or get Link to write, and find out if she had heard any word from him. It was foolish of course to go on in a hopeless search if he was already at home, living a normal life. He really ought to have done this before.

  Just then the door into the street opened half hesitantly, and a pair of hunted eyes looked in.

  Luther had trained himself never to look around directly at newcomers. Experience had taught him that it sometimes frightened them away. Therefore he had chosen a seat where he could see, and not be noticed himself. He had taken his tactics from a bird man who had taught him to get a good sight of birds and their habits by apparently paying no attention to them.

  Luther watched the boy’s glance go hungrily around the room and something in those eyes seemed familiar. He had never of course to his knowledge seen the Lazarelle boy, but his memory of the sister’s eyes was still with him, and perhaps he imagined it, but there was something in this boy’s look that reminded him of the girl.

  A hymn was being announced now, and the assembly arose to sing it. The boy at the door suddenly slid inside and slumped into the corner of a back seat. He had the attitude of one who was accustomed to slipping in places without being noticed. Luther’s heart went out to him. One of the ushers by the door stepped over and smilingly handed the boy a book, and he turned with a start and looked up at the smile, with a strange, half-fearful, half-yearning look. Frightened at a hymn book. Poor kid! He must have had hard experiences. And yet there was nothing soft about his face. Those wild brown eyes that still held yearning were almost fierce in their defiance.

  Luther changed his seat while they were standing to sing, and went nearer to the lad, sitting where he might watch him more closely.

  There were lines around the young mouth, dejected weary lines that a much older man might have had. There was a weary look, like an animal that had been hunted. Whenever the door opened and closed he started and looked around furtively as if he expected someone were after him, and there was a pallor upon him. He looked hungry. Perhaps he had come in here to the mission knowing that they gave out coffee and buns sometimes after special meetings. Though this wasn’t one of the nights for buns and coffee. Poor kid! He needed something to eat! Was there any way he could manage it for him? But he’d have to go carefully. This wasn’t a kid who would jump at a chance. He was suspicious, fearful, self-assured. He might be starving but he wasn’t one who would beg.

  Luther felt strangely interested in the lad. Of course this wasn’t the Lazarelle boy. He likely only imagined the likeness to the girl of course. He must go warily. But whether he belonged to the girl or not he knew he was going to scrape acquaintance and get him fed.

  Once the boy stirred restlessly and then slumped sideways letting his head fall dejectedly against the wall. His hair was too long, and his f ace and hands looked as if they hadn’t been washed recently. His fingers were grimy. He wore a torn pair of cheap trousers, and an old sweater with a hole in each elbow over a dark blue flannel shirt. He looked like a young outcast, and yet there was about him that fragileness of feature that reminded him of the delicate features of the girl he had shunned so long. Could it be possible that he was the boy for whom he had been searching?

  The boy’s eyelids drooped, and when prayer-time came and the audience closed their eyes, the long lashes fell on his thin tanned cheek, and his breath came intermittently as if he were asleep.

  The closing hymn, with everybody standing, roused the young sleeper and he darted a quick glance around.

  Luther had come over to sit on the end of the boy’s bench, and he spread his arm comfortably out across the back. The boy could not get out without passing him.

  The quick glance came to search his face, and Luther turned and gave him a blinding smile. Luther was like that. He could always summon a smile that won people.

  “Hello, buddie,” he said pleasantly, “have a pleasant nap? Wanta sing a little now? I made free to open your book. Come on, let’s sing together.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “I can’t sing,” he murmured.

  “Okay!” said Luther. “Just look over with me for friendliness then,” he said, and smiled again.

  The boy shuffled his feet, and reached an unaccustomed reluctant hand out to the book, his head turned quite away from the page. But Luther sang on contentedly, and before a minute had passed he had voiced the words so clearly that the boy turned furtive eyes to the book. Luther was past master at getting words down into a human soul by song, and this melody had a lilt and was most intriguing:

  “To Jesus every day I find my heart is closer drawn;

  He’s fairer than the glory of the gold and purple dawn”;

  sang Luther, and the boy drank in the song. He had witnessed more than one gold and purple dawn of late, from a chilly burrow in a sparse haystack, or from a park bench. It hadn’t spoken of glory to him. It had seemed sinister, menacing. Another dreary hopeless day searching for something that wasn’t there.

  “He’s all my fancy pictures in its fairest dreams, and more;

  Each day He grows still sweeter than He was the day before.”

  The song went on, and the big sweet voice beside the boy went on:

  “The half cannot be fancied this side the golden shore;

  O there He’ll be still sweeter than He ever was before.”

  The boy stole a furtive glance at the big pleasant man singing there beside him and wondered as he heard the words:

  “He fills and satisfies my longing spirit o’er and o’er”;

  sang the man, and a feeling like sudden tears crept into the boy’s eyes. Was this Someone about whom the song was written the thing that made this man look so happy and satisfied? Oh, but he wasn’t a bum and an outcast. One could see by a glance that he wasn’t He had clean hands, well-cared-for hands, clean fingernails, close cut hair, a look of well being about him. He probably never was hungry or cold. He didn’t look as if he drank. What was he doing in this dump then? What was it all about? The boy shivered with the memory of the cold and suffering he had borne since he started out on his own, with no one to care.

  Well, whoever this guy was he certainly never knew real suffering.

  “My heart is sometimes heavy, but He comes with sweet relief;

  He folds me to His bosom when I droop with blighting grief,

  I love the Christ who all my burdens in His body bore;

  Each day He grows still sweeter than He was the day before,”

  sang the man, and somehow the way he sang the w
ords carried conviction to the weary young soul that this was all real to the man. He knew what trouble was and would understand all about it if one told him. Or was it only the guy in the song that knew?

  He stole another good look then at the man beside him, and was met at those closing words by another blinding smile that seemed to be genuine and personal, meant for him, a boy who had stolen into a mission to get warm, and maybe a bite to eat.

  They stood up for the final prayer, and the boy shuffled to his tired feet. He had walked miles that day over rough roads. His money was gone and he was desperately hungry. The sole was half off one shoe, and just getting to his feet brought back the weariness and sharp pain, the darting soreness where the blister on his foot had broken.

  Then gently, pleasantly there came a big arm around his slight shoulders, a comforting, friendly arm, that not only encircled his shoulders with friendliness, but seemed to offer a restful support, and was good to feel. For an instant the boy yielded himself to its comfortable nearness, and then suddenly suspicion, fear, caused his body to stiffen away from the friendliness. But the strong arm did not force itself. It just stayed there pleasantly, quiet, just resting during that closing prayer. And then before the boy had a chance to writhe away from it and try to escape, the big hand patted the gaunt young shoulder.

  “Say, Bud, how about a cup of coffee and some hot soup? Seems as if I’m kind of hungry. Wanta come over to the diner and share a bite of supper with me?”

  The hungriness came out and sat in the boy’s eyes now, and pleaded, yearning, eager, for the food that was suggested. But all the boy said was, “Sure, I don’t care if I do!”

  Luther had sense enough not to linger.

  “Okay!” he said quickly. “Let’s go! I know a nice place right across the corner there, that diner. Ever go there? They have swell food.”

  With his arm linked in the boys’ ragged arm Luther propelled his charge across the street and entered the diner, selecting seats at the counter.

  “Hi, Harry!” he called smiling to the man in charge. “Give us a feed, the best you’ve got. Some soup first, I guess. How about soup, kid, you like soup?” He smiled down at the lad beside him, and the boy turned bashful.

  “It’s awwright!” he answered indifferently with a shrug, but Luther had sense enough to see the wan eagerness behind the shrug, and the soup was soon steaming before them. The boy ate hungrily, and fairly bloomed under the stimulus of the hot broth.

  “What have you got there in the way of meat, Harry?” asked Luther. “Is that a pot roast? Give us each a good slice. And mashed potatoes with gravy? Got gravy? Okay. Any vegetables? Tomatoes and corn. That sounds good to me. How about you, kid?”

  The boy nodded his head. His mouth was too full for language.

  “Okay, Harry. Got pie? What kind? Cherry? That’ll do. And another cup of coffee, or would you like a glass of milk? How you making out, kid? Anything else you want?”

  It was not until they neared the end of the meal that Luther began to talk.

  “Where do you live, kid?”

  “Out west,” said the boy briefly.

  “Yeah? How’d you come to be in these parts?”

  “I ben traveling, hunting a job,” said the boy drinking deeply from the foaming glass of milk.

  “So?” said Luther. “Get one?”

  The boy shook his head, a despairing shadow in his eyes.

  “Not yet.”

  “So?” said Luther again thoughtfully. “I understand it’s right hard to get jobs nowadays. Got a line on anything?”

  “Not yet!” The tone was most dejected.

  “How long have you been in town?”

  “Sine night before last,” said the boy with a heavy sigh.

  “Mmmm!” said Luther with a ruminating sound to his voice. “You and I’ll have to get together and see if we can’t do something about that. What’s your idea what you’ll do?”

  “Oh, anything!” said the boy. “I suppose it’ll have ta be labor or laborer’s helper. I don’t know how ta do much but play ball.”

  Luther laughed.

  “I suppose you didn’t try the big leagues, did you, yet?”

  The first shadow of a smile that there had been on the lad’s face hovered over his lips.

  “Well,” said Luther, “where you living? Got a boardinghouse yet?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Where’d you stay last night?”

  “Oh, around!” The boy’s eyes shifted uncomfortably, showing he still had some pride left.

  “Well, where’d you leave your baggage? Around?”

  The lad laughed miserably.

  “I see,” said Luther. “Well, we won’t say any more about that.”

  “There isn’t any baggage left. I sold it all.”

  “Yeah? Broke?”

  The boy owned he was.

  “Well, never you mind. You’re coming home with me tonight and have a good hot bath and a sleep. How’s that?”

  The boy stared at Luther. Swallowed hard, blinked, and then said with the most casual tone he could muster:

  “Sounds awwright ta me!” and a faint grin flickered at one corner of his tired drooping mouth.

  “Okay!” said Luther in a businesslike tone. “Well, now as soon as you finish your pie we’ll get going. But first let’s get this thing clear. What’s your name, kid?”

  The lad’s startled eyes studied him keenly, with a glint of fear before he answered almost sullenly:

  “Tim!”

  “Yes?” said Luther. “That’s a good name. Well, are you through? Don’t want any more to eat? No more coffee or milk?”

  The boy shook his head and sidled down from the high stool.

  “All set?”

  “Sure thing!”

  They started out into the night. Luther signaled a bus and they climbed in.

  There was little talk on the way. Tim was on the lookout at the window taking in the sights. Luther watched him without seeming to do so, studied him, the while he seemed to be half dozing on the aisle end of the seat.

  When they reached the big apartment hotel where Luther had his comfortable small suite of rooms, a bedroom, a bath and a living room, Luther touched the boy on the arm.

  “Here we are,” he announced calmly. The boy, wondering, got out and looked around him.

  “Ever in this city before?” asked Luther casually.

  “Yeah. Coupla times,” said Tim. “We useta live up this way.”

  “Then you know your way around?” asked Luther.

  “A little.” The boy was not telling any more than he had to tell.

  But when Luther walked into the lobby, and started over toward the desk to get his mail, Tim hung back.

  “I’ll wait here,” he said looking down at his ragged garments. “I’m not fit for this place.”

  But Luther was on the alert at once. He hadn’t hunted for this boy all these weeks to let him slip through his fingers now.

  “Oh, you’re all right, Tim,” he said. “Come on. We take the elevator here.”

  Tim drew back distrustfully. It had come to him that perhaps he was being arrested for something.

  “Where’re you takin’ me?” he said sullenly. “I think I better go somewhere and find a place to stay. I don’t belong in any place like this.”

  “Why, Tim!” said Luther, “I thought you and I were friends. I was just going to take you up to my room. Didn’t you agree to stay with me tonight, and then tomorrow we were going to see about getting you fixed up comfortably.”

  Tim fixed bright eyes of unbelief on his face.

  “I didn’t know it was a place like this. What d’you want with me, mister? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Why, son, what do you mean?” asked Luther. “I just want to help you. Come on upstairs and I’ll explain it all to you. Then if you don’t want to stay you can go of course. But I thought you were my friend. You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  That
was a challenge, and his code required him to accept it.

  With eyes full of anxiety he edged around, shot furtive glances up and down the hall, and then half defiantly he said:

  “No! I’m not afraid of anybody, nor anything!”

  And just at that crucial moment the elevator door slid open in answer to Luther’s summons. Luther put a kindly hand on the boy’s shoulder and pushed him gently in, the door slammed shut, and they were on their way up, the boy watching warily all the way up, casting quick glances each side when they were landed in an upper hall. He walked along with Luther to his door, and waited while Luther got out his key and unlocked the room, turning on bright lights. Even when he stepped inside the room and the door was shut Tim still cast suspicious glances around. He had heard all sorts of stories in his young life, had met with many experiences. Even a man you found in a Christian mission, a man who looked honest and had fed you with good food might turn out to be a fraud. Maybe he wanted to frame him. He’d got to be on his guard.

  “I don’t think I better stay here,” he said firmly turning from his investigations. “I don’t look right to be in a place like this. I gotta get out.” He walked firmly over to the door which Luther had taken the precaution to bolt with the little brass knob.

  Luther smiled at him.

  “Sit down, kid! We’ll have a talk before you go, anyway. Here. Put your cap on that brass hook on the wall and come in here and sit down. Take this chair. I want to have a good look at you.”

  “Are you a detective?” asked Tim boldly, and there was a frightened determination in his voice.

  “Why no,” said Luther. “What gave you that idea?”

  “Then I don’t see what you want of me.”

  “Well, now I’m going to tell you, Tim. You see you have a little look of someone I know. Your other name’s Lazarelle, isn’t it?”

  Tim started, and a look of fear came into his eyes. He faced Luther with a trembling lip, and then his face hardened and defiance took the lead.

  “What’s it ta you?” he asked.

  “Why, it means a lot to me. I’m not a detective but I’ve been looking for you for several weeks. I didn’t know where to look because I didn’t know you at all, but it was important to find you, so I’ve been on the lookout.”