the Lord.

The boys have given me the privilege of talking straight to them. “If you
don’t write, you know what you’ll get,” I said, and I began to give out
the note-paper. I can give boys writing-paper and envelopes and sell them
a cup of coffee or a packet of cigarettes with as much religion as I can
stand in a pulpit and talk about them. Why, my Master washed people’s feet
and cooked a breakfast for hungry fishermen. He kindled the fire with the
hands that were nailed to a tree for humanity. There are no secular things
if you are in the spirit of the Master—they are all Divine.

I went on dealing the note-paper out, and presently a clergyman came to me
and said, “Gipsy Smith, a man in my room wants to see you.”

When I got there, I saw he was crying, sobbing.

“I am not a kid,” he said; “I am a man. I’m forty-one. You told me to
write to my mother. Read that,” he said, throwing down a letter; and this
is what I read:

“MY DEAR MOTHER,
“It’s seven years since I wrote you last. I’ve done my best to break your
heart and to turn your hair grey. I’ve lived a bad life, but it’s come to
an end. I have given my heart to God. I won’t ask you to believe me, or to
forgive me. I deserve neither. But I ask for a bit of time that I may
prove my sincerity.

“Your boy still,
“JACK.”