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THE K I N G ’ S B U S I N E S S
Curbstone Commission
By MARJORIE F. Z IMM ERMAN
B ILL KEPT his face creased in a grin until the car had dis appeared around the corner; The old stone church looming up be hind him looked no grayer than Bill felt. There hadn’t, been room ip the car for him. He hadn’t expected there would be. “ Just a misfit,” he told himself drearily. “Can’t do a n y t h i n g that amounts to anything. Can’t sing, can’t play a piano or strum a guitar—can’t preach—can’t ,even give a testimony without getting my feet tangled in my hair.” “Feelin’ low, Mister?” The small boy wore much-scuffed sneakers and a worn pair of cords, too large, but there was a new baseball mitt on his hand. “Feelin’ low,” admitted Bill, with an appreciative nod for the mitt. “Come on, pitch me a few, you’ll feel better. They went off without you, didn’t they? When Sue and Joe and Aurtt Ella and Frances and Pop go, there isn’t room for me sometimes. But now I got my mitt, so I don’t care.” l
“A mitt’s a big help—ah—Jack? A - big help, Jack,” Bill conceded. “No, ¡ there’s no room for deadwood on a rb. gospel team. Kind of wish I could do > - something. You know, play a mouth ¡ organ or speak my piece—anything!” e “Do they play mouth organs on ■Te gospel teams? What is a gospel team? Like a baseball team?” SM Bill sat up straighter. “It’s differ- 1&t ent—more important. A gospel team n’t does the most important work there is in the world. Now you saw those Y fellows and girls drive off. They’re Ry headed for a little bit of a church ’way out' in the country. When they i get there Annabel will sit down at the piano and start playing some wonder- ful music, and Dave will get hold of a song book and say, ‘Now, folks, open your books to No. 83—we’re go- .. ing to have a grand song service, singing about our King. Come on now, everybody open up. Sing any . tune you like, but-sing!’ ” Bill waved his arms energetically and his voice came from deep in his chest. ,s “Then will everybody sing?” “Will they sing! Dave could get sweet music out of a jaybird.” Bill paused, slightly abashed to discover that his vivid impersonation had at tracted two more ragged young indi
viduals to his side. These persons were greeted warmly by Jack, who addressed them as Scuppy and Mar vin. Scuppy wore his cap well down over one eye, and Marvin bore a streak of grime across one cheek, which gave a sinister aspect to his «ustomary belligerent expression. Bill continued. “Then Elsie and Don will sing a duet—maybe ‘Won derful, Wonderful Jesus’—and the au dience will think they’ve passed right on into heaven.” “Yeah?” questioned Marvin. Bill feared the boy was something of a skeptic. He passed on hastily. “Lastly, the preaching, which is the crux of the evening! Evan is our best speaker, but Turk and Harry are both very good. Make you want to enlist in the Army of the Lord then and there.” “Iff- the army? To be soldiers?” Scuppy, who had come to scoff, re mained to question. “Soldiers of the Cross,” affirmed Bill gravely. “To fight for the Lord Jesus Christ.” “Not with bombs and machine guns, I betcha,” Marvin put in suspiciously. “Not with bombs and machine guns. The Son of God is looking for brave soldiers who will follow where He
then he slumped down on the curb.
IThis story is based on actual experiences in child evanyeltsm In Portland, Ore ,— EDITOR.]
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