T H E K I N G ’ S B U S I N E S S
130
a o r li, 1941
I T WAS spring in California — the spring of 1938—spring in the parks, and spring in the waves that lap ped the historic sands of San Diego, spring in the swells that 'floated the gray ships anchored in the harbor. But there was no spring in the heart of Howard Mason* as he dragged himself up the steps of his comfortable boarding house. How could there be spring in his heart when his work was gone ? His boss in the aircraft plant had assured him of his job. Even if others had to be laid off, the married men were to be kept. Now Howard reviewed the incident of the morning: Larson had walked into the mechan ical department with a list of 1,500 lay-offs. Howard’s had been the last name on the list. The boss had come over to where Howard was working at the sheet metal. His manner had not been unkind. “Sorry, Mason,” he had explained. “You wouldn’t have been included, but for the divorce.” . That was all. It had seemed a long time till four o’clock. There would be only two more days to work till four o’clock. Howard picked up the mail that was lying on the hall table. There was some for him. He took it to his room. “But for the divorce”—the words seemed to mock him as he' looked at the first letter. Last summer when he and Virginia had quarreled and sep arated, she had said there would be no divorce. But here it was. The letter he held in his hand was the inter- *Actual names of persons mentioned in this article'have been withheld from publication.
locutory decree. He was ordered to pay twenty-five dollars a month for the support of his son. Twenty-five dollars a month, and no job! There would be stem penalties for failure to comply. “Makes one feel like a criminal,” he muttered. He might see his son at times that would. not interfere with the child’s welfare, said times not to exceed twice a week, the. letter continued. Twice a week, indeed! One would think it was a favor to let him see his own son, his little Charles—the tiny toddler who was the pride of his life. Howard looked at the second letter. It was a bill from the lawyer—bills, bills, but no job! "What more could come?” he asked his stormy young heart', as he went downstairs to break the news to his landlord. When he came back to his room again, Howard threw himself into a chair to think until supper time. He had always been sure of himself with Virginia before. Now he was defeated by the woman he loved. Women were silly. Why had she carried on so, just because he and the fellows at work had rigged up that “Hill-Billy” act ? Some times he had been out late practicing, but what harm had there been in that? The act had certainly made a hit. Plenty of calls had been coming to perform—d^er the radio, in park pro grams, at night clubs. Fame and pop ularity had been tantalizing. There had been money in it, too. It would have been a slick way to have worked his way through Bible school. Howard
did not seem to sense the incongruity of the means and the end. But he was done with the “Hill-Billy stuff” now. So also was he done with the idea of going to Bible school. The latter had appealed to him, though, soon after Charles was born, when he and Virginia had started going to church. He had even gone so far as to approach a minister for advice and had gotten into correspondence with the Bible Institute of Los Angeles. The notion must hhve been some subcon scious holdbver from his straight-laced preacher father 'back in the little Texas town where Howard had lived as a boy. Always he had gone to Sunday-school in those days. There had been no choice in the matter. As a lad of twelve he had found his way to the altar, and then he had joined his father’s church. (Virginia had been sixteen when she had joined a church, but Howard had not known her then.) Somewhere back in his adolescent years, there had been a vague sense of something that is de scribed as a call to preach. Always he had fought that call, fought it as he had fought the restrictions of his parents, fought it as he had fought to enjoy the pleasures of the world. He thought he had been victorious when h e , had broken away from the home circle to have a good time in his own way. He had ha ! a good time—theaters, parties, occasional drinks and gambling, in “good society” of course. Then he had found his way to Cal ifornia. He had met Virginia. ' Her people w e r e n o t humbugged by churches. He had married her, and
Stranger than fiction is this true account of God’s dealings with a child of prayer whom He has called to the standard of the cross.
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