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T H E K I N G ’ S B U S I N E S S
When my work on the railway ceased abruptly, I obtained employment in a restaurant. Here, too, I found trouble in concentrating on the task in hand. I would take several orders, and then promptly forget what they were. Un abashed, .1 would substitute my own choices, so that a gentleman, having prepared to enjoy, let us say, chicken a la king, might find himself being served ham and eggs. If he demurred, I would hold forth confidently on the advantages of ham and eggs over any other item on the menu. The First Pastorate These deflections of mine must have been widely known; and yet, in Sep tember, 1911, a little church in Brain- erd, Illinois, about thirty -miles from Chicago, asked me to serve as student pastor. This was the kind of work I had longed for — the kind I had thought myself unable ever to per form. The invitation delighted and en couraged me, and though the Lord knew I was not well prepared—either in heart or in experience—for the op portunities that faced me, He led me to accept that call. My weekly letters to Mother now rang with a new, glad note. I would tell her my sermon topics, and how I prepared to develop them, and some times even would intimate the fear with which those halting sermons were delivered. Unknown to me, Father be came especially interested in that phase of my correspondence, as Mother would share the letters with him, and he would sometimes say wistfully, “I wish I could hear that.” Thus in my Father, in Australia, the Spirit wrought .a work of mellowing which was to eventuate at last in his yielding to Christ as Saviour. But of even more graciousness, it seemed to me, was the operation of the Spirit of God in my own needy life. God knew I lacked light and assur ance from the Word, and to help me in my specific need, He brought His servant, John Harper, all the way from London to Chicago, in the fall of 1911. Harper arrived in early November, when I had been a “pastor” for just two months. I can see him now. His eyes dis tinguished him. Mild and kindly they were, and when he preached, they shone with compassionate earnestness. He was forty years of .age—“<*w alive man,” as A. C. Dixon used to say. His voice marked him, too, especially
When God Saved The Brewer's Boy
By LOUIS T. TALBOT as told to MILDRED M. COOK
CHAPTER VI. I N THE Registrar’s office of the Moody Bible Institute is a thin, maroon-covered catalogue of the school, with yellowed pages and some unique illustrations. One of these pictures occupies a half page and bears this caption: “How some of the students earn their way.” Taken some time in 1911,. it shows a portion of one of the old wooden cars of the Chicago elevated railroad, with eighteen uniformed trainmen posed be side it. These men were “el guards,” whose duties were similar to those of conductors; I was one of them. This part-time employment was a blessing to me, coming as it did soon after the sobering disillusionment that my funds were exhausted, and I was grateful to be earning. I would attend classes at the Institute in the morn ings, work in the afternoons, and hope to get my studies prepared in the eve nings. So desperately did I want to make good in school that my thoughts never were wholly divorced from classroom requirements. Things went well for some time. I was assigned to a local train, operating between the downtown “Loop” district and Wilson Avenue on the Northside; and I found no diffi- Copyrighl 1944, by Mildred M. Cook
culty in learning the names of all the stations to be called. In fact, this pro cedure became so automatic that there was time for mental review of Insti tute assignments. Dr, Evans’ course in Daniel was always on my mind: it fascinated me—and besides, he was 'an exacting teacher I Ultimately, I was transferred to an express train, which covered the same territory to which I had been accus tomed, but made few stops. On board ing the cars, passengers would ask all about local stops, and—with my mind on Daniel—I would assure them grandly that all these would be made. I sang out the names of the stations. But the train whizzed right on. People began to crowd around me, demanding explanations which were never quite clear in my Australian brogue. I had been caught napping, but with the old air of self-confidence, I brought forth a quick answer. “There has been some mistake,” I assured my troubled travelers. “When you get to Wilson Avenue, you will find a train ready to take .you to your destination. Just cross over the elevat ed bridge and get on.” Naturally, any returning local train would serve that purpose. But the pas sengers seemed sAisfied—all except
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