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T H E K I N G ' S B U S I N E S S
November, 1936
Junior King's Business By MARTHA S. HOOKER
THE NEWSBOY AND THE HEIR B y F rances N oble P hair on Tom’s brown one. Such a lump rose in Tom’s throat that he could not an swer. Dick slowly slipped his hand un der his pillow and drew out a shining little locket. “Mother gave me that when I was little, before she died,” he said. “It hasmy picture . . . my name . . . my address . . . find me when you come home.” “Time is up,” said the nurse. Tom, struggling to speak, could only take the remembrance, press his friend’s hand, and stumble away blinded with tears. Months passed. For Tom, they were months broken into weeks of terrible fight ing, followed by days of slow starvation in the enemy’s prison camps, then— the armi stice and freedom. But the war’s end did not come in time to save him from a long illness, illness in a strange land. Then at last he reached the familiar streets of New York. But he was a stranger there. Weak, friendless, and alone, Tom felt very help less. He held the tarnished locket in his hand, and thought. The state of Virginia seemed a long way off. Was Dick still alive? Would he be remembered and wel comed ? His friend had said very little about his home life, but enough for Tom to guess that it was very different from anything he had ever known. At the ticket office Tom counted his money out—just about enough to get there—not much for food on the way. A fragrant midsummer afternoon was more than half over when Tom stepped off the
train at the little Southern town he was seeking. “Dick Worthington—the Worth ington plantation, you mean?” An expres sion of surprise crept into the eyes of the ticket agent as he looked at the boy who had inquired, but he gave the directions politely enough. Tom’s heart sank. Five miles sounded like fifty miles to him, and he had not the money to ride. At any other time he would have enjoyed the walk, for the mel low sunshine, the songs of the birds as he left the little town and walked through the country, the sweet-smelling air, the rich voices of the colored folk who were work ing in the fields, all were so new and in teresting, but his mind was full of wonder ing thoughts of what he would find at his journey’s end. The surprised look in the eyes of the ticket agent and the tone of voice of the kind old colored man who gave him a short ride in his wagon when he said, “You all lookin’ for Massa Dickf" filled him with uneasiness. Dizzy with weariness, Tom stopped be fore a great stone entrance. The beautiful iron gates stood open, but he scarcely dared to go through. The man he had asked had said he should turn in at the next big gate, but he had not realized the gate would be like this 1 The road leading through the gate curved between rows of beautiful blossom ing trees, past masses of glowing spring blossoms, and up to a great white house whose white pillars could be seen through the openings in the foliage. On either side of the road the grass lay like a velvet carpet. It was like a park, he thought, only prettier than any park he had ever seen. The boy’s heart sank still lower, but the realization that night would soon be upon him urged his slow steps toward the distant doorway. As he walked between the overhanging trees, he could see colored boys moving about busily. He guessed that some kind of festival was to be held there that night. The great brass knocker dropped from his fingers with a loud clang, and it seemed to him that his heart beat even more loudly in his breast when the great door swung open and the big colored butler stopped in the middle of his polite bow and looked' at the dusty, shabby fellow before him in surprise. Tom’s tongue seemed stiff and he stammered, “Do . . . does Dick . . . I mean Richard Worthington, live here? Is . . . is he at homef" “Yessah,” said the old man coldly. “What is yo’ business wif young Massa?”
It was story hour on the beach. More than sixty children were gathered under the big umbrellas where the leaders of the Children’s Special Service Mission were telling them about the joy of belonging to the Lord Jesus and of the beautiful home He has prepared for those who love Him. Richard had read the verse, “I f we suffer, we shall also reign with him; if we deny him, he also will deny us" (2 Tim. 2:12), and then to explain its meaning, a visitor told this story. S TEADILY a great gray ocean liner ploughed through the rough Atlantic waters. Sober boyish faces looked over the side into the cold green depths— wondering. Would they meet a submarine? What would they find in France? Two boys stood together at the rail. They soon became good friends. Why they chose each other they could not tell. Richard Worthington came from a beautiful South ern home. Tom O’Connor had been a newsboy on the streets of New York. Dick was an only son and greatly beloved by his father, Colonel Worthington, who owned large estates in old Virginia. Tom did not remember having a father or mother, and had fought his way to a living by blacking boots and selling news papers, living and sleeping in alleys and streets of a great city all the years that he could remember. Dick was Tom’s ideal, and on ship board and afterwards, whenever possible, handsome, dark-haired, gentlemanly Dick and sturdy, freckle-faced, red-haired Tom with his rough ways but kind heart were seen together. The boys went into the battlefields of the great war, and one late afternoon, after a day of ter rible fighting, Tom, covered with mud but unharmed, looked in vain through the camp for Dick. He was missing. As the cold light of the next morning dawned over the battlefield, stretcher bearers, searching for wounded men, saw some one waving to them from a distant part of the field. Hurrying to the signal, they found Tom, pale and shivering, his own shirt wrapped around his wounded friend to help him live through the long night till help came. At the field hospital it became clear that Dick could not be sent back to the firing lines, and the doctors or dered him sent to the base hospital and then home. The parting was hard for the boys. Dick was so weak that Tom could see him for only a few minutes. “You helped me stay alive, Tom,” Dick whispered, laying his thin white hand
Courtesy, Germain Seed and Plant Co.
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