Chapter 5

The Sunday morning sun awoke Tip from a heavy sleep. He lay still a few moments, thinking who he was. Things were different: he was not simply Tip Lewis, a ragged little street boy, any longer; this was the morning when he was going to start out under a new motto, with Jesus for his guide.

He was going to Sunday school. He had not been since the morning that Miss Perry had taught the class, and told the story which was to be a blessing to him through all his future life. His evil spirit had been strong upon him during the three Sunday mornings that had passed since then, and persuaded him to stay away from the school, but this morning he was resolved to go. He had a secret hope that he should see Miss Perry again, for he did not know that she was hundreds of miles away from that village, and would probably never be there again. All he knew was, that a gentleman had brought her to the door, and introduced her to the superintendent as Miss Perry; that much he heard as he sat gazing at them.

This morning he judged by the sun that it was pretty late, yet he didn’t get on very fast with the business of dressing: he sat down on the foot of the bed, and looked sorrowfully at his jacket; he even turned it inside out to see if it wouldn’t improve its appearance, but he shook his head, and speedily turned it back again.

If he “only had a collar,” he said to himself—“a smooth white collar, to turn down over the worn-out edges—it would make things look so much better.” But that was something he had never had in his life, and he put on the old, ragged brown jacket with a sigh. Then he put on his shoes, and took them off again: the question was, which looked the best—shoes which showed every one of his toes peeping out on the top, or no shoes at all? Suddenly a bright idea struck him: if his feet were only white and clean, he thought they would certainly look much better. Down he went to the rickety pump in the back yard, and face, hands, and feet took such a washing as they had never received before; then the old comb had to do duty. Tip had never had such a time getting dressed. But, some way, he felt a great longing this morning to make himself look neatly; he had a feeling that it was ever so much more respectable to be neat and clean than it was to go looking as he had always done. Still, to carry a freshly-washed face and hands and smooth hair was the very best he could do; and, if he had but known it, these things made a great improvement.

He made his way half shyly into the mission seat, for the truth was he did not know just how the boys would receive his attempt at respectability; but he had no trouble, for several of his companions had seen his face when he took his last look into that little coffin the day before, and they felt sorry for him.

No Miss Perry appeared; and it seemed, at first, that the mission boys were to have no teacher. It was a warm morning, and the visitors’ seat was vacant.

But there was at last a great nudging of elbows, and whispers of “Look out now!” “We’re in a scrape!” “No chance for fun today!”

And only Tip’s eyes looked glad when Holbrook halted before their class, with “Good morning, boys.” Then, “Good morning Edward; I am glad to see you here today”; and the minister actually held out his hand to Tip. Mr. Holbrook never called him Tip. He had asked him one morning what his real name was, and since then had spoken it, “Edward,” in clear, plain tones.

It was a restless, wearying class. It required all Mr. Holbrook’s wits and wisdom to keep them in any sort of order, to gain any part of their attention. Yet it was not as bad as usual; partly because the minister knew how, if anybody did, to teach just such boys, and partly because Tip, hitherto the spirit of all the mischief there, never took his eyes from the teacher’s face. Mr. Holbrook watched his close attention, and took courage. When the other scholars passed out, he laid his hand on Tip’s arm, with the words, “You have been a good listener today, Edward. Did you understand the story I told, of the boy who started on a journey to the Holy Land?”

“Some of it I did; you meant that he started for heaven.”

“You understand it, I see. Don’t you want to take that journey?”

“I mean to, sir.”

“ ‘Help thou mine unbelief,’* (Mark 9:24) ” was Mr. Holbrook’s prayer just then. He had hoped for, longed for, prayed for these boys, especially for this one since the day before; yet he was astonished when he received the firm, prompt answer, “I mean to, sir.” Astonished, as too many are, that his prayer was heard.

“Have you started, my boy?” he asked, speaking with a little tremble in his voice.

“Yes, sir, I’ve tried; I told God last night that I would, but I don’t much know how.”

“You want a lamp, don’t you?”

“A what, sir?”

“A lamp. You remember in the story the boy found dark places every little way. Then he took out his lamp, so he couldn’t lose the road. Don’t you need it?”

“I want some help, but I don’t know as a lamp would do me any good.”

“Ah, yes; the one I mean will surely help you, if you give it a chance.” Mr. Holbrook took from his pocket a small, red-covered book, and held it up. “Do you know what book this is?” he asked.

“It’s a Bible, ain’t it?”

“Yes. Have you ever read in the Bible?”

“Some, at school.”

“You know, then, that God told men just what to say, and they wrote it here, so you see that makes it God’s words. That is what we call it sometimes—the Word of God. Now, let me show you something.” He turned the leaves rapidly, then pointed with his finger to a verse. Tip read, “Thy word is a lamp to my feet.”* (Psalm 119:105)

“Oh,” he said, with a bright look, “that is the kind of lamp you mean!”

“That is it. And, my boy, I want you to take this for your lamp. There is no place on the whole road so dark but that it can light you through, if you try it. When you don’t understand it, there is always Jesus to go to, you know.” And, taking out his pencil, Mr. Holbrook wrote on the fly-leaf, in plain, round letters, “Edward Lewis.” Then, handing the book to him, with a bow and smile, the minister turned away.

Tip walked out of the school and down the road, holding his treasure closely. Such a queer, new feeling possessed him. Things were really to be different, then. The minister had talked with him, had shaken hands with him, and given him a Bible. And here he was walking quietly away from the school, all alone, instead of leading a troop of noisy boys, intent on mischief.

“Oh, Tip Lewis,” he said to himself, as he hugged his book, “I don’t know but you will be somebody, after all. You mean to try with all your might, don’t you? And you’ve got a lamp now!”