A TWENTY-FIVE CENT CHANCE.
ONE of the overland trains coming through Nebraska on the Union Pacific Railroad, several years ago, after the long trip through the mountains and over the plains, was nearing Omaha. The passengers in one of the cars, as nearly always happens on transcontinental trains, had gradually gathered into little groups, made themselves known to their fellow-travelers, and were passing the time away by social chat. One of these groups was composed of a couple of tourists returning East, after a season of sight-seeing, a commercial traveler, and two cowboys, and, a little to one side, a member of the group, but not taking part in the discussions, sat a minister,—one of the hardy frontier type. The commercial traveler, naturally enough, led all discussions. The conversation finally turned on religion, of which but one of the group, the minister, knew aught by experience. The drummer was a skeptic, and went on to remark: "Well, you can say what you please; I don't believe a single word about this future life and resurrection, and all that sort of stuff. Gentlemen, I'll tell you what I'd do: I would take twenty-five cents right now for all the chance of heaven I've got now or ever expect to have." The minister took a nearer seat. "My friend," said he, "be careful. You can't afford to make any rash statements." "I meant just what I said," retorted the man of many words. "I'll take you up," said the clergyman. "I've only one chance of heaven myself, and I am sure I need as many as I can get. This will be the best investment I ever made. Here's your quarter, and here's my address," handing the drummer a card. "If you ever want to go back on this bargain, just drop me a line and I will make it all right with you. I should certainly be glad to have you change your mind. You're making a bad bargain, but just as you say." And the minister got up, and, going leisurely to the other end of the car, took a drink of water. Somehow or other, conversation lagged. The drummer looked down at the floor; the cowboys seemed to search in vain for something in their pockets, and the tourists turned their faces toward the window, but the vacant look in their eyes showed their thoughts were elsewhere. After a while the minister returned. The drummer was getting nervous. "Well, parson," said he, "if you are willing, we will call that trade off. Here's your quarter. I don't want it. I'm thinking I'll need that chance myself. The Lord knows I'm bad enough. It's the only chance I've got, and I've decided to make the best of it I know how." The minister put the quarter in his pocket, shook hands heartily with the drummer, and the train whistled for Omaha. Nothing more was said; and the porter of the car, as he watched them get off the train, wondered why that group of six, that had been so jovial clear through, had such a serious look on their faces. Certain it was that their faces reflected their thoughts.—Selected.