HOLDING OUT A HAND by Sidney Dayre

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Apr 2, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 22.

HOLDING OUT A HAND.

By Sidney Dayre

BY SIDNEY DAYRE.

"ALL aboard!"

Phil stepped quickly into the sleeping car, a lump in his throat, a pain at his heart, and tears so near his eyes as to require the aid of all the dignity of his fifteen years of stalwart boyhood to keep back. But a defiant look and a gruff voice in answer to a question put him were great helps, and before many miles of the road had been passed, he found himself able to compare the sad features with the glad features of this first leaving home.

It was parting with mother and all the rest—that was enough to say for one side of the matter. The heartache must be accepted; it could not be ignored or made light of.

But, on the other hand, even mother could feel thankful for this grand chance for him. A well-off uncle had sent him an invitation to come to his home in a distant city and attend a first-class school; had even sent him his railroad ticket. So for weeks past mother and all the others had been putting forth their best effort and self-denial in order to give Phil what he appreciatingly called a "good send-off," in other words, such an outfit as might do honor to his new surroundings.

"I can only give you a dollar, my dear boy," mother had said to him as he was leaving. "I wish it were more."

"Ho! what do I want of any money, mother, when I have my ticket and enough lunch to last?"

"Well, I always think a person ought to have a little over in case of an emergency," said mother; and the dollar, looking very large to both of them, went into Phil's pocket-book, which was carefully placed in his inside vest pocket.

He hoped to keep that dollar unchanged for a long time. Nothing could induce him to spend a cent of it for anything not strictly necessary. No, indeed! That troublesome feeling just behind his eyes came again as the boy recalled the sacrifices which had been made for him at home. This time he overcame it by a more critical look about him.

"Stylish way of traveling, I should say. Wish mother and all of them were along. Three days and three nights whizzing along like this. Wonder if I shall get tired of it."

The swift motion was so exhilarating, the accommodations so luxurious, and the various experiences belonging to travel so novel, that the tiring of it seemed unlikely.

But at the close of the second day the country boy began to feel the unusual confinement a heavy tax upon his powers of endurance. Every nerve in his active young limbs seemed rising in protest against a continuance of this state of things. Phil felt a wild impulse to run a race, scream, shout, leap, wrestle—anything which would set the stagnant blood stirring in his veins.

During a stop at a station he wandered restlessly into the next car. It was a day car, crowded, and he could easily perceive far less comfortable than the one in which he traveled.

"Haven't you a seat?" he asked a boy of about his own age who was standing up. He appeared to belong to a family party, the mother and a little girl upon one seat, the one turned toward it being occupied only by a smaller child who appeared ill.

"No," answered the boy. "Little Kittie's sick, and she must lie down."

"Been traveling long?"

"Long enough to get pretty tired," said the boy with a sigh. "But it's hardest on mother."

The bell rang, and Phil, in faithful remembrance of his mother's many anxious cautions, hastily returned to his car. But he could not get the weary faces out of his mind. The pale woman slightly recalled his mother. If she was taking a long journey, not at the cost of a liberal friend, as Uncle George had shown himself (taking such kindly thought to see that Phil occupied a sleeping car), it would be very unlikely that she would go to the extra expense. But how hard such nights must be!

And that boy! Phil determined that at the next station he would ask him to sit with him for a while. But while he waited for the next stoppage, another thought came to him: why shouldn't he ask the mother to come with that poor little mite and occupy his berth?

The idea was not a pleasant one. Phil felt so restless that he had intended to have his berth made up early, in order that he might sleep away the more of the weary hours. But if he, a great strong boy, were tired, what must that woman be? He felt half ashamed of the comfort he was enjoying.

"A chap like me ought to be willing to rough it a little," he said to himself, as, an hour or two later, he made his way to the other car, and proposed the change of accommodations. At first the woman would not hear of it.

"I wouldn't think of robbing you of your rest," she protested. "And if I could, I don't believe it would be allowed that I should go there."

"That berth's hired for me," said Phil, "and it's likely I have a right to put whom I like in my place."

He insisted till he carried his point; the woman raised the two-year-old child, and carried her in the sleeping car. Whether or not any objection would have been made to the change had it been observed, can never be known, but, as others were passing in and out, no one appeared to notice it.

Returning to the day car, Phil and his new friend, Robert, arranged the other little girl on one seat, and the boys settled themselves

to spend the night as best they could, sharing the other. The prospect for a comfortable rest was not good, and for a long time the two vainly sought positions of comfort. But the sleep which blesses vigorous boyhood, even under disadvantageous circumstances, did not entirely fail them, and for several hours Phil slept, to awaken early, cold, cramped, and generally uncomfortable.

Two or three hours later Robert's mother came to him.

"Go back to your own place now," she said.

"Have you had a good night's rest?" asked Phil.

"Yes, and the child too. The Lord will bless you for your kindness to a stranger."

Toward evening of that day Phil became absorbed in a magazine which someone had lent him, and failed to hear some loudly spoken words at the door of the car.

"What is it?" he asked, observing that they seemed to create quite a commotion. A confusion of excited voices arose as men left their seats and crowded toward the doors, while women wore faces of anxiety and dismay.

"Do tell me what the matter is," said Phil, seizing hold of a young man.

"Didn't you hear? There's a strike all along the road. All the hands have left the train."

"Well," said Phil breathlessly, "when are we going on?"

"That's easier asked than answered. Nobody knows."

Phil stood in bewilderment, scarcely comprehending what this most unlooked-for interruption to his journey might mean. Where should he go? What should he do? In the tumult around him he heard the people speaking of going to hotels. He had never been to one in his life, but easily guessed that his dollar, his precious resource in case of emergency, would not go far in providing what he might need for the indefinite time which the strike might last.

As others began leaving the car, he mechanically picked up his satchel and followed. The greater part of those about him were evidently as much perplexed as himself, some of them appearing greatly distressed. It had just occurred to him to wonder whether his friends of the night before were still on the train, when he caught sight of them on a street a little distance away.

"I wonder what they're going to do," he said to himself. Gazing wistfully after them, half inclined to ask advice, yet shrinking to intrude himself upon them, he saw Robert set down the satchel he was carrying and run back.

"Hello!" he cried, as at length he caught sight of Phil. "We were so busy getting out we didn't quite understand about the strike. Got far to go yet?"

"Three hundred miles," answered Phil.

"Bad for you, isn't it? What are you going to do?"

"I—hadn't exactly—"

"Say, now," said Rob eagerly, "can't you come right along with us, and stay till the strike's over? Mother sent me to ask you. We're home, lucky for us."

Very thankfully Phil joined the family party. A short walk brought them to the plain, comfortable home of his new friends, where he was made most welcome for a night and a day, until he was able to continue his journey.

"I shall never forget it of you," he said with beaming eyes as he at length wished them good-by.

"Don't say a word," said Rob heartily. "One good turn deserves another all the world over."

"Keep on with your kindnesses as you go through life," said Robert's mother. "You won't always get it right back, but that isn't what you do it for." She read correctly the frank unselfishness in the boy's bright eye. "You did it without hope or thought of reward, and the Lord gave it back to you."—Advance.