Caske to start so violently, that the stem of his pipe, which he had just replaced in his mouth, clattered against his teeth. "No, never! And least of all in the case of friend Horn."

The three critics of "the Golden Shoemaker" stared at the minister in amazement. They had been led to think Mr. Durnford was substantially in agreement with their views.

"No, gentlemen," he resumed, "my opinion is quite the reverse of yours. I believe this almost unlimited wealth has been given to our friend, because he is eminently fitted to be the steward of his Lord's goods."

This declaration was followed by an awkward pause, which Mr. Caske was the first to break.

"Perhaps you think, sir," he said, in an injured tone, "that this upstart fellow is an example to us?"

"Mr. Caske," responded the minister, "you have interpreted my words to a nicety."

The three critics shuffled uneasily in their chairs.

"Yes," continued Mr. Durnford, "an example and a reproach! Mr. Horn has the true idea of the responsibilities of a Christian man of wealth; you have missed it. He is resolved to use his money for G.o.d, to whom it belongs; you spend yours on yourselves--except in as far as you h.o.a.rd it up you know not for whom or what. He is never satisfied that he is giving enough away; you grumble and groan over every paltry sovereign with which you are induced to part. He will be able to give a good account of his stewardship when the Lord comes; there will be an awkward reckoning for you in that day."

The three friends had ceased to smoke, and were listening to Mr.

Durnford's deliverance open-mouthed. They respected their minister, and valued his esteem. They were rather conscience-stricken, than offended now.

"But, surely, sir," said Mr. Kershaw, presently, finding breath first of the three, "you wouldn't have us fling away our money, as he does?"

"I shouldn't be in haste to forbid you, Mr. Kershaw, if you seemed inclined to take that course," said the minister, with a smile. "But, if you come within measurable distance of the example of our friend, you will do very well."

"But," pleaded Mr. Botterill, "ought we not to consider our wives and families?"

"You do, Mr. Botterill, you do," was the somewhat sharp reply. "But there still remains ample scope for the claims of G.o.d."

Upon this, there ensued a pause, which was at length broken by Mr. Caske, who, whatever might be his shortcomings, was not an ill-natured man.

"Well, sir," he remarked, good-humouredly, "you've hit us hard."

"I am glad you are sensible of the fact," was the pleasant reply.

"No doubt you are!" rejoined Mr. Caske, in a somewhat jaunty tone. "And I suppose you intend now to give us an opportunity of following your advice?"

"Why, yes," said Mr. Durnford, with a smile, "I really came to ask you for the payment of certain subscriptions now due. It is time I was making up some of the quarterly payments. But, perhaps, after what has been said, you would like to take a day or two----?"

"No, for my part," interposed Mr. Caske, "I don't want any time. I'll double my subscriptions at once."

"Same here," said Mr. Kershaw, concisely.

"Thank you, gentlemen!" said Mr. Durnford, briskly, entering the amounts in his note book. "Now, Mr. Botterill."

"Well," was the reluctant response, "I suppose I shall have to follow suit."

Mr. Durnford smiled.

"Thank you, gentlemen, all," he said. "Keep that up, and it will afford you more pleasure than you think."

When, shortly afterwards, the minister took his departure, the three friends resumed their smoking; but they did not return to their criticism of "the Golden Shoemaker."

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

"IN LABOURS MORE ABUNDANT."

Unlike many wealthy professors of religion, "the Golden Shoemaker" did not suppose that, in giving his money to the various funds of the church, he fulfilled, as far as he was concerned, all the claims of the Cause of Christ. He did not imagine that he could purchase, by means of his monetary gifts, exemption from the obligation to engage in active Christian work. He did not desire to be thus exempt. His greatest delight was to be directly and actively employed in serving his Divine Lord; and so little did he think of availing himself of the occasion of his sudden accession to wealth to withdraw from actual partic.i.p.ation in the service of Christ, that he hailed with intense joy the richer opportunities of service with which he was thus supplied.

For some years "Cobbler" Horn had been a teacher in a small Mission Sunday School, which was carried on in a low part of the town by several members of Mr. Durnford's church. But, about a year previous to the change in his circ.u.mstances, he had been persuaded by the minister to transfer his services to the larger school. He always made the conversion of his scholars his chief aim; and very soon after he entered on his new sphere, one of the boys in his cla.s.s, a bright little fellow about nine years old, named Willie Raynor, had been very remarkably converted to G.o.d. The boy was promising to become a very thorough-going Christian, and no one rejoiced more than he in the good fortune of "Cobbler" Horn.

There was considerable speculation, amongst the friends and fellow-teachers of "the Golden Shoemaker," as to whether his altered circ.u.mstances would lead to the relinquishment of his work in the school.

Little Willie Raynor heard some whisper of this talk, and was much distressed. His relations with his beloved teacher were very close; and, without a moment's hesitation, he went straight to "Cobbler" Horn, and asked him what he was going to do.

"Mr. Horn, you won't leave the school now you are a rich man, will you?

Because I don't think we can do without you!"

"Cobbler" Horn was taken by surprise. The idea of leaving the school had never occurred to his mind. For one moment, there was a troubled look in his face.

"Who has put such nonsense into your head, laddie?"

"Oh, I've heard them talking about it. But I said I was sure they were wrong."

"Why, of course they were, dear lad. Why should I leave the school?

Haven't I more reason than ever to work for the Lord?"

"Oh, I'm so glad!" And Willie went home with a bounding heart.

Meanwhile curiosity continued to be felt and expressed on every hand, as to the course "the Golden Shoemaker" would actually pursue; and no little surprise was created as, Sunday after Sunday, he was still seen sitting in the midst of his cla.s.s, as quietly and modestly as though he were still the poor cobbler whom everybody had known so well.

Nor was he content simply to continue the work he had been accustomed to do for Christ during his previous life. The larger leisure which his wealth had brought, enabled him to multiply his religious and benevolent activities to an almost unlimited extent. He went about doing good from morning to night. He rejoiced to exercise for G.o.d the all but boundless influence which his money enabled him to exert. His original plan--which he persistently followed--of mending, free of charge, the boots and shoes of the poorer portion of his former customers was but one amongst many means by which he strove to benefit his necessitous fellowmen. He never gave money for the relief of distress, without ascertaining whether there was anything that he could do personally to help. He made it a point also to offer spiritual consolation to those upon whom he bestowed temporal benefactions. Hardly a day but found him in the abode of poverty, or in the sick-room; and not one of his numberless opportunities of speaking the words which "help and heal" did he let slip.

One evening, as he was pa.s.sing through a poor part of the town, he came into collision with a drunken man, who was in the act of entering a low public-house. The wretched creature looked up into "Cobbler" Horn's face, and "Cobbler" Horn recognised him as a formerly respectable neighbour of his own.

"Richard," he cried, catching the man by the arm, "don't go in there!"

"Shall if I like, Thomas," said the man, thickly, recognising "Cobbler"

Horn in turn. "D'yer think 'cause ye're rich, yer has right t' say where I shall go in, and where I shan't go in?"

"Oh, no, Richard," said "Cobbler" Horn, with his hand still on the man's arm. "But you've had enough drink, and had better go quietly home."

As he spoke, he gradually drew his captive further away from the public-house. The man struggled furiously, talking all the time in rapid and excited tones.

"Let me a-be!" he exclaimed with a thickness of tone which was the combined result of indignation and strong drink. "You ha' no right to handle me like this! Ain't this a free country? Where's the perlice?"

"Come along, Richard; you'll thank me to-morrow," persisted "Cobbler"

Horn quietly, moving his captive along another step or two. But, by this time, a crowd was beginning to gather; and it seemed likely that, although Richard himself might not be able effectually to resist his captor, "Cobbler" Horn's purpose would be frustrated in another way. In fact the crowd--a sadly dilapidated crew--had drawn so closely around the centre of interest, as to render almost impossible the further progress of the struggling pair.

At this point, some one recognised "Cobbler" Horn.