"Doctor, what shall I do? My father wants me to tend bar on Sunday. I am doing it nights, but Sunday--I don't want to. What shall I do?"
The pastor of Olivet Church looked kindly at the lad who stood before him, cap in hand. The last of the Sunday-school had trailed out; the boy had waited for this opportunity. Dr. Schauffler knew and liked him as one of his bright boys. He knew, too, his home--the sordid, hard-fisted German father and his patient, long-suffering mother.
"I don't want to, Doctor. I know it is wrong."
"But he will kick me out and never take me back. He told me so, and he'll do it."
The boy's face flushed. At fourteen, to decide between home and duty is not easy. And there was his mother. Knowing him, the Doctor let him fight it out alone. Presently he squared his shoulders as one who has made his choice.
"I can't help it if he does," he said; "it isn't right to ask me."
"If he does, come straight here. Good-by!"
Sunday night the door-bell of the pastor's study rang sharply. The Doctor laid down his book and answered it himself. On the threshold stood Karl with a small bundle done up in a bandana handkerchief.
The boy brought in his bundle. It contained a shirt, three collars, and a pair of socks, hastily gathered up in his retreat. The Doctor hefted it.
"Going light," he smiled. "Men fight better for it sometimes. Great battles have been won without baggage trains."
"I have got to win now, Doctor. Get me a job, will you?"
Things moved swiftly with Karl from that Sunday. Monday morning saw him at work as errand-boy in an office, earning enough for his keep at the boarding-house where his mother found him at times when his father was alone keeping bar. That night he registered at the nearest evening school to complete his course. The Doctor kept a grip on his studies, as he had promised, and saw him through. It was not easy sledding, but it was better than the smelly saloon. From the public school he graduated into the Cooper Institute, where his teachers soon took notice of the wide-awake lad. Karl was finding himself. He took naturally to the study of languages, and threw himself into it with all the ardor of an army marching without baggage train to meet an enemy. He had "got to win," and he did. All the while he earned his living working as a clerk by day--with very little baggage yet to boast of--and sitting up nights with his books. When he graduated from the Institute, the battle was half won.