But his plan did not work.  Day after day he had made excuses to drop into the cobbler’s shop and worry the ex-convict into a discussion, but not once did he depart without a sense of defeat.  As he said to himself,—­

“What can be done with a man who only believes, and won’t argue or go to the bottom of things?  It’s confoundedly ridiculous.”

During his last visit, he said,—­

“Sam, if the power you profess to believe in can really work such a change as you think He has done in you, He ought to be able to do almost anything else.  Don’t you think so?”

“That I do,” said the cobbler, working away.

“You believe He has power to any extent, I suppose?”

“You’re right again, Mr. Bartram.”

“Of course you think he loves you dearly?”

“I’m ashamed to think it,—­that any such bein’ should love a good-for-nothin’ feller like me.  But what else can I think, Mr. Bartram, after all that’s gone on in me, an’ what He’s said Himself?”

“Very well; then, if He is so powerful and cares so much for you, I suppose He brings you more work and better prices than any one else in your business?”

Sam did not reply to this at once, but after a while he said,—­

“It amounts to the same thing:  He makes me work harder than I ever knowed how to do before.  That brings me more money an’ gives me a hope of gettin’ along better after a while.”

“Oh, well, you have a family,—­quite a large family, I believe.  Does He do as much for your wife and children as for you?”

“Whatever He’s doin’ for me is done for all of us, Mr. Bartram.”

“Just so.  But do you mean to say that what you’re making enables you to do for your family all that you should?”

The cobbler’s face contracted, under the shade he wore over his eyes.  An evil smile overspread the lawyer’s countenance.  A little time passed; the discussion was becoming sport,—­such sport as the angler feels when a wounded fish, a hundred times smaller than he, is struggling and writhing in agony on his hook.

“You don’t seem certain about it, Sam,” the tormentor finally said.

“Mr. Bartram,” the cobbler answered in a little while, “what He done for me came about so quiet an’ unknown like that I don’t know what he may be doin’ for the wife an’ children.  God knows they need it; an’, as He came to look after them that was needy, I don’t believe He can make a mistake an’ pass by my house.”

“But I should think you would be sure about it.  You’re so sure about your own affairs, you know,—­what are called your spiritual affairs.”

“I don’t know, though,” said Sam, simply.

“Have all the children got good shoes and stockings and warm clothes?  Winter is almost here, you know.”

“No, sir, they haven’t,” Sam sharply replied.

The lawyer quickly caught the change of tone, and made haste to explain: