“Well, mater” he said, “whom have we here?  Another of your proteges?”

“I want you to listen to this poor fellow, James,” said the lady, “his story will touch you as it has touched me.  My poor man, this is my son, the Rev. James Nippit.”

Nickie bowed with a grace that did not belong to his tramp’s garments and his insanitary and unshaven state.

“Thank God.  I have met you, sir,” he said, in the voice of a strong man whose sorrows have about broken his proud spirit, “if your heart is as gentle as that of this sweet lady.”

The lady withdrew, and the Rev. James Nippit, who had been eyeing Mr. Crips keenly, motioned hit to a chair.

“Be seated,” he said, “and tell me your story.”

“I am the only son of the Rev. Arthur Crips, of Bolton, Lancashire, England,” said Nickie.  “My father held a good living.  He intended to make a doctor of me.  He brought me up always with that intention, lavished much money on me, and from the time I was fourteen I understood I was to live the life of a gentleman.  Before my education was completed my father died, and I found that he had been led into speculation and we were ruined.  Not only ruined, but disgraced.  The shock killed my mother.  I came to Australia.  Unwittingly, without a chance of saving myself, I sank and drifted till I found myself a mere tramp.  For years I have been a tattered, unclean, despised outcast.  Yesterday I heard you preach; I was outside under a window too despicable a creature to enter among you trim flock.  Your sermon reminded me of what I was, showed me to myself, made the future horribly real to me.  I was inspired to fight, to try and work myself out of the slough into which I have drifted, and I have come to you for help.  I am here.”  Nickie the Kid opened his arms with a dramatic gesture—­his face was very sad.

“Liar!” said the young clergyman looking Nickie straight in the eye.  “Liar!” he repeated.

Nickie looked back into the eye of the clergyman.  His face betrayed no amazement.  For a moment it was grave, almost reproachful, and then it relaxed into a broad grin.  The device had failed—­there was no further occasion for subterfuge.

“Well,” Mr. Crips admitted, “I don’t pretend to be a George Washington.  I may have been betrayed into errors of detail.”

“It is as well you admit it,” said the Rev. Nippit.  “Because I did not preach yesterday.”

“Very remiss of you,” said Mr. Crips.

“And, furthermore, I remember you well.  Two years ago I was on a charity committee that inquired into your case.  You were then the son of a Queensland Judge, reduced to poverty by wild living, but anxious to return to respectable courses.”

Nickie grinned again, and took up his hat.  “It is as you say.” he said, “a truly delicious morning for a stroll.  I think I’ll go and watch the grass grow.  Good-day, Mr. Nippit.”

The young clergyman arose and interposed between Nickie and the door.  “You will stay where you are,” he said.  “Sit down.”