“Forty-six, I think.”
“Wonder how many there’ll be. Someday we’ll take in Canada and Mexico.”
“No, that won’t ever happen,” Phil said. “Forty-six is about big enough, I think.”
Maxim sipped his tea, and his bright blue eyes scanned Phil’s face. “Feeling a little bit down, are you, Phil?”
“Just a little, maybe.”
“That’s the way it goes with us artists, I suppose. We all have our ups and downs, but God’s in His heaven. All’s going to be well.”
“You really believe that, don’t you, Max? That everything’s going to turn out all right in the end?” Phil’s wide mouth tightened grimly, and he shook his head. He stared down into the dainty cup he held, swirling the amber liquid. “With all the wars and the tragedies that occur right here in New York—the killings, the poverty—you still believe everything’s going to turn out all right.”
George Maxim was a strong Christian and had been a help to Phil before at times like this. “The Bible says that all things work together for good to them that love God,” he said firmly. “You love God, and therefore the thing you’re going through right now is good.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like it.” Phil grinned tightly. He leaned back in his chair, soaking up the heat that radiated from the coal stove, and added, “I’m sorry to be such a complainer, Max. Sometimes it gets to me.”
“Of course it does, but remember this. God’s favorites have gone through the furnace of affliction more often and for longer periods than anyone else. Why, look at Joseph. God intended to make a great man out of him, but look what Joseph had to go through. He was betrayed by his brothers, thrown into a pit, sold into slavery; then he had to go to jail. But God was in all of that, Phil. When Joseph finally came through all those ordeals, he became a great man. It was the difficulties that made him what he was, not the good times.”
Phil sat quietly enjoying the wisdom of the dealer, grateful that he had found one friend who had a faithful heart and a firm hold on the Scriptures. Maxim, somehow, reminded him of his own father, although they were dissimilar in so many ways. His father and mother both had this same firm grip on who a man or a woman was in God’s sight, and they both felt that God often uses hard circumstances to shape and mold the character of human beings.
“Why, it’s all right there in First Peter, Phil. Look here, let me read it for you.” Jumping up, Maxim ran across the room, snatched the worn, thick Bible from the desk, then hurried back to his seat. He thumbed through the pages, licking his thumb often, until finally he said, “Ah, here it is! It says here that we have ‘an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled. . . .’ That’s what we’ve got, and not only that, but verse five says we ‘are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation. . . .’ So there! We have a great heritage, and we’re kept by God. But look at verses six and seven.” Clearing his throat, he read clearly and with obvious pleasure. “ ‘Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations: That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ. . . .’ ” Pounding the table, his eyes gleamed. “There it is, Phil. Right in the Word of God. God uses these hard times to purify us. One day you’ll look back on it all and thank God for the things he has worked into your life through them.”
“Do you think I’ll ever be a successful painter, Max?”
“Depends on what you mean. Successful as in ‘rich and famous’? Maybe. I believe you have it in you to be a great painter, Phil. But the success God wants for you is to bring you to maturity in Christ—whether or not you ever become known as a painter.”
“I guess that’s why I come here, Max, to have you encourage me.” Phil smiled with affection at his friend. After a bit, as they continued talking, he began wandering around the room, staring at the paintings. Finally he came back and said, “It’s been good, Max, but I’ve got to go to work now.” He accepted an invitation to dinner the following night, then headed back to the institute.
It had begun to snow again, blanketing the busy streets in a fresh layer of sparkling white. The bells on the horses’ harnesses jingled and made a fine contrast with the muffled roar of an occasional automobile. Phil thought, I like horses best, but they’re on their way out. Ten years from now there won’t be a horse on the streets of New York.
When he entered the institute, he was surprised to see George Camrose talking to Bill Crumpler. The sight amused Phil, for Camrose had been there before, and his attempts to convert Crumpler had been rather volcanic—at least on Crumpler’s part. The burly art instructor looked ready to explode right now. He was waving his arms around as if he were sending semaphore signals to a distant receiver. His short black hair was standing on end where he had shoved his fingers through it, and now as Phil approached he could hear the excited rumble of Crumpler’s voice. . . .
“And who knows whether the Bible is true or not? We don’t have any of the original, do we? There could be all kinds of errors in it, and I think there probably are.”
“You don’t think that about anything else, Bill,” George Camrose said. He was, as always, slightly amused at Crumpler’s overheated defense of his agnosticism. “We don’t have any copies of the Iliad or of Caesar’s writings. All we have are copies of copies, but everybody believes those.”
“That’s different! That’s altogether different! None of those claim to be the Word of God.”
“That’s right. They’re not the Word of God. The Bible has stood the test of time and speculation for these many centuries. Men and women, too, have tried to destroy it, but it’s still there.” Camrose clapped his hands suddenly on Crumpler’s shoulders, saying, “One of these days God’s going to catch up with you. You’re a gone goose, Bill.”
“Keep your grubby hands off me, and keep your grubby sermons to yourself!” Crumpler suddenly looked over and saw Phil. At once, he said, “Throw this holy man out for me, Phil! You and I’ve got work to do!”
“Sorry. I’ve come to borrow your prized student,” Camrose said.
Phil quickly came to stand before Camrose. “What’s up, George?”
“I need some help. I’ve got some needy families that are in pretty bad shape. I need to find some money fast. So you and I are going to go out and take a collection for them.” Camrose was wearing a derby hat, and with a mischievous gleam in his eye, he whipped it off and stuck it out in front of Crumpler. “The Widow Williams is about to be thrown out on the street. She’s got four kids—none of them over seven. Dig deep, Bill.”
Crumpler stared at him. “You got nerve asking for money!”
“Come on, Bill,” Phil urged. “She needs it. Be a good fellow.”
Crumpler scowled but shoved his hand down in his pocket, came out with some crumpled bills, and tossed them into the hat with an air of defiance. “You two will probably go out and drink it up at a bar,” he snorted, then turned and walked away, swinging his arms in an exaggerated fashion.
“Well, that’s a good start,” Camrose commented. He smoothed the bills out, put them in his pocket, and stuck the hat back on his head. “What about it?”
“I don’t know, George,” Phil said. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Well, God values humility, and I don’t know anything that gives a man more humility than going around begging. I’ve got some names here. Too many for me to see. Would you mind going by and letting these folks know? I’ve given you the easy marks. I’ll keep the skinflints and the Scrooges. I’m pretty well accustomed to them and to getting thrown out of places.”
Phil grinned suddenly. “Sure, I’ll do it, George.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a rich relative, have you? It’d help to have one millionaire who could do more than all the names I’ve got.”
Phil suddenly looked up, surprise washing across his face. “You know
, I do have one rich relative.”
“You do? Here in New York?”
“Sure. He’s Mark Winslow, Vice President of the Union Pacific.”
Camrose’s eyes opened with surprise and his jaw dropped slightly. “Mark Winslow’s your relative?”
“Well, I don’t know if he’ll claim it or not, but actually we both go back to a fellow named Gilbert Winslow, who stepped off the Mayflower. Different branch but same line, same family.”
“Do you know him?”
“I’ve never met him, but he knows my father, and I’ve heard lots of stories about him. Interesting fellow.”
“Come on,” Camrose said, excitement brightening his eyes. “I don’t have another millionaire to put the arm on. Mark Winslow, may the Lord prepare you for what you are about to receive.”
Mark Winslow looked up as his secretary, a slender young man with hazel eyes and a fine head of blond hair parted in the middle, said, “Two gentlemen to see you, sir.”
“Who are they, Simpkins?”
“I’ve never seen them before.” Simpkins shrugged slightly and with some distaste. He was accustomed to having to screen Mark Winslow’s visitors, for many showed up in the outer office that the vice president had no need or inclination to see. “One of them’s a minister of some sort, and the other claims to be a Winslow.”
Mark laughed abruptly and straightened up. He shook his head and said, “You’re the most suspicious human I ever saw, Simpkins. ‘Claims to be a Winslow.’ What makes you think he isn’t?”
Simpkins sniffed. “I can’t say, sir. Do you want to see them, or shall I send them away?”
“Send them in.” Mark Winslow rose and arched his back as he waited for the visitors to come in. At the age of sixty-eight, his once raven hair was now silver, and his lean form had thickened with age. Yet there was still some of the strength of body and certainly of will which had so marked him years earlier, when he was a peacemaker for the Union Pacific. He had been able to break heads or fire forty-four men quicker than any of his enemies could.
When the two visitors entered, he looked at them, puzzled. “Have we met before?”
“No, sir. I’m Zach’s son, Phil.”
“Why, of course, Phil. It’s been a long time since I saw your father,” Mark said with pleasure. He stepped across to take the young man’s hand. “How is he doing?”
“He and Mother are both doing just fine. This is my friend, Reverend George Camrose, Mr. Winslow.”
“How about Mark?” Grinning, he shook the preacher’s hand, took his measure, and apparently liked what he saw. “Sit down. I’m glad to meet you, Reverend. Where’s your church?”
“Down on the Lower East Side. Just a small church,” Camrose said. “I’m planning on going to Africa one of these days. I met your son Andrew when he was here a few years ago.” Camrose took a seat, and his eyes grew contemplative. “He told me about all the hardships he had had, but somehow he stirred something in me. I’d like to have his address.”
Mark Winslow nodded with enthusiasm. He was intensely proud of both sons who were now serving as missionaries in Africa. “That sounds wonderful, Brother Camrose. I’ll do better than that. Give me your address, and I’ll have both my sons write to you.”
“That would be great.” Camrose smiled.
The three men sat there talking, and finally Phil said rather nervously, “You might want to throw us out the window, Mark, when you’ve found out why we’ve come.”
“Why, I hardly think I would. What is it?”
“It’s my fault, Mr. Winslow. We have some hardship cases in our neighborhood, families in terrible predicaments, and I started out to try to raise some help for them. I forced Phil into helping me.” He grinned wryly. “I suppose you’re used to having a parade of folks come through with their hands out for help.”
“Don’t put it like that, Brother Camrose,” Mark said quickly. “Tell me about these cases. Maybe I can help.” He sat there listening, his sharp eyes never leaving the face of George Camrose until George had finished speaking. Only then he responded, “I’ll be glad to help. It’s hard times for the poor in the winter.”
The older man went to his desk, made out a check, then waved it to dry the ink. “Let me know if this isn’t enough.”
Camrose took the check, stared at it, and his eyes widened. “Why, this is most generous, sir! Most generous! It will do the job very well!”
“What about you, Phil? Are you going to Africa, too?”
“Worse than that. I’m a struggling artist. One of the ten thousand in New York who will probably starve to death in an attic.”
Mark laughed aloud. “Well, that’s putting it in its worst form. Are you any good?”
The blunt question caught Phil off guard. “I thought I was, but nobody else seems to agree with me—at least the people willing to buy paintings.”
“I’d like to see what you’ve done. Not that I’m any expert,” he warned, “but my wife, Lola, is. Got the house filled with her paintings. Why don’t you two come out and have supper with us? Bring some of your paintings with you.”
The invitation pleased Phil, and George Camrose was delighted at the opportunity to get to know the parents of two missionaries to Africa. They agreed to come out the following Thursday, and left the office feeling elated at how everything had turned out. Phil thought about his friend Maxim, who was always insisting that all things do work out for good for those who love God.
“Mark Winslow is some man, Phil,” Camrose said with admiration.
“You ought to hear his stories sometime. He fought in the Civil War and was a Texas gunman after he got out.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“Not a bit of it, and his wife dealt blackjack in a saloon.”
“They been married a long time, then?”
“Oh yes. I guess forty years.”
“That’s really something. I hope I can say the same someday.”
The two were walking along the street and the sun had come out, turning some of the snow to slush. Avoiding the deeper puddles, they stopped in at a restaurant to have a sandwich and a bowl of soup. After it was set before them by a burly waiter—who barely missed digging his finger into Phil’s soup—George began to speak of his personal life. Soon he was revealing a desperation that Phil had not suspected.
“I guess you might as well know, Phil. I’ve got an overwhelming love for Mary Ann Lanier.”
“She’s a beautiful woman.”
“Yes, and from a rich family.” Camrose tried a spoonful of the soup and burned his lips. “That’s hot!” he exclaimed and began stirring it slowly. His eyes were soft, but there was doubt and some fear in them. “Can you imagine taking a wealthy young woman who’s never lacked for anything into the middle of Africa? Reverend Andrew Winslow spoke of some of the hardships: fevers, diseases, wild animals, no comforts at all in most of the outlying districts, which is where I want to go.” He lifted his eyes, then shook his head with despair. “I love Mary Ann, but I couldn’t ask her to do a thing like that.”
“I think you’d better. That’s her choice, not yours, George.”
“Do you really think so, Phil?” Camrose asked, his eyes brightening. Then he shook his head again. “It wouldn’t matter what she wanted. Her father would never agree.”
“Have a try, George. You never know what God’s going to do. If He’s determined to put you two together, then you’ll get together.”
Camrose grinned briefly. “You sound like a hyper-Calvinist.”
“Well, I don’t park my buggy on the railroad tracks. I’ve got better judgment than that, but I do think that God is interested in all that we do. Why wouldn’t He be interested in whom we marry? That’s the biggest decision we make, isn’t it? Aside from salvation itself.”
Determination came to George Camrose. “You’re right, Phil. I keep forgetting that nothing is impossible with God.”
The two men sat there and Phil Winslow thought of the Lanie
r household. His thoughts had often been on Cara Lanier, and now he saw that George Camrose was hopelessly in love with her younger sister. Within himself a thought arose. God may have intended these two for each other, but He’ll have to knock Oliver Lanier out of the way before it happens!
CHAPTER NINE
Trouble in Paradise
“Cara, look what I’ve got here!”
Cara Lanier was propped up in bed, sketchbook on her knees. Looking up, she was amused to see Mary Ann close the door and furtively look around.
“What is that you’re hiding? You must be ashamed of it,” Cara said, watching curiously.
“I brought you some of the latest songs. You only listen to operas and things like that!” Mary Ann was wearing an attractive light green dress that suited her slender but well-shaped figure, and a gleam of fun shone in her eyes.
“Well, I take it these aren’t operas.” Cara smiled as Mary Ann dumped several paperclad disks out of a brown paper bag onto the bed. Cara picked up one and read the label. “I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now.” Amusement spread across her face. “Father would have a heart attack if he knew you brought things like this into the house!”
“Oh, he’s not here, and you need to hear some of the new music.” She took one of the disks from Cara, then moved over and put it on the Victrola. “Now listen to this,” she said after winding it up and carefully placing the needle on the disk.
A tinny voice filled the room with rollicking song.
Take me out to the ball game.
Take me out with the crowd;
Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks
I don’t care if I never get back.
So let’s root, root, root for the home team;
If they don’t win it’s a shame,
For it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out
At the old ball game.
“What kind of a song is that?” Cara asked, staring open-eyed at the large flared horn perched on top of the music box.
“Oh, it’s the biggest song on the market. That’s what they sing at all the baseball games now. It’s become kind of a theme song. But listen to this one.” Mary Ann removed the disk and, moving quickly, replaced it with another. This time it was a man’s rather fruity voice as he crooned,
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