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THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT
They seen as we was gutter scum,
An' they said as we was bad;
An' they knowed th' soul of a gutter snipe
Was th' on'y soul we 'ad!
THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT
HE was by no means the worst boy in the ward, though the charge was often flung at him. Really bad boys lived all about him, but their ways were not his ways.
Such being so, there was great rejoicing and glee when he fell. It all came about by the merest accident. He had learned his Golden Text by heart, had his penny for collection in his pocket, and his Sunday-school lesson, about Joseph, at his finger tips. And it might never have happened but that at the corner of the street his quick ears caught a whiff of band music.
He stopped and listened. Yes, it was most unmistakably a band—no, two, three, four of them, all playing at once. The sullen, heavy Sunday-school look went out of the boy's face. He forgot the discomfort of his Sunday clothes. It must be the soldiers on church parade! Then the sound grew like the voice of a thousand sirens singing in his ears.
Still he faltered. He remembered the Sunday-school collection, and his story of Joseph, and the cold, green eyes, haunting and
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