Somewhere in one of the great centers of the world’s industry a workman had blundered.  His conscience urged him to confess his mistake, while Satan whispered with a sneer,—­“Yes, and get turned adrift for your pains, with a rating into the bargain!”

“Never mind if you do lose a week’s wages,” conscience had pleaded, “your hands will be clean,” and the workman shrugged his shoulders with a muttered, “Pshaw!  What do I care for that, so long as I don’t git found out.  I’ll fix it so as no one kin tell it was me.”

The work was passed upon by the foreman and the Company’s certificate attached.  The man chuckled, “Hooray!  Now that it’s out from under old Daggett’s eyes nobody’ll ever be able to lay the blame on me!” and he had gone home whistling.  He forgot God!

* * * * *

The long, stifling day was drawing near its close.  Half an hour more and the workmen would be free to rest.  Only half an hour!  Suddenly there was a sharp clicking sound, then a cry, and in an instant all was bustle and confusion at the Marlborough Steel Works.  The great hammers hung suspended in mid-air, the whirling wheels were still, while the workmen, with faces showing pale beneath the grime, gathered hastily around a fallen comrade.  Summoned by telephone the Company’s surgeon was driving rapidly towards the Works, but his services would not be required.

An accident.  No one knew just how it happened.  There must have been a flaw, a defect in some part of the machinery.  These things do happen.  Somewhere there had been carelessness, dishonesty, and the price of it was—­a life!

The dying man opened his eyes suddenly and looked full at John Randolph, who knelt beside him supporting his head on his arm.

“Little Dick,” he murmured.

“All right, Trueman, I will take care of him.”

“God bless you, John!” and with the fervid benediction, the breath ceased and the spirit flew away.

The body was prepared for the inquest, and through the gathering dusk John, strangely white and silent, entered the house he called home, gathered the fatherless boy into his arms and let him sob out his grief upon his shoulder.

* * * * *

Some days after the funeral the Manager sent for John to come to his private office.  He was a pleasant man and had taken a kindly interest in the capable young workman from the start.

“Well, Randolph, this is a terrible business of poor Trueman,” he said, as he pointed him to a chair.  “Terrible!  I can’t get over it.  A fine man and one of our best finishers too.  Well, we can’t do anything for him now, poor fellow, but he left a boy I think?”

“Yes, sir,” said John simply; “I have taken him to live with me.”

“Shake hands, Randolph!  We talk about what ought to be done and you do it.  Is that your usual mode of procedure?”