Had the schedule been followed faithfully, it was the time for the auto party to have finished their tea and toast and be awaiting the chauffeur to come up with their machine, but there seemed to be a delay somewhere. Investigation revealed a peculiar condition of affairs. The visitors were moving about rather impatiently while the lunch, instead of being served, was rapidly getting chilled on the side-board in an adjoining room.

“Where is Delmonico Bill, the attentive waiter,” we asked, not a little surprised at his disappearance. He was nowhere to be found, although we hunted high and low for him.

But to manage men successfully who admit their irresponsibility needs an overseer who is not only patient in disappointment, but who can offer the pat excuse impromptu, and cheerfully reassure friends that everything is all right, when—unless viewed from the standpoint of a year from to-day—it is all wrong.

On this special day there seemed to be no apparent explanation except that the waiter did not wait. But everything is a success that ends happily, and the delayed lunch made the visitors more than ever in sympathy with the Work. Whoever loves us for our mistakes, shall become more endeared to us as they know us better. The diners—who had not dined—saw humor in our embarrassment, and assured us of their best wishes as they drove merrily away, leaving us stupidly asking ourselves why the waiter had left his guests unserved.

It was nearly an hour later when Delmonico Bill came down out of the hay loft, brushing the dust and hay-seed from his clothes.

“Has she gone?” he enquired stupidly.

“Who?” we asked him in chorus.

“My Sunday school teacher,” he explained.

We awaited his further explanation. It was the first time we had heard that he ever had such a teacher.

"It isn’t that I am in the least ashamed to serve as a waiter. Menial work that must be done is not humiliating to me. But when I looked in at the visitors as I was arranging their lunch on the tray—I recognized in one of the ladies my old Sunday school teacher—and when I thought to what an extent I had disregarded her instructions I hadn’t the courage to face her.... My, but it was hot up in that haymow!...

“The last time I saw this good lady was the evening in the church vestry when the class members gave her a group picture of themselves. We all went to the local photographers together. There were three rows of us—the tall, taller and tallest—all raw-boned rascals trying to assume the spiritual pose of Sir Galahad. I never cared much for the photograph, but the frame—the gold frame—much befiligreed was mighty impressive. I remember it because there was seventy-five cents of my money in it. I worked hard for that money. It took me the best part of three nights to get it from Cy Watson—playing penny-ante in his father’s carriage house. But I was happy to turn it to such good use.”

“It was tainted money,” said one of the boys.

"There wasn’t any such thing as tainted money in those days. Money was money and no one had any of it.

"I made the presentation speech that night in the vestry. It was a masterpiece. The teacher and the women folks all cried. I have forgotten the speech now; thirty years of knocking around the world crowds out the memory of many things that happened when we were boys in Sunday school. But for years, I could repeat that piece. I rehearsed for that evening over two months—I could say it forwards or backwards, I could start it in the middle and say it both ways—in fact when I think of it, I rather believe that was the way I did say it that evening, because the applause that followed my humble effort was too tempestuous, yet the scholars all had their money in the gold frame, and the teacher was to leave us next morning for the East, where she was to marry some man of prominence. My mother said I spoke splendidly, but I doubt if she really heard me. She was thinking how charming I looked in the new trousers she had made for me. The truth was, she had worked all the night before to get them ready. She had had some difficulty to make the seams come down the side. As it was they were not quite finished, but no one knew it but my mother and me.

“In the years that are to come,” I said in my speech, “not only will your kindly instructions in our Bible studies help us to meet and overcome all temptation, but the inspiration which we have received from your friendship and devotion to our spiritual welfare will influence us throughout our lives.”

For the moment Delmonico Bill was silent—whatever his thoughts may have been, he did not share them with us. But presently, he observed the tray with the tea and toast upon it, just as he had left it.

“It is too bad,” he said, “maybe she would not have known me at all.... I am sorry ... but you can understand.”

Then he began to clear away the lunch. “The tea is still warm,” he said smilingly, “I believe I will pour a cup for myself ... my nerves are jumping, it may quiet them.”

He filled the cup and raising it he said: “Here is to my Sunday school teacher who believed in me in those days when I believed in myself. God bless her.”