One day the superintendent of a Sunday school in this city was going along near Third and Dock street. Ho saw one of the large boys belonging to his school coming out of a drinking saloon. The boy’s name was George Simpson. As the superintendent passed by he raised his finger, and shaking it gently he said, in a kind, but serious way, “Take care, George, take care.” Some ten or twelve years passed away. He had forgotten all about it. But one day a very genteel-looking man came up to him in the street, and, bowing to him, said, “I think, sir, this is Mr. P., who used to be the superintendent of a Sunday school?”
“That is my name, sir, but I don’t remember you.”
“Don’t you remember a boy named George Simpson, who used to belong to your school?”
“No, I can’t recollect the name.”
“Well, sir, don’t you remember meeting him one day, coming out of a drinking-place near the corner of Third and Dock street, when you shook your finger at him and said, ‘Take care, George’?”
“Oh, yes, I remember that.”
“Well, sir,” said the young man, “I am George Simpson, and I want to thank you for what you did and said that day. It was a little thing, but it saved me from ruin. I was just beginning to go in the drunkard’s ways. But something in your words and manner made a great impression on me. I gave up drinking. Not long after, I joined the church. Now I am living in the West, and am quite well off; but, my dear sir, I owe it all to you.”
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