# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 3/Number 5/The Long Kid's Change of Heart

Extracted from Red Book magazine, 1904 Sept, pp. 568–577. Accompanying illustrations may be omitted.
The Long Kid’s Change of Heart
BY B. M. BOWER
“Gee, look at that, would yuh, Deekin! An’ us don’t know the color uh good money no more.”
The Long Kid spat angrily into the gutter while nickels, dimes and even “two-bit-pieces” continued to rattle spasmodically upon the big drum.
The Salvation Army was enjoying a most successful “Go,” with the major and a staff-captain and the Jones sisters all visiting the corps at the same time. The Jones sisters could sing the tears from the hearts to the cheeks of the most hardened sinners, and the major could lift the curtain and bring them face to face with their better selves. No wonder the drum-head collection in the open air sounded like the popping of corn before a winter fire. The Long Kid peered over the head of a short man and speculated upon the size of the offering.
“I’ll betcher they’s a good five dollars on that drum right now, Deekin,” he observed plaintively. “They’s ten of ‘em, not countin’ the head guys—fourteen all told. That makes—lemme see. Fourteen into fifty—three an’ eight t’ carry—thirty-five cents apiece right there in sight an’ more a-comin’. An’ they’ll git more inside. An’ nothin’ t’ do but march a few blocks an’ sing an’ holler. Deekin, that beats trampin’ an’ goin’ hungry—I’m goin’ t’ join ’em.”
Deacon pulled his tattered coat together under his chin, fumbling mechanically for the button which was not there and which never had been there since he purloined the coat from a sheep-herder’s camp. “Aw, gwan!” he adjured morosely. “Watcher want t’ make a holy show uh yerself fur? Ain’t yuh got no pride?”
The Long Kid, being gifted with a strong sense of humor, turned and eyed the man quizzically. He grinned and bit off a piece of tobacco from the dirty lump he fished up from his trousers pocket.
“Speakin’ about pride, Deekin,” he began, then stopped and contented himself with another grin. “Yes, sir,” switching to the other theme, “it beats hoboin’, t’ my notion. I bet they don’t go empty, an’ they sure look as if they was enjoyin’ theirselves. Gee! There's a peach of a girl standin’ behind that fat, four-eyed feller. Wait till he gits t’ steppin’ around earnest agin, an’ you kin see her. Yes, sir, I’m sure goin’ t’ join ’em.”
“You’re goin’ t’ make a plum fool uh yerself,” growled Deacon. “They make yuh cut out cards an’ whisky—an’ I’ve heard say they won’t even let yuh use t’bacco—an’ they’ll call yuh down something awful if yuh so much as say ‘damn.’ They’re a lot of howlin’ loonatics, that’s what they be. Yuh better keep out.”
The Long Kid considered, while the major exhorted the crowd on the corner. Then he stepped back into his place in the ring, and a sweet-faced lassie in a hallelujah bonnet stood fully revealed and materially aided the Kid’s decision.
“Well,” he said firmly, “I’m goin’ t’ try ’em, anyhow. If I don’t like the layout I guess they’s no law against backslidin’.”
Deacon sneered profanely and turned back into the saloon, still feeling for the missing top button on his coat.
When the two flags moved out and headed the little procession of Salvationists up the street, the Long Kid lounged nonchalantly after them. With his mind fixed upon the prospect of becoming one of the band, he began tentatively to keep step on the sidewalk with the dolorous thump of the big drum, grinning amusedly the while. The sweet-faced lassie walked upon the side toward him and he kept pace with her as she marched up the middle of the dusty street, unconscious of his very existence.
That she was a “new recruit” was evident from the fact that she fell frequently out of step and blushed furiously whenever she discovered it. And she held her head up somewhat defiantly and looked straight before her as she marched. Also, she did not sing with the others; confusion choked her and held her dumb.
The Long Kid did not know all this; he knew only that she was clear-eyed and sweet, and that he wished he had spent that last two-bits of his for a shave instead of for beer for himself and Deacon. Because he had not, and his chin and cheeks were covered with an unbecoming ten-days’ growth of brown beard, he chose a seat in the shadow of a pillar midway down the long hall.
The major read a song out of a War Cry and the captain sent the lassie down into the audience with a bundle of the papers to sell. As she came timidly down the aisle, offering her papers to all and selling a few, the Long Kid swore under his breath because of his empty pockets, and looked away in a feeble pretense of not knowing that she was standing beside him. But the man who sat near him reached a long arm before the Kid and held a dime out to the girl; and when she offered him a nickel with the paper he said easily, “That’s all right—keep the change, sister,” and the Kid could scarce keep his hands off the fellow’s collar.
However, when they all rose to sing and the fellow generously offered to share his War Cry with him, the Kid so far forgot his wrath that he held an edge of the paper to keep it steady between them. When he discovered that the tune was none other than “The Girl I Loved in Sunny Tennessee,” he opened his mouth and threw his whole soul into the singing—and that meant that people in front of him turned and looked back, for the Long Kid certainly could sing! He might have had steady work singing in the beer halls, only that he disliked the life and preferred to wander here and there, working when he must and idling when he could.
Through the first verse he stuck to the Salvation version of the words During the chorus he fell to watching the girl, and, watching her, forgot the lines before him, and the major was shocked and grieved at hearing a bell-like tenor in the audience irreverently sing, high and sweet above the uproar:
“When the moon rose in its glory,
There I told life’s sweetest story
To the girl I loved in sunny Tennessee.
But the Long Kid meant no irreverence; he was thinking of the lassie in the hallelujah bonnet, up on the platform, who was too shy to clap her hands with the others even when urged by the elbow of a large, bony woman with gray hair and two front teeth gone.
The major frowned, waved his arms to accent the time, and the chorus was repeated over and over, while the voice in the audience threaded the incongruous words through the lines which the others sang:
“Till the King comes in His glory
We will tell the old, old story,
Sinner, Jesus waits to save and welcome thee!”
—till the man who stood beside him nudged the Long Kid into remembrance and whispered, “Here, you better let up. You ain’t singin’ the right words. ”
Offended, the Kid closed his mouth and did not sing at all after that, and the major, listening for the irreverent tenor, felt an inconsistent pang of regret that it was stilled.
While the meeting progressed the Kid’s determination to join grew stronger; but a certain uncomfortable sensation grew to a real obstacle and he rose and slouched into the street and made straight for the nearest saloon
“I’ll sing yuh a song fer two bits,” he said to the bartender, whom he knew.
“All right, Kid. Leave the door open so folks can hear yuh. Take it in trade?”
“Nit. I want the dough.”
This put a different face on the matter and the bartender hesitated. But the saloon was not doing a satisfactory business that night and the Kid’s singing was an attraction not to be lightly thrust aside, so in the end he yielded and the Long Kid pushed his old gray hat far back upon his brown curls and rested both elbows on the bar behind him while he sang. Men slouching by on the pavement stopped to listen and then went in, but the Kid did not notice. He was thinking of a sweet face framed in an ungainly headgear.
“When the moon rose in its glory,
There I told life’s sweetest story
To the girl I loved in sunny Tennessee.”
There was no major here to frown. The haunting melody carried far up and down the quiet street and gripped more hearts than one.
“Here.” The bartender spun a dingy bit of silver across the bar. “Give us another at the same price, Kid. You're sure a drawin’ card.”
“Can't. Ain’t got time.” The Kid seized the coin and hurried into the barber shop next door, whence he emerged in half an hour clean shaven and smelling of bay rum. His clothes were brushed into a semblance of respectability and his hat had been straightened as to brim and dented carefully as to crown. In this new guise he reëntered the Army barracks and walked boldly up the aisle, secure in the consciousness that he did not look altogether like a “bum.” He was still hungry, but he was so accustomed to the sensation that he scarce gave it a thought.
The staff-captain was urging the ungodly to forsake their sins, and inviting them to come forward and kneel at the penitent form. The Long Kid listened attentively, growing more and more dismayed at the outlook. Plainly, one could enter the ranks of the Army only by way of the penitent form—and the Kid did not feel particularly penitent; penitence for sin in the abstract did not appeal to him. If he had done murder, now, or had stolen something—but he had not. He had simply been “down on his luck” for the last year, and had injured no man save himself. After a siege of fever in the hospital he had been turned loose penniless and too weak to work, and so had wandered and drifted until idling became a habit.
He eyed askance the two chairs which were backed close against the platform and which were consecrated to the use of the penitent. He hated to go up there before all the crowd and kneel down and be prayed over. He was almost tempted to give over his determination to join, when he looked up and discovered that the eyes of the sweet-faced girl were fixed upon him. The eyes seemed begging him to come, and a hitherto unsuspected depth of his soul was stirred by the glance, fleeting though it was.
While the staff-captain was yet speaking the Kid arose, as one who hastens to perform a disagreeable duty, and walked deliberately up to the penitent form, where he knelt and listened to the storm of hallelujahs on the platform above him. He did not know what to do next and so remained passive. Peering surreptitiously between his fingers, he found that he was kneeling directly in front of the sweet-faced girl, and that her head was bowed upon her hands, which were small and dimpled; he noticed the dimples particularly. The toe of one tiny shoe peeped from beneath her blue skirt and the Kid forgot, for a moment, where he was and gazed at it admiringly.
Then the sergeant-major came down and knelt beside him, the staff-captain broke off abruptly his exhortation and some one prayed loudly. The sergeant-major talked to the Kid, in an earnest undertone, and told him how great a sinner he was and how the Lord was waiting to pardon him and blot out his past; and the Kid, with one eye fixed upon the adorable little foot before him, listened abstractedly and agreed, with suspicious readiness, to all the sergeant-major said. He even surrendered the dirty lump of tobacco—which was considered the crucial test of his sincerity.
Then he found himself standing, the center of an exultant, handshaking group of Salvationists. The audience was straggling out and he was being hailed as “brother.” The Kid began to feel some embarrassment at the exuberance of his welcome. He had come to them for a “job” and was being greeted as was the prodigal son. Last of all, she of the sweet face and the tiny foot came forward and placed a dimpled hand in his and shyly wished him “God bless you, brother”—and the old, wandering life slipped away from the Kid like a soiled garment at the touch of that innocent hand. He went home with the sergeant-major that night and slept in a real bed with white sheets and pillow slips, and dreamed strange dreams and awoke with newer, cleaner thoughts.
In the course of time the Long Kid, being keen witted and tactful, fell easily into the new life and learned many things. He learned that the soldiers did not receive pay for marching the streets every night; the man who beat the drum worked ten hours a day with the street paving gang, and confided to the Kid, one night as he buckled on the big drum, that his back “hurt something awful—hallelujah!” The sergeant-major was clerk in a hardware store and the man who bore the stars and stripes drove a milk wagon. The sweet-faced girl, whose name was Allie Burns, was a waitress in the Elite Restaurant and the jeers of her co-workers were a real torture to her sensitive nature.
The Kid was undaunted. He went to work on the street alongside the drummer, and speedily learned how it felt to march the streets and sing of an evening while one’s back “hurt something awful.” He could see Allie Burns and clasp her hand and say “God bless you, sister”—and when he could do this, what mattered an aching back? His voice made him prominent in the corps from the start. Every night he sang a solo while Allie Burns went down with a tambourine to take up the collection, and people came to the meetings just for the pleasure of hearing him.
But with all this, the Long Kid knew he was not “saved” as were the others. If he kept from his old habits and companions, he did not attempt to cheat himself into the belief that it was the Lord's doing. He was perfectly honest with himself; he owned frankly that it was Allie Burns.
He avoided testifying or praying in public. When he knelt with the others, I fear his devotions went something like this: “I wonder if she c’d ever git t’ likin’ me. (Amen!) I wish I knew jest how she felt about it. (Yes, Lord!) I'd like t’ thump that measly dish-washer that’s always a makin’ goo-goo eyes—will, too, if he don’t let up on it. (Amen!) I'm a-goin’ t’ save every cent I kin till I git enough t’ start a little home. I c’d settle down an’ work all m’ life, if I c’d jest have her t’ work fur an’—love—(Hallelujah!)”"—and so on until the praying brother shouted his final amen.
One night the Kid went early to the barracks and came upon the sergeant-major playing Army tunes upon a new harmonica, while a young mulatto convert accompanied him with a pair of “rattle-bones.” The Kid had bought a second-hand uniform from a backslidden soldier that day, and Allie Burns, when he stopped in at the restaurant an hour ago, had assured him that the uniform was “awfully becoming”—and her eyes had borne out her sincerity in the statement. The Kid felt an exuberant sense of contentment with himself, the world and all it contained; his nerves tingled as he stood, the Army cap pushed jauntily back on his brown curls and his hands thrust deep into his pockets, listening.
The sergeant-major struck into a familiar bit of “rag-time” and the Kid took up the words and sang—and the song did not breathe of salvation. His pulses throbbed exultant sympathy with the rollicking air; his voice seized upon the plaintive words and flung them melodiously to the echoes in the empty barracks.
“An’ de only frien’ dat’s lef’ me is mah mother,
In dat sunny, southern home I lub so well!”
Then the feet of the Kid abandoned themselves to the witchery of the favorite dance-step of their ungodly past. The sergeant-major, who had served the devil himself not so long ago, caught the spirit and yielded to the tempter so far that he played the interlude with careful attention to the time, and watched the Kid’s flying feet approvingly. Back and forth, buck and wing, a double shuffle here and a glide there—the Long Kid was transformed. He brought his heels together with a final click and launched enthusiastically into the next verse, his back to the door, while the mulatto convert grinned appreciatively and adjusted the “bones” for the dance again.
“Oh, I’se a-waitin’, indeed I’se lingerin’—”
Allie Burns came in and stood, wide-eyed, at his elbow, but for the first time the Kid was unconscious of her presence. The captain and lieutenant stopped behind him and he knew it not—nor cared.
“An’ de only frien’ dat’s lef’ me is mah mother—”
The rattle-bones clickety-clicked and the Kid’s feet spatted the floor rhythmically and with intricate variations which held fascinated even the reproving eyes of the officers.
When it was over there was an ominous silence. The sergeant-major wiped the mouth-organ apologetically upon his blue sleeve, and slid it shamefacedly into his pocket.
“Lord bless you, brothers,” said the captain reproachfully, “what is the meaning of this worldly exhibition?”
The Long Kid turned naively and held out his hand. “Hallelujah, captain! We’ve found a drawin’ card that’ll sure fill the hall t’night.” He smiled encouragingly at the sergeant-major. “Jest let us turn loose on the corner an’ I’ll guarantee a crowd at the meetin’ inside. Good-evening, Sister Allie, God bless yuh!”
“Brother,” protested the captain solemnly, “would you bring the Army into disrepute with the people in this fashion?”
“Aw, where’s the harm?” drawled the Kid coolly. He gave a comprehensive glance about him. “Of course, we’ll have the Salvation words,” he amended quickly. “I didn’t mean t’ sing them I sung jest now, though they ain’t so bad, neither, in their place. But I’ll sing the others, o’ course. It’s the dance that’ll fetch the crowd, see?”
“No, brother. If your heart was right you would see that it is impossible. We can’t allow anything of that sort in the Army.”
The eyes of the Kid widened and darkened. “Gee whiz! What will yuh let a feller do? Yuh use that same tune in the meetin’s—I’ve heard yuh sing it lots uh times. An’ yuh keep time to it with yer han’s—what’s the matter of usin’ yer feet fer a change? Feet er han’s, it’s all the same.”
The captain shook his head. “It isn’t the same, brother. We may clap our hands for the glory of God—dancing is the devil’s pastime.”
The Kid’s eyes flashed. “Yuh use the devil’s tunes, an’ yuh don’t call that no sin. It’s no worse t’ use his ‘pastime’ if yuh want to.”
“You can’t turn our meetings into a variety show,” declared the captain with more warmth than was quite consistent with his calling.
“Oh, I can’t, eh?” There was a sneer in the Long Kid’s voice. “Seems t’ me yuh come blame near it sometimes yerself, captain. Yuh ain't above usin’ variety tunes, I notice. An’ yuh clap yer han’s and rattle yer tambourines an’ stomp yer feet an’ holler an’ manage t’ kick up more racket than all the varieties put t’gether. An’ if I ain’t seen the lootenant here a-waltzin’ across the platform when he got right warmed up t’ a good dance tune, then I don't know a waltz from a funeral march!"
Here Allie Burns laid a hand entreatingly upon his arm and the Kid gulped down the torrent of angry words and subsided.
“Brother, I have long feared that you were not fully saved. What you need is a change of heart. Let us pray.”
That ended the discussion, but it left the Long Kid unconvinced and angry. He did not kneel with the others; instead, he sat down in the front row of chairs and breathed heavily. Allie Burns came over and begged him to “never mind” and to go on the march, but he only shook his head and she went out looking ready to cry. He did not sit upon the platform that night, and he did not sing his accustomed solo while the collection was being taken up; he did not even join in the choruses. The lieutenant came down during the last prayer, to talk to him, but the Kid told him brusquely to “gwan an’ let me alone,” and the lieutenant sighed and went back and prayed for him.
The Kid went down and waited by the door for Sister Allie. When she came he went out with her, took her hand, and tucked it snugly away under his arm as they started for her restaurant. He had never walked home with her before. The captain did not approve of such proceedings and urged upon his soldiers the necessity of avoiding all appearance of evil.
“Look a-here, Allie,” began the Long Kid abruptly, “I’m goin’ t’ backslide. They’re drawin’ the lines too tight t’ suit me, an’ I won't stand it. I wish’t I hadn't bought this uniform—but it’s too late t’ kick about that now. What I want t’ say is this: The captain's plum right about my needin’ a change uh heart. That’s what I sure need, all right. An’ I want t’ change hearts with you. Mine ain’t the whitest in the world—but it’s away better’n it used t’ be, an’ it never was all black—an’ it always was honest, Allie—an’ will yuh let me take yours an’ keep it? If yuh will, I’ll work an’ make us a little home some’ers an’ yuh won't have t’ sling hash no more. Let’s backslide t’gether, Allie—an’ let the Army go hang. Yuh never did git used t’ makin’ yerself c’nspicuous, like yuh had to. Yuh always hated it like the mischief, yuh know yuh did. An’ it looks t’ me like we can be good an’ cut out all that tomfoolery. An’ I want t’ trade hearts with yuh, Allie.”
And because the Long Kid was so tall and handsome and so very much in earnest, and because the heart he offered was big and kind and filled tor overflowing with her own sweet image, Allie consented unreservedly to the exchange.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 83 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse