A CONFESSION BY WILL GOLDSTON.

I HAVE a confession to make, a confession of a foolhardy escapade of twenty-five years ago. In those far-off days I was young and irresponsible, and had not got that feeling of respect for others which the passing years have taught me. I was determined to get as much fun as possible from life, and it did not occur to me that in so doing I might be causing considerable discomfiture and annoyance to my fellow creatures.

I have laughed many times over this episode, but one must not assume that I have entirely lost my sense of shame. I have done my best to make amends, as I will tell you later. What, then, was my crime? Is Will Goldston a murderer, a thief, a blackmailer? No, he is none of these things.

In August, 1904 I was stopping at a small hotel near Lime Street, Liverpool. It was my custom to take my meals in the restaurant attached to the hotel, and as I was well known to the management, I was always assured of good food and prompt attention to my orders. One day, as I was taking lunch, the newspaper propped up against the cruet, I heard the rattle of a money box at my side, and a pleasant, soft-toned voice said, "Can you spare something, please?"

I looked up. Before me was a Salvation Army lassie, dressed in the regulation uniform of blue tunic and skirt. She had rosy cheeks, fair hair which peeped from beneath the brim of her poke bonnet, and large, blue eyes which looked straight into mine.

"Please help us," she said. "It's Self-Denial Week."

I slipped a shilling into the box.

"I'm always glad to help a good cause," I remarked, straightening my tie. "But to be quite honest, I don't know much about the Salvation Army."

"Your money won't be wasted," replied the girl, making as though to move to the next table.

"Wait a minute," I said, anxious not to lose her company. "Tell me about the Army."

"There is nothing much to tell. We try to do good, that is all."

"I suppose you are all very good people, Aren't you?"

"Some of us have been bad, but we have heard the call."

"Heard the call? Oh yes, I know. You hear the call, and then join the Army, is that it?"

"Yes."

I was beginning to enjoy myself. This was going to be a delightful leg pull. I cleared my throat, and lowered my eyes to the plate.

"Is it possible for a really wicked man to hear the call?"

"Of course. But why do you ask?

"Because I am a wicked man," I replied in hushed tones. "I have led a terrible life."

"What have you done?

"I could never tell you."

"But why--oh!" And the girl turned crimson. There was silence for a few seconds.

"It is not too late," she continued presently. "Why not join us?

"I am too wicked."

"But we want sinners."

"If you mean that, I will come."

She seemed genuinely concerned for me, and told me exactly where to find the Army Hall. There was a meeting on the following evening at seven o'clock. I said I should be pleased to attend, and the good girl, satisfied at having done her duty by me, turned to resume her collection.

On the following evening, I kept my appointment to the second. There was a large crowd present when I arrived, and after being enrolled by the Captain in charge, I was introduced to everyone in turn. At first there was some hymn singing, accompanied by a time-worn harmonium. This was followed by several speeches, to which we listened in respectful silence. Altogether, I found it rather boring.

Finally, however, my opportunity came. The Captain regretfully announced that Mr. Blank had been taken suddenly ill They trusted he would soon be well again and it was to be hoped that his enforced absence would not disorganise the band in which his services as bass drummer were much appreciated.

"Now for some fun," I thought. I sprang to my feet. Everyone stared at me.

"Excuse me, Captain. You say your bass drummer is ill?"

"Yes, my friend."

"May I offer my services whilst he is away?"

"Thank you. But perhaps you have never played before?"

"Oh, yes. I was once bass drummer to a big band up in London." Needless to say, I had never handled drumsticks in my life.

"That is splendid. Perhaps you will attend the band practice after the meeting."

I found the rehearsal most thrilling. Although musical ability was never one of my strong points, I joined in with a gusto which. astonished even myself.

"Onward, Christian Soldiers. Boom!
                                 Boom!! Boom!!!
Marching--Boom!--on to war. Boom!
                                             Boom!!"

And so we went on. At length we stopped.

"You're not quite so good as Mr. Blank," said the Captain doubtfully. "Still, I think you'll do. But don't bang so loud unless there's a lot of heavy traffic about."

"Alright, sir. You see, I'm used to a pretty heavy band."

"Yes, quite."

I was served out with a uniform, which I assumed had been made for Mr. Blank. The following day was a Sunday, and we were to have a big outing round the slums. In the circumstances, it was thought advisable to give me my clothing immediately.

It was not till I reached the hotel that I found that the indisposed Mr. Blank was a man of unusually large stature. The cap fitted well. I tried it on at various angles and watched myself in the mirror. The effects were pleasing.

But the uniform was a distinct failure. The sleeves of the coat were a good three inches too long, and the trousers arranged themselves concertina fashion round my ankles. I overcame the difficulty by turning back the sleeves and making an extra large turn-up to the trousers. This was a vast improvement.

My exit from the hotel caused a mild sensation on the Sunday evening. I took no notice of the smirks and smiles which greeted my appearance, but walked briskly round to the hall, faintly humming a few hymn tunes. Here I found myself distinctly unpopular. It appeared that my drum playing had not met with the full hearted approval of the rest of the band. For this I might have been forgiven, but the hostile atmosphere was quickly renewed by my quaint appearance.

I was given a huge leather apron which stretched almost to my toes, and we started out. On the whole, I flatter myself I did well that evening. Now and again, I made a mistake and banged in the wrong place, but, as a beginner, I might have done far worse. At the corner of Scotland Road, that terrible slum quarter of Liverpool, I caused some disorder in the procession by dropping a drumstick. However, we moved on again, and finally stopped outside a public house in Christian Street.

I was glad of the rest, for my exertions had made me hot and tired. We sang a few hymns and my lady friend of the previous day made a speech. By the time she had finished I was feeling much refreshed. The Captain evidently noticed this.

"You might go round the public house with the 'War Cry,'" he said.

"I'd sooner make a speech," I suggested. "I have something of importance to say."

His face fell.

"Oh-er, alright," he said.

I made a speech. I made a long speech. I spoke for twenty minutes on the evils of drink. I had a reputation in those days as as an impromptu speaker, and I felt at the top of my form. Drink, I said, was the curse of Liverpool, the curse of England, the curse of the world. My audience was interested, and I felt I was speaking well.

But all good things must end. After twenty minutes, my throat and tongue were parched. I decided I had said enough.

"And now, brethren," I concluded, "I must leave you to fight out the battle for yourselves. I have merely pointed out the path you should take. I feel I have not yet said enough, but my mouth is dry. I cannot go on. Excuse me, therefore, while I have a pint of beer." And I pushed my way through the crowd to the saloon bar of the public house.

I had my drink, and peeped through the curtained windows. There seemed to be some sort of disturbance outside. I decided it would be wiser if I slipped off quietly to the hotel, and sent the uniform back by messenger on the following day.

That is my confession. I heaped ridicule on the Salvation Army, a body of men and women who strive to do good in the world, and whose courage could never be doubted, no matter what one might think of their religious outlook. But I have done my best to atone for my crime. Every year since that date I have made a special donation to the Army during Self-Denial Week.

End of Sensational Tales of Mystery Men.