"You don't think he'll get better, doctor, do you? I'm sure I don't; he seems likely to die tonight.”
"While there is life there is hope in a fever case, so we must relax none of our efforts," was my reply.
The sick man and his frail young wife had recently come from New Zealand. He had contracted typhus fever and his condition really warranted the remark just quoted. The speaker was a kindly but shrewd lodging-house keeper. He had offered to relieve both the worn-out wife and the nurse of the sick man, and to wait for my midnight visit. He had promised to receive any instructions I might give while they got rest.
Much interested in the welfare of his lodger, he was cheered by my reply and readily took my orders. Seeing this, I added: "Whether he lives or dies is very doubtful. Much depends on the nursing of the next twenty-four hours. Anyway, I can tell you this: this man is ready to die. He is a true, simple believer in the Lord Jesus Christ and knows he has a present and eternal salvation. If he departs, it will be to be with Christ forever.”
"Oh yes, sir. I am sure he's ready to die, for he's a very good man," was the rejoinder.
"And I hope you are ready too, my friend," I said, turning to him. "Typhus fever is an ugly occupant of a house, and is no respecter of persons.”
"Well, as to that I really can't say. In fact, I don't think anyone can really know that he is ready in this life," he replied.
I did not stop to point out to him the contradiction of his last two speeches—in one breath asserting that he was sure the dying man was "ready" and in the next claiming that no one could know he was "ready" while in this scene. How very common is this curious condition of matters!
"Then," I went on, "in plain language, you are not saved?”
"No; I could not take it on me to say I am," was his reply.
"I see. But if you are not saved, have you found out that you are lost?”
"Lost? Me lost? No; God forbid. I shouldn't like to think I was lost.”
"Well," I argued, "that is strange. You are not saved, and you will not own that you are lost.”
"Certainly not. Of course, I am not as good as I ought to be—no one is—but I am respectable and religious. That is, I go to church now and then; and though I can't say I'm saved, I shouldn't at all like to think I was lost.”
At that moment a shrill whistle of a railway locomotive about to move in the station nearby disturbed the midnight silence of the air. "What is that?" I exclaimed, seeking to turn the conversation to a subject which would aptly illustrate a point.
"That is the whistle of a railway engine," he said. "So I thought. And can you tell me how many lines there are on a well-appointed railway?”
"Two, of course.”
"And what do you call them?”
"The up line and the down.”
"Exactly so. Now, tell me, did you ever see a man with one leg in an up train and the other on the down.”
"No, of course not—and I never expect to. If a man is on the trains at all, he is either on the up train, or on the down train; he can't be half on one and half on the other.”
"I quite agree with you," I answered. "Now I would just ask: Which line are you on? You are either an unbeliever or a believer. If still an unbeliever, you are in your sins and steadily going on your way toward death, judgment, and the lake of fire—the awful terminus of the down line. If on the other hand you are a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, you are certainly on the up line and will find yourself in the glory to which the Savior's blood brings every redeemed sinner at last. Now, be honest with yourself: which line are you on?”
This appeal laid hold of his conscience. After a moment's silence, during which I saw he was convicted, he replied: “I admit your illustration is very apt. I never thought of it that way before; but I see I must decide the question one way or the other.”
Whether the Spirit of God used this conversation to his awakening and conversion, I cannot say. I did not meet him again; but my patient through mercy recovered.