I was cleaning out an old box when an old card caught my eye. Queen City Casket Company. "What is it?" I wondered I turned it over. There, in faded ink, was a hand - scrawled   message. Immediately my mind traveled back many years ago. I was nine years old, walking down the cold, wet street of prefix = st1 /Springfield, with a bag of magazines on my shoulder. On my rounds that day, I came to that company finally, whose owner, Mr. Rader, had always taken me there to ask his workers whether they wanted any magazines. Shaking off the rain like a wet dog, I entered Mr. Rader's office. After a quick glance he led me over to the fireplace. Noticing the hole in the top of my shoe, he said, "Come with me!" pulling me into his car . We pulled to a stop before a shoe store. Inside, a salesman fitted me with the finest pair of Oxfords I had ever seen. I felt about 10 feet tall when I got up in them. "We' d like a pair of new socks too," Mr. Rader said. Back in his office, Mr. Rader took out a card, wrote something on it, and handed it to me. With   tearful eyes, I read, " _ ." He said affectionately, "Jimmy, I want you to know I love you". I said goodbye, and for the first time I sensed a flam of hope that somehow things would be all right. With people like Mr. Rader in the world, there was hope, kindness and love, and that would always make a difference. The author came to Mr Rader's company because_.
he wanted to say sorry to Mr Rader for not selling out the magazines Mr Rader was one of his  s he wanted to ask Mr Rader to offer him a job he wanted to have another try after traveling many places