Cyrus was in bed.

The history of the case is instructive and should be a warning to other champions.

On a certain afternoon in the fourteenth year of this hero's life the home team had met and defeated the baseball club from a neighboring village. The score was twenty to thirteen. Such a victory deserved celebration. So Cyrus, with half a dozen fellow champions, went to Mrs. Turner's little ice cream parlor and regaled themselves. Each boy had three ice creams, and as the money still held out they decided on a fourth. But Mrs. Turner, having a friendly interest in her patrons, declined to be further identified with this particular debauch.

To victors in the national game this was humiliating. Defeat in an ice cream parlor after triumph on the diamond, was not to be accepted. So they adjourned to the store where a fresh lot of cocoanut cakes had just come in. These cakes were not dry and fly blown like their predecessors. They were fresh, full and well rounded, soft and juicy and nicely browned on top. Wilbur Cobb said he could eat a dozen. But Cyrus, familiar with the deceptive richness of cocoanut cakes, said no boy could eat a dozen, but that he, Cyrus, could eat more than Wilbur. This aroused the sporting instinct of the party and it was arranged, on the spot, that these two champions should compete. The boy who ate the most should pay nothing toward the cost of the cakes. The cakes were two cents a piece.

Cyrus won. He ate nine and claimed, with justice, that were it not for the space already occupied by the ice cream and sponge cake he could have eaten still more.

Half an hour later these same boys, in passing through Deacon Bisbee's orchard, found the taste of green apples cool and refreshing, for the moment, after the somewhat milky fullness caused by the ice cream and cocoanut cakes. And they partook with reckless freedom. What exclamations of surprise or warning may have passed between those hereditary foes, the ice cream and green apples, when the apples entered those overworked stomachs is not recorded. But the apples conquered as easily as the Barbarians when they entered Rome. For green apples, on occasion, resemble Truth: they are mighty and will prevail. And Cyrus, after starting homeward, began to feel, in that region between his chest and legs, as if he had swallowed a football. The distention was painful. Moreover, as he hurried on, the football seemed growing bigger and harder. Also, it showed signs of life. From his interior came rumblings; the rumblings that precede a storm. All through this central zone, this sphere of distention, pains were starting up, sharp, swift, far reaching. It appeared to him that through his equator lightning played. At first these playful spasms darted here and there in a frolicsome way—like airy nothings. Though somewhat threatening and reverberant they did not alarm him. They seemed well intentioned pains, like harmless gleams of lightning on a summer night. But these spasms became less friendly. They grew sharper and more threatening. Soon, like flashes in a real storm, they were shooting here and there as if rending him asunder; no longer playful, but the kind of lightning that rips the bark from trees, tears bricks from chimneys, and spires from churches. When near his own home this storm within grew fiercer yet, and wilder in its fury. So sharp the agony that he clasped the afflicted territory with both his hands, and leaned for support against a fence.

Never before, in his brief career had he realized that the human body could be rent and plowed and torn to shreds without killing the owner.

At that moment Mrs. Eagan came along. Mrs. Eagan had a large face, a large chest, large hips and a large heart. And she was carrying a large basket—of things for the wash. Cyrus withdrew his hands from that region where the tempest raged, straightened up, lifted his hat and bowed. And it was done as respectfully as if Mrs. Eagan were the leading lady of the land. Mrs. Eagan, with a smile of pleasure, returned the salutation, not gracefully perhaps, for she was hampered by the heavy basket. She knew Cyrus, and she knew that in his courtesy to her sex he made no distinctions. She knew that if the Queen of Sheba were passing at the same moment, the Queen of Sheba would have received an obeisance not a bit more deferential than the obeisance to Mrs. Eagan. But as she looked more carefully at the boy's face, her friendly eyes saw clearly there was trouble.

"Why, Cyrus! Are ye sick? Ye are as white as a sheet."

"Yes'm." He spoke in a fade-a-way voice, and he smiled from sheer force of will. "I feel very—very—I don't know." And one of his hands moved instinctively to the sphere of revolt. His head drooped, partly from pain; partly from shame that these awful spasms had weakened his legs and might effect his courage.

"'Tis there ye are sufferin'? 'Tis the belly ache?"

Cyrus nodded. "Yes—Mrs. Eagan—and I never—had—such a——" The lips quivered, his head sank lower and he leaned against the fence for support. Mrs. Eagan laid down her basket. Then closer to the smaller white face came the larger red one.

"D'ye feel so bad as that, little man?"

Cyrus nodded, with lips tight pressed to conceal a quivering he could not control. He looked into the light blue eyes, now near his own, and tried to smile.

Mrs. Eagan said no more. Cyrus felt an arm behind his legs, another across his back, and he was lifted from the earth. She lifted him in her arms—as Hercules might have lifted a spring lamb. With his head against her shoulder she carried him easily up the long driveway to his own home.

There were sleepless hours that night, and Cyrus did some unusual thinking on important subjects. For, as it happened, he had recently read portions of the Old Testament, quite by accident, and was much impressed, temporarily, by certain statements of the Hebrew fathers. He inferred from that book that the Ruler of the Universe was watchful and vindictive, and dependent upon constant praise; that for any dodging of this praise and worship hell fire and eternal damnation were ordinary penalties; that the sins of the fathers were visited upon the children, forever and ever—which seemed unfair. The impression of all this upon his youthful mind was that any person who really believed these things must be either impossibly good or scared to death. While in good health those awful utterances did not worry him. Now, however, in the silent hours of the night, weakened by the devastation in his interior, he became less callous to such warnings. Those Hebrew fathers, backed by the vindictive Almighty, might get him before daylight and consign him, forever, to the fires of hell.

But at last he slept. And when he awoke the sun was shining in his chamber—and he was still alive! However, when Joanna came up with his toast and tea, and sat at his bedside, he was still haunted by the awful prophecies of the Hebrew fathers and by the suspicion that the Avenging Deity might still have an eye on him.

Joanna was a well-built woman of forty, with good features and an honest face. For nearly twenty years she had lived in the Alton family as housekeeper, nurse, companion, cook, friend and servant: and, incidentally, as mother to Cyrus. While Joanna's education had been scanty, her common sense was abundant. Her attendance at church was regular, and Cyrus felt, naturally, that her views on Paradise and Purgatory could be relied on. So he asked if religious people were more likely to get to heaven than other folks.

"Of course," said Joanna.

"Which kind are the surest?"

"The Good People."

"I mean, which kind of religion is the—is the safest?"

"Each one thinks his own is."

"Which do you think, Joanna?"

"Congregationalist."

"Is that yours?"

"Yes."

"Do they have a better chance than Baptists or Methodists or Unitarians?"

"I guess they do."

"But the Unitarians have the biggest church."

"Yes—in this village."

"What do they believe,—the Unitarians?"

Joanna closed her eyes. "Oh, I can't tell you exactly. They believe something about God being the only thing to worship—the most important of all."

"Well,—isn't He?"

"Why—er—yes."

"What's bigger?"

Joanna frowned. "Bigger than what?"

"Bigger than God?"

"Why, nothing, I suppose."

"Then it seems to me He is the One to be friends with." And Cyrus leaned back on the pillow, and turned his face toward the light. Joanna stroked his head.

"But don't you worry, little boy. You are not goin' to die just because you are sick."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am sure, so is your father sure. To-morrow you will be all well again."

"Yes, but I shall die some day and I might as well be ready. You think the Congregashalists have the best chance of getting to heaven."

"Yes."

"Then I'll be one. What do I have to do?"

"Nothing, but just go to church."

"Is God a Congregashalist?"

Joanna hesitated. "Well—nobody really knows."

"Not even a minister?"

"Perhaps he would. But you have asked enough questions. Now try and go to sleep."

Cyrus obeyed, and slept. But that evening when his father came up and was sitting by the bed he made further efforts to get light on the darkest of all subjects. Dr. Alton, however, saw signs of a feverish excitement in the usually calm eyes of the invalid, and he decided upon a soothing course of religious instruction. He knew that this sudden thirst for knowledge in a fresh field could not be allayed by any off-hand advice to forget and slumber. So with a smiling face he answered questions as if the matter in hand was of no immediate importance.

"Father, was Jesus so very good?" Cyrus began.

"Yes, indeed! The best of men!"

"He wasn't better than you, I bet."

"Indeed he was, Cyrus; very, very much better."

"Ho!" said the boy; "I don't believe it."

Dr. Alton explained, in few words, certain important differences between Our Savior and other men. Cyrus listened, and understood; then inquired:

"Was He a Congregashalist?"

Dr. Alton smiled, and shook his head. "Never, Cyrus! Never! He couldn't have been if he tried. And He was not the man to try. There was no cruelty in him. He was all forgiveness."

"Then he must have been a Unitarian, a Piscopalian, or Baptist or Methodist—or something like that."

Dr. Alton closed his eyes and stroked his chin.

"No—I should say not. He might possibly have been a Universalist, or a Unitarian. But why are you so interested in religion all of a sudden? Afraid you are going to die?"

"No, not now. But all lost night I was afraid."

His father took one of the small hands in both his own and smiled into the invalid's adoring face. "There's no hurry about choosing your creed, little man. Benevolent Creators are not punishing children for theological errors. But we can talk it all over later, when you are well."

Cyrus also smiled—"But tell me, father, just for fun, what religion is the best?"

"Well, Cyrus, that's hard to say. There are many to choose from."

"Why, I thought the Christian religion was the only real one."

"Well, that's what the Christians think—naturally."

Cyrus frowned. "But what's the use of so many?"

"No use whatever. One good one would be enough for everybody—and save heaps of trouble."

"But the Christian religion is the best, isn't it—to go to heaven with?"

"That's hard to say. Nobody really knows. It's a good Sunday religion, but it doesn't seem to work so well week days."

"I guess it's safer than any of the others, isn't it?"

"Possibly. But you needn't decide in a hurry, Cyrus. Take your time and look around a little."

"Do people always look around before choosing their religion?"

Dr. Alton laughed. "No, they do not. In fact, it is considered a sign of moral depravity to think too much for yourself in those matters. To be at peace with mankind you must follow your neighbors. It is all merely a matter of geography. When you know the name of the country you know their religious beliefs. There is not much thinking done."

"That's funny," said Cyrus. "But a Christian is lots better than any of the others—isn't he?"

Again Dr. Alton smiled. "Well, he himself thinks he is. But all virtue is not centered in the Christian. When you get up to-morrow and wish to get well and strong you will begin to eat again, won't you?"

"Gracious! I guess I will! I could eat a house."

"Yes, you will be hungry enough. And you will feel like eating quite a variety of things, I suppose."

"Oh, won't I!" And as Cyrus spoke the pallor of the Saint was submerged in a glow of fleshly desire.

"Good! And you shall have it! Now we will play, for a minute, that Christianity is pie."

"Is what?"

"Is pie. Just pie. But there are various creeds of pie among the Christians; there's apple, pumpkin, mince, squash, cocoanut, and all the others."

"Me for cocoanut!" exclaimed the invalid. "Cocoanut pie beats 'em all!"

"That's a matter of taste. But you prefer cocoanut pie to all the others?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Very well. Now there's apple for Methodist, mince for Episcopalian, cocoanut for Unitarian, pumpkin for Congregationalist, and so on, through the list."

Cyrus laughed. "And which are you?"

"I haven't decided yet. But you must stick to your colors and have more faith in cocoanut than in all the others."

"Oh, yes! That's easy!"

"And so you eat nothing but cocoanut pie."

"Nothing else at all?"

"Nothing else. So long as you are a Christian you must stick to your creed. You must feel considerably wiser and better than outsiders who are eating grapes, and roast turkey and custards and watermelons, and pudding and ice cream, and all who eat anything except your one kind of pie."

"Oh, I couldn't do that!"

"But you must, if you want to be a true defender of your cocoanut creed. For all the others are outsiders. Those pudding, turkey, grapes, custard and ice cream people don't believe in your pie."

Cyrus slowly shook his head and pushed out his lips. "I couldn't despise people for eating things they liked."

"Neither could I, Cyrus. So, for the present, anyway, we will eat whatever we want to. And we are just as sure of going to Heaven as if we stuck to one kind of pie."

"Yes, we will," declared the invalid, and in his face and voice had come the enthusiasm of fresh hopes and a new life. "If our minister," he said, "would talk like that in the pulpit, about roast turkey and ice cream and things to eat, it would be more—more interesting. Wouldn't it?"

Dr. Alton bent over Cyrus and kissed him good night. "Yes, but he wouldn't dare—unless his congregation consisted of empty boys."

The father's diagnosis was correct: his treatment a success. During that short half hour the patient had been converted from a terrified sinner to a hopeful gourmand. The anxious look had left his eyes. The lips were smiling.

And that night, instead of fitful wakings interspersed with dreams of hell and Hebrew prophets, of death, damnation and eternal punishment, he slept a solid, tranquil sleep. And such dreams as came were happy dreams. He dreamed of puddings of the richest kind, of turkeys all stuffed and ready; of various pies, of custard, of pastry, and of ice cream, all of which he ate, and ate—and ate. And lying flat upon his stomach on a sponge-cake raft he floated in a sea of pineapple sherbet. He would bite off edges of the raft, then, with his whole face in the boundless ocean, he would suck up long gulps of this divine material. And his permanent residence was in a cocoanut palace against a mountain of vanilla ice cream.

When morning came, and he awoke and sat up in bed, he was himself again. In the sunshine of his room the bottomless pit had lost its menace. His spirit, refreshed by slumber and now guided by his nose, ignored the fires of Purgatory and was hovering over the more friendly heat of Joanna's kitchen stove.

A few days later, when he was curled up at one end of the sofa with a book, he asked: "What is the transmigration of souls?"

Dr. Alton explained.

Then Cyrus, after a good look into the face of the dog beside him: "Whose soul do you suppose is in Zac?"

"That's a hard one, Cyrus. I could only guess at it."

"But it means for dogs, too, doesn't it?"

"It certainly ought. I shouldn't accept it unless it did."

"Then I say that whatever soul came into Zac was the soul of a mighty good man."

"Yes—no doubt about that."

"Just think! Zac may be George Washington!"

"Well—you can't be too sure. You have all the good people in history to choose from, you know."

"Yes, of course. I guess, after all, he isn't George Washington. He is quicker and jumps about more." Then after another look into the dog's adoring face: "Besides, I don't believe any great man in history would be so awful fond of me as Zac is."

"Oh, he might be. Washington would have liked you, I think; although he might not have followed you about so closely."

Other famous men were mentioned: the Emperor Augustus, Magellan, Shakespeare, Daniel Boone and Fenimore Cooper—also Joan of Arc. But it was agreed by both father and son that the best known characteristics of those persons were not sufficiently obvious in Zac to make a clear case.