Ol’ Tank Williams allus maintained that I had a memory like the Lord; but this ain’t so. What I do remember, I actually see in pictures, just like I told you; but what my memory chooses to discard is as far out o’ my reach as the smoke o’ last year’s fire. I’ve worked at my memory from the day I was weaned, not bein’ enough edicated to know ’at the proper way is to put your memory in a book—and then not lose the book. I’ve missed a lot through not gettin’ on friendly terms with books earlier in life; but then I’ve had a lot o’ fun with my memory to even things up.

This part about the Friar, though, isn’t a fair test. Horace’s vestry-man friend was what is known as a short-hand reporter. Short-hand writin’ is merely a lot o’ dabs and slips which’d strain a Chinaman; but Horace said it was as plain to read as print letters, and as fast to write as spoke words. Hugo took it down right as it was given; and Horace had a copy which I made him go over with me until I had scratched it into the hardest part o’ my memory; and now it is just the same as if I had seen it with my own eyes—me knowin’ every tone in the Friar’s voice, and the way his eyes shine; yes, and the way his jaws snap off the words when he’s puttin’ his heart into a thing.

Horace sat thinkin’, before he started on with his tale; and I sat watchin’ his face. It was just all I could do to make out the old lines which had give me the creeps a few weeks before. Now, it had a fine, solid tan, the eyes were full o’ fire, and he looked as free from nerves as a line buckskin. The Friar sez we’re all just bits o’ glass through which the spirit shines; and now that I had cleaned Horace up with my nerve treatment, the’ was a right smart of spirit shinin’ out through him, and I warmed my hands at it. He simply could not learn to roll a cigarette with one hand; but in most things, he was as able a little chap as ever I took the kinks out of.

“I’m sorry I didn’t belong to that vestry,” sez Horace, after a bit. “When I look back at all the sportin’ chances I’ve missed, I feel like kickin’ myself up to the North Pole and back. From now on I intend to mix into every bloomin’ jambaree ’at exposes itself to the vision of my gaze. I’m goin’ to ride an’ shoot an’ wrestle an’ box an’ gamble an’ fight, and get every last sensation I’m entitled to—but I’ll never have another chance at a vestry-meetin’ like the one I’m about to tell you of.

“You saw how toppy Carmichael got this afternoon; so you can guess purty close how he looked when he lined up this vestry.”

“Oh, I’ve seen the Friar in action,” sez I; “and you can’t tell me anything about his style. All you can tell is the details. So go to ’em without wastin’ any more time.”

“How comes it you call such a man as him Friar Tuck?” asked Horace, who allus was as hard to drive as an only son burro.

“Well, I don’t approve of it,” sez I, “and I kicked about it to the Friar; but he only laughed, and said ’at one name was as good as another. A bettin’ barber over at Boggs give it to him for admonishin’ a gambler from Cheyenne.”

“Was he severe?” asked Horace.

“Depends on how you look at it,” sez I. “He took a club away from the gambler an’ spanked him with it; but he didn’t injure him a mite.”

“Humph,” sez Horace, “I guess the name won’t rust much while it’s in his keepin’. He took other methods at this vestry meetin’, though I don’t say they were any more befittin’. Hugo—such was the name of my friend—said it was the quietest, but the most dramatic thing he ever saw.

“They started in by treatin’ him like the boy he was, gave him a lot o’ copy-book advice, especially as to the value o’ patience, how that Paul was to do the plantin’, Appolinaris, the waterin’; but that the size an’ time o’ the harvest depended on the Lord, Himself; and that it was vanity to think ’at a young boy just out o’ college could rush things through the way he was tryin’ to.

“The’ was a hurt look about Carmichael’s eyes; but the hurt had come from the letter, not from them, so he sat quiet and smiled down at ’em in a sort of super-human calmness. They thought he was bluffed speechless, so they girded up their loins, an’ tied into him a little harder, tellin’ him that his conduct in walkin’ home nights with a cafÉ-singer was little short of immoral, although they wouldn’t make no pointed charge again’ the woman herself. Then they wound up by sayin’ ’at they feared he was too young to spend so much time amid the environs o’ sin, and that they would put an older man in charge o’ the annex, and this would leave him free to attend strictly to cu-ratin’.

“When they had spoke their piece, they were all beamin’ with the upliftin’ effect of it; and they settled back with beautiful smiles o’ satisfaction to listen to Carmichael’s thanks and repentance. He sat there smilin’ too—not smilin’ the brand o’ smiles ’at they were, but still smilin’. It would strain a dictionary to tell all there is in some smiles.

“Presently he rose up, swept his eyes over ’em for a time, and said in a low tone: ‘Then I am to understand that I am to follow in the Master’s footsteps only as far as personal chastity goes?’ said he. ‘That I may respectably pity the weak and sinful from a distance; but must not dismount from my exalted pedestal to take ’em by the hand an’ lift ’em up—Is that what you mean?’ sez he.

“They still thought he was whipped, so one of ’em pulled a little sarcasm on him: ‘Takin’ the weak an’ sinful by the hand an’ liftin’ ’em up is all right,’ said he; ‘but it’s not necessary to go home with ’em after midnight.’

“Carmichael bit his lips; he tried to hold himself down, he honestly tried for some time; but he wasn’t quite able. His hands trembled an’ his lip trembled while he was fightin’ himself; but when he kicked off his hobbles an’ sailed into ’em, his tremblin’ stopped an’ the words shot forth, clear an’ hot an’ bitish. Hugo sat back in a corner durin’ this meetin’, without speakin’ a single word; and he was glad of it. It saved him from gettin’ his feelin’s kicked into flinders about him, an’ interferin’ with the view; and it gave him a chance to take his notes.

“‘As a matter o’ faith,’ said Carmichael, ‘we believe that Jesus never sinned; but we cannot know this as a matter of fact. Yet we can know, and we do know, as a matter of history, that He mingled an’ had fellowship with the fallen, the sinful, the outcast, and the disreputable. With these He lived, and with these and for these He left the power and the life and the glory of His religion—and you say that I must live in a glass case, may only look in holy dignity down at the weak and sinful; but that I mustn’t go home with ’em after midnight. With God, a thousand years is but as a day—and yet it would be wrong for me to be in a sinner’s company after midnight!’

“Carmichael paused here to give ’em a comeback at him; but their mouths were dry, and they only hemmed an’ hawed. ‘Every Sunday, in the service of this refined an’ respectable church, hunderds of you admit that you have no health because of your sins—and yet, because of my youth, you say I must remain with you where sin is robed in silk and broadcloth, and not risk my soul where sin is robed in rags.’

“He paused again, and this time his eyes began to shoot jerk-lightning, an’ when he started to speak his deep voice shook the room like the low notes of a big organ. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I am not content to walk with the Lord, only on the day of His triumph—The very ones who strewed the pathway of His majesty with palms, and filled the air with hosaners, deserted Him at the cross—but I must walk with Him every step of the way. I do not pray that my earthly garments be spotless, I do not pray that my sandals be unworn an’ free from mud; but I do pray that when I stand on my own Calvery I may stand with those who bear crosses, not with those who have spent their lives in learnin’ to wear crowns.’

“Carmichael had discarded that entire vestry by this time, and he didn’t care a blue-bottle fly what they thought of him. He towered above them with his face shinin’, and his voice rolled down over ’em like a Norther sweepin’ through the hills. ‘Many there were,’ he went on, ‘who cried to Him, Lord, Lord; but after the tomb was sealed, it was the Magdalene whose faith never faltered, it was to her He first appeared; and on the final resurrection morning, I hope the lesser Magdalenes of all the ages, and from all the nasty corners of the world into which man’s greed has crowded ’em, will know that I am their brother, and, save for a lovin’ hand at the right moment, one of them to the last sordid detail.’

“Carmichael stopped after this, and the room was so quiet you could hear the consciences o’ that vestry floppin’ up and down again’ their pocketbooks. When he began again his voice was soft, an’ the bitterness had given way to sadness. ‘The old way was best, after all,’ he said. ‘When you pay a priest a salary, you hire him and he becomes your servant. The custom is, for masters to dictate to their servants; it is an old, old custom, and hard to break. I think I could suit you; but I do not think I shall try. The roots of my own life lead back to the gutter, and through these roots shall I draw strength to lift others from the gutter. I do not value my voice as a means to amuse those already weary of amusement: I look upon it as a tool to help clean up the world. You are already so clean that you fear I may defile you by contagion. You do not need me; and with all your careful business methods, you have not money enough to hire me.

“‘What you need here, is a diplomat; while I yearn to be on the firm’ line. I care little for the etiquette of religion, I want to get down where the fightin’ is fierce an’ primitive—so I hereby resign.

“‘This girl whom you have driven out of my life, needs no defence from me or any man. I have known her since she was a little child; poverty was her lot, and self-sacrifice has become her second nature. We are forbidden to judge; so I judge neither her nor you; but I will say that often I have stood silent before the beauty of her character, and often my face has burned at the tainted money you have put on the plate. Part of this money comes from the rental of dives. I have seen the dives themselves, I have seen their fearful product; and I cannot believe that profit wrung from a helpless slave can find its way to God—even on the contribution plate.

“‘I love the music an’ the service an’ the vestments o’ this church; and I hope I need not give them up; but my heart is in rebellion, and from this time on I take the full responsibility of my acts. I shall not choose my path; but will go as the spirit moves me; and if ever I find one single spot which seems too dark for the Light of the world to enter, then shall the soul in me shrivel and die, and I shall become a beast, howling in the jungle.’”

Horace said that after the Friar had left the room, those vestry fellers sat in a sort of daze for some time, and then got up an’ sneaked out one at a time, lookin’ exceeding thoughtful; while Hugo had hustled around to his room to read off his notes.

We sat there on the hill until dark, me tryin’ to pump him for more details, but he didn’t have ’em. He said the Friar had started to work in the slums; but was soon lost sight of, and the first he had heard of him for years was when he had come up the pass, singin’ his marchin’ song. Course, I’d liked it some better if the Friar had knocked their heads together; but still, takin’ his eyes an’ voice into consideration, it must ’a’ been a fine sight; and if ever I get the chance, I’m goin’ to take on as a vestry-man, myself, for at least one term.