Humans is the most disappointin’ of all the animals: when a mule opens his mouth, you know what sort of a noise is about to happen, an’ can brace yourself accordin’; an’ the same is true o’ screech-owls, an’ guinea-hens an’ such; but no one can prepare for what is to come forth when a human opens his mouth. You meet up with a professor what knows all about the stars an’ the waterlines in the hills an’ the petrified fishes, an’ such; but his method o’ bein’ friendly an’ agreeable is to sing comic songs like a squeaky saw, an’ dance jigs as graceful as a store box; while the fellow what can sing an’ dance is forever tryin’ to lecture about stuff he is densely ignorant of.

The other animals is willin’ to do what they can do, an’ they take pride in seein’ how well they can do it; but not so a human. He only takes pride in tryin’ to do the things he can’t do. A hog don’t try to fly, nor a butterfly don’t try to play the cornet, nor a cow don’t set an’ fret because she can’t climb trees like a squirrel; but not so with man: he has to try everything ’at anything else ever tried, an’ he don’t care what it costs nor who gets killed in the attempt. Sometimes you hear a wise guy say: “No, no that’s contrary to human nature.” This is so simple minded it allus makes me silent. Human nature is so blame contrary, itself, that nothin’ else could possibly be contrary to it. To think of Horace knowin’ about the Friar, an’ yet doggin’ me all over the map with that song of his, was enough to make me shake him; but I didn’t. I wanted the story, so I pumped him for it, patient an’ persistent.

“I never was very religious,” began Horace. Most people begin stories about other people, by tellin’ you a lot about themselves, so I had my resignation braced for this. “I allus liked the Greek religion better ’n airy other,” he went on. “It was a fine, free, joyous religion, founded on Art an’ music, an’ symmetry—”

I was willin’ to stand for his own biography; but after waitin’ this long for a clue to the Friar’s past, I wasn’t resigned to hearin’ a joint debate on the different religions; so I interrupted, by askin’ if him believin’ in the Greek religion was what had made Friar Tuck throw up his job.

“No, you chump,”—me an’ Horace was such good friends by this time that we didn’t have any regard for one another’s feelin’s. “No, you chump,” he sez, “I told you he quit on account of a girl. I don’t look like a girl, do I?”

“Well,” sez I, studying him sober, “those side-burns look as if they might ’a’ been bangs which had lost their holt in front an’ slipped down to your lip; but aside from this you don’t resemble a girl enough to drive a man out o’ church.”

I allus had better luck with Horace after I’d spurred him up a bit.

“You see, Friar Tuck, as you call him, was a good deal of a fanatic, those days,” sez Horace, after he’d thrown a stone at me. “He took his religion serious, an’ wanted to transform the world into what it would be if all people tried their best to live actual Christ-like lives. He was a big country boy, fresh from college, an’ full of ideals, an’ feelin’ strong enough to hammer things out accordin’ to the pattern he had chose.

“It was his voice which got him his place. He had a perfectly marvelous voice, an’ I never heard any one else read the service like he did. This was what took me to church, and I’d have gone as long as he stayed. You see, Happy, life is really made up of sensations an’ emotions; and it used to lift me into the clouds to see his shinin’ youth robed in white, an’ hear that wonderful voice of his fillin’ the great, soft-lighted church with melody an’ mystery. It was all I asked of religion an’ it filled me with peace an’ inspiration. Of course, from a philosophical standpoint, the Greek religion—”

“Did the girl believe in the Greek religion?” I asked to switch him back.

“No, no,” he snapped. “This Greek religion that I’m speakin’ of died out two thousand years ago.”

“Then let’s let it rest in peace,” sez I, “an’ go on with your story.”

“You understand that this was a fashionable church,” sez Horace. “They was willin’ to pay any sum for music an’ fine readin’ an’ all that; but they wasn’t minded to carry out young Carmichaels plan in the matter of Christianizin’ the world. They was respectable, an’ they insisted that all who joined in with ’em must be respectable, too; while he discovered that a lot o’ the most persistent sinners wasn’t respectable at all. His theory was, that religion was for the vulgar sinners, full as much as for the respectable ones; so he made a round-up an’ wrangled in as choice a lot o’ sinners as a body ever saw; but his bosses wouldn’t stand for his corralin’ ’em up in that fashionable church.

“He stood out for the sinners; an’ finally they compromised by gettin’ him a little chapel in the slums, an’ lettin’ him go as far as he liked with the tough sinners down there through the week; but readin’ the service on Sundays to the respectable sinners in the big church. This plan worked smooth as ice, until they felt the need of a soprano singer who could scrape a little harder again’ the ceilin’ than the one they already had. Then Carmichael told ’em that he had discovered a girl with a phe-nominal voice, an’ had been teachin’ her music for some time. He brought her up an’ gave her a trial—”

“An’ she was the girl, huh?” I interrupted.

“She had a wonderful voice, all right,” sez Horace, not heedin’ me; “but she wasn’t as well trained as that church demanded; so they hired her for twenty-five dollars a Sunday on the condition that she take lessons from a professor who charged ten dollars an hour. She was game, though, an’ took the job, an’ made good with it, too, improvin’ right along until it was discovered that she was singin’ weeknights in a cafÉ, from six to eight in the evenin’, an’ from ten to twelve at night.

“The girl had been singin’ with a screen o’ flowers in front of her; and some o’ the fashionable male sinners from the big church had been goin’ there right along to hear her sing; but they couldn’t work any plan to get acquainted with her, and this made her a mystery, and drew ’em in crowds. Finally, as her voice got better with the trainin’, critics admitted ’at she could make an agreeable noise; and the common sinners was tickled to have their judgement backed up, so they began to brag about it. The result o’ this was, that one ol’ weasel had to swaller his extra-work-at-the-office excuse, and take his own wife to hear the singer. Then the jig was up. The woman recognized the voice first pop; and within a week it was known that Carmichael had been goin’ home with her every night.

“Now, you may be so simple-minded that you don’t know it; but really, this was a perfectly scandalous state of affairs, and the whole congregation began to buzz like a swarm of angry bees. Carmichael was as handsome a young feller as was ever seen; but he had never taken kindly to afternoon teas and such-like functions, which is supposed to be part of a curate’s duties; so now, when they found he had been goin’ home nights with a girl ’at sang in a cafÉ it like to have started an epidemic of hysteria.

“They found that the girl lived in a poor part o’ the town, and supported her mother who was sickly, that they were strangers to the city, and also not minded to furnish much in the way o’ past history. They insisted upon her givin’ up the cafÉ-singin’ at once; and from what I’ve heard, they turned up their noses when they said it.

“Carmichael pointed out that she was givin’ up twenty a week for lessons which they had insisted upon; and asked ’em if they were sure a girl could be any more, respectable, supportin’ a sickly mother on five a week, than if she added fifteen to it by singin’ in a cafÉ. He got right uppish about it and said right out that he couldn’t see where it was one bit more hellish for her to sing at the cafÉ than for other Christians to pay for a chance to listen to her.

“This tangled ’em up in their own ropes consid’able; but what finally settled it was, ’at their richest member up and died, and they simply had to have a sky-scrapin’ soprano to start him off in good style; so they gave her twenty a week and paid for her lessons. The cafÉ people soon found what a card she’d been and they offered her fifty a week; but she was game and stuck to the agreement.”

“How did you find out all this, Horace?” I asked.

“A friend o’ mine belonged to the vestry,” sez Horace; “and he kept me posted to the minute. This was his first term at it, and it was his last; but he was a lucky cuss to get the chance just when he did. I have since won him over to see the beauty o’ the Greek religion.”

“What became o’ the girl?” sez I with some impatience, for I didn’t care as much as a single cuss-word for the Greek religion.

“Carmichael was a gentle spoken young feller,” sez Horace, “but for all that, he wasn’t a doormat by inheritance nor choice, and he kept on payin’ attention to the girl, and got her to sing at his annex in the slums. Night after night he filled the place with the best assortment o’ last-chance sinners ’at that locality could furnish; and he an’ the girl an’ the sinners all pitched in and offered up song music to make the stars rock; but St. Holiernthou wasn’t the sort of a parish to sit back and let a slum outfit put over as swell a line o’ melody as they were servin’, themselves; so they ordered Carmichael to cut her off his list. He tried to get ’em to hire another curate, and let him have full swing at the annex; but they told him they’d close it up first.

“Next, a delegation o’ brave an’ inspired women took it upon ’emselves to call on the girl. They pointed out that she was standin’ in the way o’ Carmichael’s career, that, under good conditions, his advance was certain; but that a false step at the start would ruin it all. They went on and hinted that if it wasn’t for her, he might have married an heiress, and grow up to be one o’ the leadin’ ministers o’ the whole country.”

“What did she do, Horace?” sez I.

“The girl was proud; she thanked the delegation for takin’ so much interest in her—and said that she would not detain ’em any longer; but would think it over as careful as she could. Then she walked out o’ the room; and the delegation strutted off with their faces shinin’ like a cavey o’ prosperous cats. The girl vanished, just simply vanished. She wrote Carmichael a letter, and that was the end of it. Some say she committed suicide, and some say she went to Europe and became a preemie donner—a star singer—but anyway, that was the end of her, as far as that region was concerned.”

“She was a fine girl,” sez I; “though I wish that instead of slippin’ off that way, she had asked me to drown the members o’ that delegation as inconspicuous as possible. I wouldn’t put on mournin’, if the whole outfit of ’em was in the same fix your confounded Greek Religion is. What was her name, Horace?”

“Janet Morris,” sez he.

I said it over a time or two to myself; and it seemed to fit her. “I like that name,” sez I. “Now tell me the way ’at the Friar cut loose and tied into that vestry. I bet he made trade boom for hospitals and undertakers.”