"I did once," chuckled the prelate. "It was a big, black cigar inside
a hedge about three miles out of Dublin. I've never smoked since.
Now, if I may go back to the clerical question, you'll probably realize
that a great many mistakes are made."
"I hadn't thought much about that either."
"Probably not, but it's without question that a good many parsons
realize in a year or so that they're not up to their job, especially if
it's a city congregation. The young and over enthusiastic rector
addressing a church full of shrewd, experienced men of affairs is often
in a grievous case. I've sat in the chancel and listened and writhed
myself. There's many a poor parson who would make a good engineer, and
he knows it."
"Then why shouldn't he change over?" Clark was getting new avenues
opened for him in hitherto unexplored directions.
"Because he's ashamed to, and the world has the habit of thinking that
the man who has once been a parson is not available for anything else.
Suppose one of my missionaries came to you for a job--what would
happen?"
"I'd send him to you for a letter of recommendation and then put him to
work."
"I believe you would, now, but not a month ago."
"That's quite possible."
"Well, you have no conception that envy may, and sometimes does, exist
in a black coated breast."
"But why envy?"
"Because devotion to one cause does not stifle natural aspirations in
another. For instance I've often longed for time to do some writing,
on my own account. One of my traveling preachers has invented a
railway switch and I know he dreams of it and makes sketches on the
margin of his sermons. No, my dear sir, the public has doubtless
classified us, and possibly correctly, but we are still fanciful,
and--" the bishop hesitated and broke off.
"Go on, please." Clark's gray eyes were very penetrating and
understanding.
"Possibly I've talked too much about the parson, but there's one thing
that is often denied him and he longs for it intensely--companionship
with his fellow men. The sacrifice of that one thing hurts more than
any other privation. And now that this one-sided symposium on the
parson must have taxed your good nature, let's go to bed. We lift
anchor at seven-thirty, and I go over the side at seven. There's
fifteen feet of water here and a sandy bottom, and if you like we'll
get a few more bass first. Good night! I think you'll find everything
you want in your cabin. Sleep well."
A little later Clark stepped out on deck and breathed in the ineffable
serenity of the scene. A ray of moonlight lay along the inlet like a
silver line. As he went down to his cabin he noticed that the other's
door had swung open. Inside the bishop was kneeling by his narrow
bunk, his face buried in his hands, his broad shoulders bent forward in
prayer. Clark's breath came a little quickly at the strangeness of it
all and, moving on tip toe, he turned the handle softly. In his own
cabin, he lay for an hour staring out of the porthole at the dim world
beyond. He tried to think of the works, but they receded mysteriously
beyond the interlocking branches of the neighboring pines. They
seemed, somehow, less imposing than formerly, and Wimperley and
Stoughton and the rest of them were a long way off. There came to him
the lullulant lapping of water along the smooth black side of the
Evangeline. Presently he dropped into the abyss of sleep, dreamless
and profound.