H. R. dressed to resemble an undertaker, but wearing a beautiful orchid
to show he did not do it for a living, called a taxicab, drove to the
Diocesan House and sent in his card to the Bishop of New York.
The Bishop was a judge of cards. He therefore received H. R. in his
study instead of the general waiting-room of which the decorative scheme
consisted of "In His Name" in old English and therefore safe from
perusal. It might as well have been, "Be Brief!"
"How do you do, Bishop Phillipson?" And H. R. held out his hand with
such an air of affectionate respect that the Bishop was sure he had
confirmed this distinguished-looking young man.
But the head of the diocese has to know more than theology. Therefore
the Bishop answered, very politely:
"I am very well, thank you."
"Did you recognize the name?" modestly asked H. R.
"Oh yes," said the Bishop, who recently had read about some meeting in
Rutgers Square and therefore remembered Rutgers.
He was a fine figure of a man with clean-cut features and a look of
kindliness so subtly professional as to keep it from being
indiscriminatingly benevolent; a good-natured man rather than a strong.
One might imagine that he made friends easily, but none could visualize
him as a Crusader. He was cursed with an orator's voice, sensitive ears,
and the love of words.
"Perhaps you've read the newspapers? They've been full of me and my
doings these many weeks," said H. R., looking intently at the Bishop.
"My dear boy!" expostulated Dr. Phillipson.
"I need your help!" said H. R., very earnestly.
The Bishop knew it! Those to whom you cannot give cheering words and
fifty cents are the worst cases. To relieve physical suffering is far
easier than to straighten out those tangles that society calls
disreputable--after they get into print.