"Help you to help our church?" blankly repeated the Bishop. The
unexpected always reduces the expectant kind to a mere echo.
"Exactly!" And H. R. nodded congratulatorily. "Exactly! In order that we
may stop losing ground!"
There were so many ways in which this young man's words might be taken
that his mission remained an exasperating mystery. But the Bishop smiled
with the tolerance of undyspeptic age toward over-enthusiastic youth and
said kindly:
"Pardon me, but--"
"Pardon _me_," interrupted H. R., "but since it is only the Roman
Catholics who are growing--"
"Our figures--" interjected the Bishop, firmly.
"Ah yes, figures of speech. Don't apply to _our_ church. The reason is
that the Catholics leave out the possessive pronoun. They never say
_their_ church any more than they say _their_ God. Now, why did we build
our huge Cathedral?"
The Bishop stared at H. R. in astonishment. Then he answered, austerely,
confining himself to the last question:
"In order to glorify--"
"Excuse me. There already existed the Himalayas. The real object of
building cathedrals hollow, I take it, is to fill 'em with the flesh of
_living_ people. Otherwise we would have made sarcophagi. We Protestants
don't bequeath our faith to our posterity; only our pews. They are
to-day empty. Hence my business. I, Bishop Phillipson, am a
People-Getter."
"You are what?" The Bishop did not frown; his amazement was too abysmal.
"I fill churches. Since this is really a family affair, let us be frank.
Of course, you could fill 'em with paper--"
"Paper?"
"Theatrical argot for deadheads, Bishop; people who don't pay, but
contribute criticisms of the show. I am here to tell you how to go about
the job efficiently."
H. R.'s manner was so earnest, it so obviously reflected his desire to
help, that the Bishop could not take offense at the young man's
intentions. The words, however, were so much more than offensive that
the Bishop said, with cold formality:
"You express yourself in such a way--"
"I'll tell you the reason. Deeds never convert until they are _talked_
about. Dynamic words are needed. Ask any business man. I have made a
specialty of them. I may add that I am not interested in making money,
only in efficiency!"
The Bishop saw plainly that this well-dressed young man with the keen
eyes and the resolute chin was neither a lunatic nor an impostor.
Therefore the Bishop instantly realized that the young man could not
help the Church and equally that the Church could not help the young
man. Further talk was a waste of time.
"I fear this discussion is fruitless--"
"I wasn't discussing; I was asserting. I am the man who is going to
marry Grace Goodchild--"
The Bishop straightened in his chair and looked at H. R. with a new and
more personal interest.
"Indeed!" he said, so humanly that it sounded like "Do tell!" Grace was
one of his flock. He remembered now that his friends the Goodchilds had
been in print lately and that editorials had been written about the
young man who proposed to marry the only daughter.
"I promised Grace that I would help our Church--"
To the Bishop these words, which the young man had used before, now had
a different meaning. It was no longer an utter stranger, but an
eccentric acquaintance; a character, as characterless people call them.
"Yes?" And the Bishop listened attentively.
"I've doped it out--" pursued H. R., earnestly.
"I beg your pardon?" said the Bishop and blushed.
"I have arrived at a logical conclusion," translated H. R. "In short, I
have found what will put Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Methodists,
Lutherans, Jews, Parsees, and native-born Americans on the Christian map
of New York. And it will not necessitate turning the unoccupied churches
into restaurants or vaudeville shows."
H. R. turned his hypnotic look full on the Bishop, who read therein the
desire to do.
"Thus must have looked HILDEBRAND!" thought the Bishop, in Roman
capitals, in spite of himself. On second thought he remembered to
characterize the language of Grace Goodchild's fiance as "bizarre."
Experience teaches that it is wisdom to encourage good intentions. This
is done by listening.
Since the Bishop was now obviously glad to listen, H. R. said, more
earnestly than ever:
"Tell me, Bishop, what is it that is desirable to possess and more
desirable to give, elevating, rare beyond words, thrice blessed, and
beautiful as heaven itself?"
"Truth!" exclaimed the Bishop, his voice ringing with conviction and the
pride of puzzle-solving. Being a human being, he had answered promptly.
H. R. shook his head and smiled forgivingly: "That's only theology;
possibly metaphysics. Forget rhetoric and get down to cases. _Truth!_
Pshaw! Can you imagine that combination of four consonants and one vowel
serving as a political platform or included in any live concern's
instructions to salesmen? Never! No, sir. Guess again! I've found it.
Rare, picturesque, with great dramatic possibilities and easy to
capitalize. It is--"
He paused and looked at the Bishop. The Bishop returned the look
fascinatedly. This young man was from another world. What would he say
next? And what would whatever he said mean?
"_Charity!_" exclaimed H. R., proudly.
The Bishop's face fell. You almost heard it.
H. R. shook a rigid forefinger at the Bishop's nose and said, in a
distinctly vindictive voice:
"_'But the greatest of these is charity'_!"
"We always preach--" began the Bishop, defensively.
"That's the trouble. _Don't!_ We'll tackle charity by easy steps. We'll
begin by the very lowest form, in order to break in American Christians
gradually. Feeding the hungry is spectacular and leads to the higher
forms. Show people that you will not only fill their bellies, but send
the caterer's bills direct to the Lord for payment, and the populace
will supply not only the food-receptacles, but the stationery. A great
deal," finished H. R., reflectively, "depends upon the right
stationery."
"I fear," said the Bishop, uncomfortably, "that we are talking to each
other across an impassable gulf."
"Not a bit, Bishop. The human intellect, properly directed, can bridge
any chasm. Let us be philosophical." H. R. said this as one who proposes
to speak in words of one syllable. "Now, good people--I don't mean
_you_, Bishop; you know: _good_ people!--always do everything wrong end
foremost. Now, what do you, speaking collectively, do to feed the
hungry?"
"We support St. George's Kitchens--"
"Ah yes, you astutely work to eliminate poverty by tackling the poor,
instead of operating on the rich. You give tickets to the hungry! Think
of it--_to the hungry_! Tickets! A green one means a bowl of pea soup; a
pink one, a slice of ham; a brown one, a codfish ball. The
polychromatics of systematized charity whereby you discourage the
increase of a professional pauper class! Tickets! To the hungry! Ouch!"
The Bishop more than once had despaired of solving that very problem.
He shook his head sadly rather than rebukingly and said, "I have no
doubt that you are a very remarkable young man and very up to date and
very hopeful, but in a huge city like New York how can any one solve the
problem of helping everybody who really needs--"
"By using brains, Bishop Phillipson," cut in H. R., so sternly that the
Bishop flushed. But before his anger could crystallize, H. R. continued,
challengingly: "Who in New York are in need of charity? Five thousand
empty bellies? No. Five million empty souls!"
It was a striking figure of speech. Before the Bishop could say anything
H. R. went on, very politely:
"Will you oblige me by torturing the ears?"
"Torturing the ears?" echoed the Bishop in a daze.
"Yes; by listening. Do you hear"--H. R. pointed to a corner of the
room--"do you hear a voice from heaven saying, 'Let them that hunger
bring a physician's certificate of protracted inanition? You don't? Then
there's hope. What I propose to do, Bishop, is to revolutionize the
industry." H. R. spoke so determinedly that the Bishop could not help
forgetting everything else and asking:
"How?"
"By giving the ticket to the full belly; not to the empty. We utilize
the machinery already in existence, but the ticket goes to the man
who pays twenty-five cents, not to the man who needs or accepts
the quarter's worth of food. There are people who would compel a
fellow-man made by God after His image to convert himself into a
first-trip-to-Europe dress-suit case and paste labels all over himself:
_Pauper! Hungry! Wreck!_ My tickets will be precious tags marked:
_Charitable! Decent! Christian!_ I accomplish this by giving to the
giver! Success is a matter of labels."
"But I can't see--"
"My dear Bishop, everybody acknowledges that it is much nicer to give to
those you love than to receive. That is why we are exhorted to love our
fellows--that we may love to give to them. It follows that everybody at
heart likes to be charitable. Vanity was invented pretty early in
history. But it has not been properly capitalized by the Churches. Now,
listen to the difference when real brains are used. Remember that though
all is vanity, vanity is not all. Each person who gives twenty-five
cents receives a ticket. Since he lives in America, he gets something
for something! I have planned a mammoth hunger feast in Madison Square
Garden. Each donor from his seat will see with his own eyes a fellow-man
eat his quarter."
"But, my dear Mr. Rutgers--"
"I am glad you see it as I do. The ticket-buyer goes to the Garden. He
knows his ticket is feeding one man. But he sees ten thousand men
eating. He looks for the particular beneficiary of his particular
quarter. It might be any one of the ten thousand eaters! Within
thirty-seven seconds each donor will feel that his twenty-five cents is
feeding the entire ten thousand! Did a quarter of a dollar ever before
accomplish so much? Of anybody else," finished H. R., modestly, "I would
call that genius!"
The Bishop shook his head violently.
"Do you mean to treat it as a spectacle--"
"What else was the Crucifixion to the priests of the Temple?" asked
H. R., sternly.
The Bishop waved away with his hand and said, decidedly:
"No! No! Would you compel starving men--"
"To eat?" cut in H. R.
"No; to parade their needs, to vulgarize charity and make it offensive,
a stench in the nostrils of self-respecting--"
"Hold on! Charity, reverend sir, is never offensive. The attitude of
imperfectly Christianized fellow-citizens makes it a disgrace to show
charity, but not to display poverty. The English-speaking races, being
eminently practical, lay great stress upon table manners. They treat
charity as if it were a natural function of man, and therefore to be
done secretly and in solitude. Our cultured compatriots invariably
confound modesty with the sense of smell. Etiquette is responsible for
infinitely greater evils than vulgarity. Feed the hungry. When you do
that you obey God. Feed them _all_!"
"But--"
"That is exactly what I propose to do--with your help: feed all the
starving men in New York. Has anybody ever before tried that? _All the
starving men!_" He finished, sternly, "Not one shall escape us!"
The Bishop almost shuddered, there was so grimly determined a look on
H. R.'s face. Then as his thoughts began to travel along their usual
channel he felt vexed. He had patiently endured the disrespectful
language of a young man whose point of view differed so irritatingly
from that of the earnest men who were laboring to solve the problem. All
he had heard was confusing talk, words he could not remember, but left a
sting. Time had been spent to no purpose.
"I still," said the Bishop with an effort, "do not see how you solve
the problem that has baffled our best minds."
"Nobody else could do it," acknowledged H. R., simply. "But I have
carefully prepared my plans. They cannot fail. And now you will give me
your signature."
"My signature to what?" asked the Bishop in the tone of voice in which
people usually say, "Never!" He felt that the interview was ended. A
suspicion flashed in his mind that this young man might reply, "To a
check!" But he paid H. R. the compliment of instantly dismissing the
suspicion. This was, alas! no common impostor.
"To an appeal to New York's better nature," said H. R.,
enthusiastically. "The masses always follow the classes; if they didn't
there wouldn't be classes. Mr. Wyman, of the National Bank of the
Avenue, will act as treasurer."
It was the fashionable bank. Stock in demand at seventy-two hundred
dollars a share, and all held by Vans.
"Has he--"
"He will," interrupted H. R. so decisively that the Bishop forgot to be
annoyed at not being allowed to finish his question. "We shall appeal to
all New-Yorkers. Your name must therefore lead the signatures. Much,
Bishop Phillipson, depends upon the leader! Of course there will be
other clergymen, and leading merchants, and capitalists, and the mayor,
and the borough presidents, and the reform leaders, and everybody who is
Somebody. They must give the example. Do you not constantly endeavor,
yourself, to be an example, reverend sir?"
Before the Bishop could deny this H. R. gave into his hands a book
beautifully bound in hand-tooled morocco. The leaves were vellum. On the
first page was artistically engrossed:
_Hunger knows no denomination._
_There must not be starving men, women, or children in New
York._
_We who do not hunger must feed those who do._
_LET US FEED ALL THE HUNGRY!_
"Here, Bishop Phillipson, is the place at the head of the list. It will
be signed by men and women whose names stand for Achievement, Fame, and
Disinterestedness."
H. R. held a fountain-pen before him and pursued: "If you sign, I'll
feed all the hungry--_all_! Have you ever seen a starving man? Do you
know what it is to be hungry?"
The Bishop shook his head at the fountain-pen. He had seen starving men,
but he had read about signatures. He could not officially sanction a
plan of which he knew so little. No grown man can say that he did not
know what he was signing.
"Listen!" commanded H. R., sternly. "Do you hear your Master's voice?"
"Your intentions, I make no doubt, are highly praiseworthy. But your
language is so close to blasphemy...."
"All words that invoke God in unrhymed English are so regarded in the
United States. Grace would have it that you would sign in Chinese if by
so doing it fed the hungry. '_But the greatest of these is charity._'
The reporters are waiting for the list. Everybody else will sign if you
head the list."
"Of course." And the Bishop's voice actually betrayed the fact that he
had been forced into self-defense. "Of course. I should be only too glad
to sign if I were certain such an action on my part would actually feed
the hungry--"
"_All_ the hungry," corrected H. R.
"Even a tenth of the hungry of New York," the Bishop insisted. "But, my
dear young man, excellent intentions do not always succeed. Your methods
might not commend themselves to men who have made this work the study of
a lifetime."
"They have not gone about their work intelligently, for there are still
unfed men in New York. I am a practical man, not a theorist. Emotions,
respected sir, are all very well to appeal to at vote-getting times, but
they are poor things to think with. Now I don't suppose I have devoted
more than one hour's thought to this subject, and yet see the
difference. _All_ the hungry!" In H. R.'s voice there was not the
faintest trace of self-glorification nor did his manner show the
slightest vanity. Both were calmly matter-of-fact. The Bishop had to
have an explanation. So he asked:
"And your--er--quite unemotional and sudden interest in
this--er--affair, Mr. Rutgers...."
"You mean, where do I come in?" cut in H. R.
The Bishop almost blushed as he shook his head and explained:
"Rather, your motive in undertaking so difficult...."
"Oh yes. You mean, _why_?"
"Yes," said the Bishop, and looked at H. R. full in the eyes.
"Because I desire to marry Grace Goodchild and I wish to be worthy of
her. It is a man's job to jolt New York into a spasm of practical
Christianity."
The Bishop smiled. After all, this was a boy, and his enthusiasm might
make up for what his motive lacked in profundity of wisdom.
"And besides," went on H. R., in a lowered voice, "I hate to think that
men can starve when I have enough to eat without earning my food." He
smiled shamefacedly.
"My boy!" cried the Bishop, and shook the boy's hand warmly, "I'm afraid
you are--"
"Don't call me good, Bishop!"
"I was going to say it, but I won't. Do you think you can do what you
propose?"
"I know it!" And H. R. looked at Dr. Phillipson steadily.
The Bishop looked back. He was no match for H. R.
"I will sign!" said the Bishop.