"No," Mrs. Drake replied. "Why?" "Well, he has a fat contract for manufacturing cloth for prison uniforms." "J. H. Creet?" Oliver said, making a note. "A queer name. I never heard of it." Their interest in the matter was evident, but where did I come in? Well—after all—publicity is a great thing. It must be the basis of every reform. I had very little faith in any real good coming from such a campaign, but at least it would call people’s attention to the issue. It was not to be despised. So I fell in with the scheme. Several outsiders have complimented me on the newspaper noise we made, supposing that I was the motive power of it. The praise belongs to Oliver—and his wife. It was remarkable the skill with which they handled it. It was amusing to watch the suave manoeuvres by which Oliver always secured the top line. For a month he worked hard, put in hours of real study. His great speech in Daly’s was masterful. And then things fizzled out. None of the bills got past a second reading. At one of the last conferences I had with Oliver, he asked me why I did not go to Tennessee and visit the Father. "Why don’t you have him come on here for a vacation?" I asked. "He hasn’t been in New York since before the war." Oliver shrugged his shoulders. "I make a point of going out to see him every two years—but he’d be out of place here. The world has moved a lot since his day. He would not understand. He’s the type of the old school. Progress is heresy. Why I’m sure he’d be shocked at my wearing a collar like this. He’d accuse me of papacy. I always put on mufti when I visit him." It was the patronizing superiority of his tone that angered me. I realized suddenly how lonely the Father must be. I had always thought of him as quite happy in having a son who had followed in his footsteps. I am not sure but that with all my outspoken heresy, I was more of a true son to him than Oliver. I resolved to go out to Tennessee at my first opportunity. I am half sorry I went. It was an unsuccessful visit. The barren little mountain village had changed not at all in the years I had been away. There were a few more battle monuments on the hillside and the people still talked of little beside the war. The big parsonage beside the barn-like church was just as I had left it. The Father’s wants were looked after by the numerous progeny of Barnabas, the negro body servant who had followed him through the war. I had been thrown out for my Godlessness and had been expected to go to the dogs. It was something of an affront to the traditions that I had not. To have written a book was a matter of fame in that little village. I found that the Father with childlike pride had boasted far and wide of my having been chosen as delegate to the prison congress at Rome. It was not to be accounted for that instead of coming back as the prodigal I should return as a "distinguished son." The minor prophets of the place were disappointed in me.