He came too, of course, with a Bible and with his kind face like the others, and of course, too, he went to Sunday-school regularly. And while he was watching the bubonic plague sweeping up cities, he tried too, like the others, to tell the people about a God who would not be displeased if they killed the rats and stopped the plague. But he could not convince anybody, or at best a few here and there. The next thing that was known about General Booth-Tucker's work in India was, that he had (still with his Bible, of course, and with his kind look) slipped away and established in the south of France a factory for the manufacture of gloves. He then returned to his poor superstitious people in India who would not believe him, and told them that he knew and knew absolutely that they would not be punished for killing the rats, that the rats were not sacred, and that he could prove it. He offered the people so much apiece for the skins of the rats. The poorest and most desperate of the natives then began killing the rats secretly and bringing in the skins. They waited for the wrath of Heaven to fall upon them. Nothing happened, then they told others. The others are telling everybody. General Booth-Tucker's factory to-day in the south of France is very busy making money for the Salvation Army, turning out Christian gloves for the West and turning out Christians or the beginnings of Christians for the East, and the ancient, obstinate theological idea of the holiness of the rats which the Hindoos have had is being ceaselessly, happily, and stupendously, all day and all night, disproved. Incidentally the little religious glove factory of General Booth-Tucker's in the south of France is giving India the first serious and fair chance it has ever had to stop being a pest house on the world, and to bring the bubonic plague with its threat at a planet to an end. General Booth-Tucker's Bible was just like anybody else's Bible. But there must have been something about the way he read his Bible that made him think of things. And there must have been something about his kind look. He looked kindly at something in particular, and he was determined to make that something in particular do. He had the rats, and he had the gloves, and he had the Hindoo's--and he made them do, and before he knew it (I doubt if he knows it now) he became a saviour or inventor. In the big, desolate, darkened heart of a nation he had wedged in a God. * * * * * I wonder if General Booth-Tucker--that is, the original, very small edition of General Booth-Tucker--had been in that memorable crowd, that memorable day in the Strand when nobody (with a report that was heard around the world) stole a penny--I wonder if General Booth-Tucker would have been A Very Good Little Boy. One of the pennies might have been missing.