"That's where you miss your innings, then. I understand, by way of Ramsdell, that the Methodist incumbent lately preached a sermon upon resignation, and did me the honour of taking me, quite specifically, to illustrate his climax. That is what I call fame, Brenton, a greater fame than any I ever could have garnered in by way of engineering." "Beastly thing to do!" Brenton made brief comment. "Wasn't it? When I get on my legs again, if ever I do, I'll call him out and lick him. By the way, the last of my cigars are in that drawer. Don't let them spoil. Well, as I was saying, what humbugs you parsons are!" Brenton, digging in the chaos of the drawer before him, lifted up his head. "Aren't we, though!" he said, with sudden energy. "Hullo!" Reed stared at him in astonishment. "You've found it out?" "I have." "How long since?" Brenton hesitated. "Six or eight months." Reed laughed unconcernedly. "Coincident with my home-coming, Scott? I hope I didn't bring the seeds of disaffection with me. But, for a fact, is that the present row?" "Yes." There came a long silence. Then Reed spoke. "Brenton, you always were a curiously constructed creature mentally. What is the matter? Is your present ecclesiastical harness galling you?" "Yes." Brenton lighted a match with exceeding awkwardness. "Bedding is inflammable, Brenton," Reed warned him. "Therefore I advise you to keep a steady hand. I'm too big a brand for a slim chap like you to pluck from the burning, to our mutual comfort. Apropos, there's another grand idea for your sermon. You can suppress the naughty nicotine motif for the theme, if you choose. But what in thunder, made you put on the harness, in the first place?" "Filial devotion." "Exactly. I remember. But you chose another pattern, sloughed off the work-horse collar of Calvinism in favour of the lighter ritualistic bridle, if I may speak picturesquely. You made your choice. Now what's the matter? Hitched up too short; or have you kicked over the traces?" "No; not yet." Brenton spoke grimly, his overcast gray eyes offering a curious contrast to the sunny brown ones of the man lying flat and still before him. This time, Reed looked anxious. "I wouldn't, Scott," he said, and a little note of affection came into his tone. "You'll sure be sorry." "But, if I can't help it?" "You can." Reed spoke crisply. "I can't. The whole thing is galling me, I tell you, the whole--" Brenton hesitated; "infernal sham." The last two words he flung out with a heavy defiance. "_Sham_ isn't a polite word for that sort of thing," Opdyke answered swiftly. "You're the parson, Brenton; I am nothing but a sinner cut down in my prime. Still, in your place, I think I wouldn't call it all a sham. There's too much good inside it. When one has all the time there is, one thinks it out, good and bad, to the bitter end. And there's any amount more good than bad in the whole combination." Brenton nodded; but the nod implied more denial than assent.