"Trustees. Build a democratic church. Let the congregation elect the trustees. Let the regular attendants vote. Give out tickets at each meeting and redeem three--five--a dozen, as you determine, for a ballot. Then let your trustees choose the speakers. You may be the chief servant. You must not be master. You may preach occasionally--there must be many--all types--even Jews. To live, it must be free. You must seek men with messages. Anarchists, devils, Catholics, free-masons, republicans, single-taxers, socialists, aristocrats. As Milton put it, you must let truth battle in a free and open encounter. Then you will have something big, vital, valuable. Is it not so?" He paused for breath, and Imrie sat silent in amazement at the enthusiasm, the breadth of vision, the fertile ingenuity of the little man. Then the self-consciousness which had shackled him hitherto in the interview, fell away, and he took up the thread where Weis had momentarily laid it down. Gradually, as proposals were made and rejected and remade, with not a little healthy acrimony, and a very great deal of humour on the part of the older man, which Imrie needed most of all, the idea took shape. "Ho--yes," cried Weis, as a crushing echo to one of Imrie's most rhetorical flights. "That is fine--yes. Fine words--yes. But words--pouf--what are they? You are young--you wish to reform the world. That is excellent--ambition--yes. But no more. If you succeed beyond your dreams, you will do little, very little. Hitch your wagon to a star--yes. But don't try to ride it. On the ground all the time. Save a soul or two if you can, not neglecting the bodies--and be glad. Most of us cannot save our own. Think of the little bug who makes coral islands. Be a good little bug. Be an earnest, God-fearing bug. Help your fellow bugs along the narrow way. But don't forget--you are only a bug--yes--only a bug--oh, so trifling!" It was long after dark when they parted. "It is a field worth tilling," said the older man as they shook hands. "Your hand is on the plough. Keep your eyes ahead." "I feel an inspiration," cried Imrie. "Ho--yes," said Weis dryly. "But that will pass. Then it will be work. But I will help you. I am older. I know--some things. You are a Christian. I am only a Jew. Still--I can help. Ho--yes. I will be with you when the inspiration goes. I am more useful than inspiration. Yes--I will be with you--until you turn back. Then I will not be with you." "I will not turn back," cried Imrie firmly. "Yes--I have known young men before--who would not turn back. We shall see--yes." Imrie felt, as he walked toward the elevator, that there was nothing in the world he would not suffer rather than have those snapping black eyes look upon him with scorn, and hear that crisp voice, with its indefinable accent, say-- "Ho--yes. I have seen--_another_ young man." CHAPTER X A BLUFF CALLED