"You stab with a jest, Thurnall. You little know how your words hit home." "Well, then, to turn from a matter of which I know nothing--I must keep you in, and give you parish business to do at home. I am come to consult you as my spiritual pastor and master." Frank looked a little astonished. "Don't be alarmed. I am not going to confess my own sins--only other people's." "Pray don't, then. I know far more of them already than I can cure. I am worn out with the daily discovery of fresh evil wherever I go." "Then why not comfort yourself by trying to find a little fresh good wherever you go?" Frank sighed. "Perhaps, though, you don't care for any sort of good except your own sort of good. You are fastidious. Well, you have your excuses. But you can understand a poor fellow like me, who has been dragged through the slums and sewers of this wicked world for fifteen years and more, being very well content with any sort of good which I can light on, and not particular as to either quantity or quality." "Perhaps yours is the healthier state of mind; if you can only find the said good. The vulturine nose, which smells nothing but corruption, is no credit to its possessor. And it would be pleasant, at least, to find good in every man." "One can't do that in one's study. Mixing with them is the only plan. No doubt they're inconsistent enough. The more you see of them, the less you trust them; and yet the more you see of them, the more you like them. Can you solve that paradox from your books?" "I will try," said Frank. "I generally have more than one to think over when you go. But, surely, there are men so fallen that they are utterly insensible to good." "Very likely. There's no saying in this world what may not be. Only I never saw one. I'll tell you a story: you may apply it as you like. When I was on the Texan expedition, and raw to soldiering and camping, we had to sleep in low ground, and suffered terribly from a miasma. Deadly cold, it was, when it came; and the man who once got chilled through with it, just died. I was lying on the bare ground one night, and chilly enough I was--for I was short of clothes, and had lost my buffalo robe--but fell asleep: and on waking the next morning, I found myself covered up in my comrade's blankets, even to his coat, while he was sitting shivering in his shirt sleeves. The cold fog had come down in the night, and the man had stripped himself, and sat all night with death staring him in the face, to save my life. And all the reason he gave was, that if one of us must die, it was better the older should go first, and not a youngster like me. And," said Tom, lowering his voice, "that man was a murderer!" "A murderer!" "Yes; a drunken, gambling, cut-throat rowdy as ever grew ripe for the gallows. Now, will you tell me that there was nothing in that man but what the devil put there?"