“Well, your days of quietness are gone now, Priddy,” he declared. “You’ve got a Pharisee on your trail who will keep it until your days are made miserable.” “But why doesn’t he cut off his beautiful curls and be consistent?” I protested. “Why doesn’t he throw off that peculiar vest and that military coat? He’d be consistent if he did! Talk about offending the weak brother! If a dude wouldn’t be jealous of those finely cultivated curls, I don’t know a dude. I’ll wager Jason is always looking in the glass, at himself!” “Oh,” smiled my roommate, “you just tell him about his coat and his curls and he’ll have his explanation ready. Those curls are sent by the Lord. As for his coat and vest; they are simple, without the fancy incidents common to our coats! Don’t try to beat him in a quibble, Priddy. He’s got you before you start. Can you quote over half the Bible word for word without once looking at it?” “No-o!” “Jason can! Are you able to read it in Hebrew and in Greek?” “No-o-o!” “Jason is! He’s got you when it comes to Biblical quotation and can fit a passage even to so common an act as eating a dish of creamed toast!” “But I shan’t give in to him--that is, unless I really see the force of his arguments, Thropper.” “Oh,” smiled Thropper, “he’ll give you forceful arguments enough, that’s the hang of the fellow. He knows so much! I tell you, Priddy, when you employ logic, biblical lore, and a fanatical sincerity in trying to persuade an innocent little greenhorn like you--to give up a watch-chain and a tie-pin, why, the greenhorn is bound to go under!” “We’ll see!” I declared, as the conclusion of the subject. The next day, Jason found me in a corner of the library busy with my Latin. Without a word he edged over to me, pulled a little black book from his pocket, opened it at a marked place, fixed it on the chair handle before me, indicated the marked passage with one of his long, white fingers and left me to myself. I put aside my Latin and investigated. The book was the writing of John Wesley, and the place marked was a passage in a sermon on “The Wearing of Ornaments” or some such theme. In any case, that was the subject treated in the marked passage. It was a reiteration of the arguments Jason had advanced, but coming from so noted and often quoted an authority as the founder of the Methodists, it considerably sobered my impressionable senses. I had no sooner closed the book, than out of the unseen the Poet flitted to my side, and with a whispered, “Forceful, isn’t it?” Jason took up the book and returned to his study. A day or two later he brought into the dining-hall a little green bound book, printed on cheap paper and entitled, “The Victory of Selina Bostwick--Evangelist.” As he handed it to me, Jason said, “Sister Bostwick is well known to me. I have sung for her in tent meetings, near Chicago. She is a saint of God. I want you to read the place I have marked, if you cannot find time to go through the whole book.”