Clark smiled and shook his head. "I've never wanted to."
"I did once," chuckled the prelate. "It was a big, black cigar inside a hedge about three miles out of Dublin. I've never smoked since. Now, if I may go back to the clerical question, you'll probably realize that a great many mistakes are made."
"I hadn't thought much about that either."
"Probably not, but it's without question that a good many parsons realize in a year or so that they're not up to their job, especially if it's a city congregation. The young and over enthusiastic rector addressing a church full of shrewd, experienced men of affairs is often in a grievous case. I've sat in the chancel and listened and writhed myself. There's many a poor parson who would make a good engineer, and he knows it."
"Then why shouldn't he change over?" Clark was getting new avenues opened for him in hitherto unexplored directions.
"Because he's ashamed to, and the world has the habit of thinking that the man who has once been a parson is not available for anything else. Suppose one of my missionaries came to you for a job—what would happen?"
"I'd send him to you for a letter of recommendation and then put him to work."
"I believe you would, now, but not a month ago."
"That's quite possible."
"Well, you have no conception that envy may, and sometimes does, exist in a black coated breast."