After our Pentecostal Service, and our breakfast, we compared notes, we two alone.
Once more Hunter had talked a lot at table. It was somehow a little hard completely to identify the Hunter of breakfast time with the Hunter of cock-crow. 'Our friend was rather angelical, only rather,' my host said.
'He was cynical about your cynical business,' I said. He laughed.
'Have you forgotten what he said about missionaries?' he asked.
I smiled ruefully. 'It certainly wasn't up to his level,' I said, 'his cock-crow level.'
'I've got a theory,' said my chin-tufted friend (I have made up my mind to recall Don Quixote in future when I think of him rather than that mediaeval print). 'The subliminal self of the Navy was revealed by that Pentecostal flash. Pentecost was in the air. We saw the real lieutenant in his sleeping sub-consciousness. It's a pity the real self isn't top-dog in ordinary life; it's under-dog for the present, worse luck!'
'But in sleep he's a child still, and a good child at that,' I said.
'Yes, or he couldn't have responded to that Pentecostal suggestion. You or I wouldn't have responded; anyhow, not so readily.'
He sighed. 'It's a wicked world,' he said smiling, 'and we learn many tricks of our respective trades.'
'Speak for yourself and your own trade,' I said sternly. Then I begged him to give up that unmentionable way of obtaining intelligence.
'Let's try to live up to the cock-crow level,' I said. 'We two have seen what we have seen, and heard what we have heard. We have received unexpected Intelligence. We have got some hints as to self and soul, truth and falsehood.'