He looked at me in a dazed sort of way, and then over his shoulder towards the open flap of the tent. “I’m willing to go, Father,” he said.
“I think you’re a little too eager to go,” I said. “There’s no need, you know, to knock over that box. I put that there for men to kneel against.”
“Well,” he replied, “I’m willing to go, but I want a little time to get ready. It’s a long time since I was here before, and I need a little time to overhaul my mind.”
I could not help laughing, though I felt there was something wrong somewhere. “Well,” I said, “what made you come in if you were not prepared?”
Again he looked over his shoulder, and as he did the truth began to dawn upon me. “Father,” he said, “I was pushed in.”
“Kneel down,” I said, “and take all the time you need, and when you are ready just call me. I am going outside for a while.”
I went out and in a few minutes three figures came noiselessly over to where I was standing. “Is he going to go, Father?” one of them asked. “He is,” I replied, “but he needs a little time to prepare. Why did you send—I should say push—him in before he was ready to go?”
They then told me that it was fifteen years since the man had been to confession, and that he had been bragging about not having been there for that length of time. One of the number had told him three days before to prepare and on account of this they had thought him ready to go.
I think, on the whole, these lay apostles did excellent work; still, now and then, there was an example of perhaps too great zeal. Father Miles Tompkins relates a story which perhaps showed a little overzeal. He was walking with Father McGillvary one day up and down before a little church of a village where troops were quartered when he noticed three khaki-clad figures coming towards them. His first thought was that some poor fellow had imbibed too freely of “vin blink”—the soldiers’ name for the white wine—and that two charitable comrades were escorting him to his billet. When, however, the soldiers drew nearer, he saw that the man was not intoxicated, though somewhat indignant at being hustled so unceremoniously by two comrades who did not bear the insignia of military police. When they were within speaking distance Father Tompkins asked one of the escort what was the matter. “Father,” they said, as they looked at their struggling victim, “this fellow wants to go to confession.”
“Well,” said Father Tompkins, “he does not look very much as if he wanted to go!”