Signor. Oh, my Jo! I should not like to be eat. I 'ope you vill not go. Let us know before you start.
Father C. (cheerfully). It is certain. I'm afraid I shan't be at the College to see you next Sunday. Good-bye.
[Exit Father C.
We continue our walk.
Myself (the poetical). Ah! What a grand lot! What a high and holy calling. Here we are, striving for comfort, and perhaps for fame, there the missioner goes forth, to die, perhaps in torments, unknown to the world until the Day of Doom.
[I am impressed and silent.]
Signor. Oh, my Jo! I vould not go to be eat. (Nobly, and in true Christian spirit.) I vould say let me go, and I vill run a-vays.
Frimmely (the Prosaic). Martyr! . . . Well, I wouldn't mind being a martyr if I'd been brought up to it. I don't see why you should waste sentiment on Father Cuthbert or anybody else whose profession it is. (Repeating incisively) It's his profession, his business, to be uncomfortable, and, finis coronat opus, martyrdom signifies in his line, success. (We are silent and he continues further to instruct us.) You Catholics (to the Signor), you know, have colleges of Missioners in training; I've seen 'em. As in a Law College there would be portraits of Chief Justices and celebrated Q.C.'s in the costumes of their rank, so in a Missioners' College you have pictures of Celebrated Martyrs in the peculiar Costumes of their particular torments. It's a regular business, with you I mean, not so much with Protestants. We do it more comfortably. With us it's rather a question of a foreign appointment, with a good income.
The Signor. Vell—(considering). I am ongry. Let us go an' eat some-sing.
