He had interested Charley Steele, also he had amused him, and sometimes he had surprised him into a sort of admiration; for Brown had a temperament capable of little inspirations—such a literary inspiration as might come to a second-rate actor—and Charley never belittled any man’s ability, but seized upon every sign of knowledge with the appreciation of the epicure.
John Brown raised his hat to Charley, then held out a hand. “Masterly-masterly!” he said. “Permit my congratulations. It was the one thing to do. You couldn’t have saved him by making him an object of pity, by appealing to our sympathies.”
“What do you take to be the secret, then?” asked Charley, with a look half abstracted, half quizzical. “Terror—sheer terror. You startled the conscience. You made defects in the circumstantial evidence, the imminent problems of our own salvation. You put us all on trial. We were under the lash of fear. If we parsons could only do that from the pulpit!”
“We will discuss that on our shooting-trip next week. Duck-shooting gives plenty of time for theological asides. You are coming, eh?”
John Brown scarcely noticed the sarcasm, he was so delighted at the suggestion that he was to be included in the annual duck-shoot of the Seven, as the little yearly party of Charley and his friends to Lake Aubergine was called. He had angled for this invitation for two years.
“I must not keep you,” Charley said, and dismissed him with a bow. “The sheep will stray, and the shepherd must use his crook.”
Brown smiled at the badinage, and went on his way rejoicing in the fact that he was to share the amusements of the Seven at Lake Aubergine—the Lake of the Mad Apple. To get hold of these seven men of repute and position, to be admitted into this good presence!—He had a pious exaltation, but whether it was because he might gather into the fold erratic and agnostical sheep like Charley Steele, or because it pleased his social ambitions, he had occasion to answer in the future. He gaily prepared to go to the Lake of the Mad Apple, where he was fated to eat of the tree of knowledge.
Charley Steele and Billy Wantage walked on slowly to the house under the hill.
“He’s the right sort,” said Billy. “He’s a sport. I can stand that kind. Did you ever hear him sing? No? Well, he can sing a comic song fit to make you die. I can sing a bit myself, but to hear him sing ‘The Man Who Couldn’t Get Warm’ is a show in itself. He can play the banjo too, and the guitar—but he’s best on the banjo. It’s worth a dollar to listen to his Epha-haam—that’s Ephraim, you know—Ephahaam Come Home,’ and ‘I Found Y’ in de Honeysuckle Paitch.’”
“He preaches, too!” said Charley drily.