“Don’t make a mistake about that,” suggested Black, quietly.
“Oh—I guess you are a minister, all right,” admitted Tom, respectfully. “And I guess perhaps I want you to be.”
“I’m very sure you do.” Black smiled again. “Did you think I couldn’t take a late spin in your car without compromising my profession?”
“I just thought—for a minute,” whispered the boy, “I saw a bit of a reckless devil look out of your eyes. I thought—you wanted to get away, like me, from this heavy dinner business—and go to—just any old place!”
“Perhaps I do. But I don’t intend to think about moonlight drives till I’ve done my part here. Come on, Tom—let’s be ‘dead game sports’ and help make things go. Afterward—we’ll take the trail with good consciences.”
“Anything to please you. I was going to bolt whenever R. P. Burns got called out; but I’ll wait for you.”
“You seem to be sure he’ll be called out. Perhaps he won’t, for once.”
“Not a chance. Wait and see,” prophesied Tom; and together they descended the stairs.
Tom stood off at one side, after that, with the apparent deference of youth. His eyes were sharp with interest in Black, whose presence relieved for him the tedium of the affair. He saw the minister shaking hands, making acquaintances, joining groups, with a certain straightforwardness of manner which pleased the critical youth immensely. Like most young men, he despised what is easily recognized in any company as that peculiar clerical atmosphere which surrounds so many men of Black’s profession. He didn’t want a minister to bow a little lower, hold the proffered hand a little longer, speak in a little more unctuous tone than other men. He wanted his minister to hold his head high, to make no attempts to ingratiate himself into his companions’ good graces by saying things too patently calculated to please them; he didn’t want him to agree with everybody—he wanted him to differ with them healthily often. As he watched Black’s way of looking a new acquaintance straight in the eye, as if to discover what manner of man he was, and then of letting the other man take the lead in conversation instead of instantly and skillfully assuming the lead, as if he considered himself a born dictator of the thoughts and words of others—well—Tom said to himself once more that he was jolly glad Robert McPherson Black had come to this parish. Since it always devolved upon the Lockhart family to show first friendliness to new incumbents of that parish, it mattered much to Tom that he could heartily like this man. He was even beginning to think of him as his friend—his special friend. And as, from time to time, his eyes met Black’s across the room, he had a warm consciousness that Black had not forgotten but was looking forward to the hour that should release them both for that fast drive down the empty, moonlit road. Reward enough for a dull evening, that would be, to take the black-eyed Scotsman for such a whirl across country as he probably had never known!
But first—the dinner! And Red hadn’t come—of course he hadn’t—when the party moved out to the dining-room and took their places at the big table with its impressive centrepiece of lights and flowers, its rather gorgeous layout of silver and glass, and its waiting attendants. Red hadn’t arrived when the soup and fish had come and gone; when the roast fowl was served; it wasn’t till Tom had begun to give him up that the big doctor suddenly put his red head in at the door and stood there looking silently in upon the company. Tom sprang up joyfully, and rushed across the room. Red came forward, shook hands with his host, and took his place—opposite Black, as it happened.