“Do you like Doctor Burns’ medicine? He set your leg once, you told me. Did you like that—especially?”
“Oh, well—if you want to call sermons medicine——” began Tom, slyly.
“That’s exactly what many of them are—or should be—and pretty bitter medicine, too, at that, sometimes. Shouldn’t a man have your respect who dares to risk your dislike by giving you the medicine he thinks you need? Is the man who ventures to stand up and tell you the plain truth about yourself, whether you like it or not, exactly a coward?”
“You’re certainly no coward,” said Tom, with emphasis.
“Did you ever happen to know a minister who you thought was a coward?”
“Not exactly. But—if you want the truth—I don’t think, if this country should get into war, you’d see an awful lot of preachers going into it. Why—they don’t believe in it. They——”
“Wait and see. We shall get into it—sooner or later—I hope sooner. And when we do—I don’t think the regiments will be lacking chaplains.”
“Oh!—chaplains!”
“You think that’s a soft job, do you? Do you happen to have been reading much about the English and French chaplains over there, since the war began? And the priests?”
“Can’t say I have,” admitted Tom.