Pippin's eyes were very large and round.
"Sure I do! What else would I? The Lord give me the voice, didn't He? Behooves me praise Him with it; that's right, ain't it, Elder? Or ain't it? Have I took too much upon me? Say the word, and—"
"Perfectly right! Perfectly right, Pippin! Sing all you possibly can. But Tom cannot sing, and, if you ask me, I think he would make a very poor hand at praying; but he's a good fellow for all that. It's good honest work he's going to do, too; pleasant work. I'd like to go lobstering myself for a change!"
"You wouldn't! Not with all that mess of cold water heavin' up round you all the time—honest, Elder! I never was in a boat in my life, and I never hope to be."
The chaplain sighed and smiled. The sea had been his life dream. It came before him now, blue, alluring, mysterious—he brushed it away, and bade Pippin sit down.
"You've had your innings," he said, "and I've told you all I'm going to; now it's your turn to tell me, young man. How comes it that you are back in the city, Pippin? Didn't I warn you against it? Didn't I tell you you were sure to get into trouble if you came back?"
Pippin sat down and drew out his file.
"You sure did, Elder! and I never meant to set foot in the darned hole, honest I never! But look the way things come round! I had to, hadn't I? I just fair had to! I wrote you about that, didn't I?"
"No! You wrote me that you had found the dandyest place that ever was, and that you wanted to fill it plumb up with boys and bring them up clean and straight, and that you were going to do it soon as ever you had finished the job you had on hand, but you didn't say what the job was, and you didn't say that it would be bringing you back to the last place in the world where you ought to be."
"Is that so?" Pippin ran the file through his hair anxiously. "Now what a lunkhead I be! I sure thought I told you, Elder. Why—well, anyways, I'll tell you now. Why, 'twas at that place, Cyrus Poor Farm—it is a dandy place, now I want you should understand that; and the dandyest folks in it ever I see—almost!" His eye caught the flutter of blue ribbons as Mary entered after hanging out her dish towels. "And—why, 'twas there I found the Old Man, and made him the promise. He's on the blink, you see; in poor shape the Old Man is, and no mistake; and he wants to see his little gal before he goes—well, wherever he is goin'. His little gal, you understand, Elder; his kid, the only kid he ever had, I presume. Mother took her away from him—I'm sure no one can blame her for that—but—well, she's woman grown now, and he's never set eyes on her since she was a kid. Now wouldn't that give you a pain, Elder? He's a rip from Riptown, and he's never done a cent's worth of good that I know of; but there 'tis! And he plead with me, plead real pitiful, I'd find his little gal for him. What would you done, Elder? I looked for grace in him, honest I did, and I couldn't find one smitch, no sir! not one single, solitary smitch, till—what I mean—till—till I see how bad he wanted his little gal; and I thought mebbe that was the way it took him—you get me, Elder?"