"Thank God," said Dr. Lavendar.
"Dominie, ignorance ain't virtue."
"No; but it's a fair substitute. I wouldn't want one of my boys to be able to pass an examination on wrong-doing."
"But you want him to recognize it when he sees it, don't you?"
"If he knows goodness, you can trust him to recognize the other thing.
Teach 'em goodness. Badness will label itself."
"Doesn't follow," Benjamin Wright said. "But you're a parson; parsons know about as much as females—good females. Look here! I have reasons for saying that the boy ought to get out of Old Chester. I want your assistance."
"Get out of Old Chester!—to see how wicked the world is?"
Mr. Wright shook his head. "No; he could see that here—only the puppy hasn't got his eyes open yet. A little knocking about the world, such as any boy ought to have, will open 'em. Living in Old Chester is narrowing; very narrowing. Besides, he's got—well, he's got some truck he's written. It isn't entirely bad, Lavendar, and he might as well try to get it published, or, maybe, produced in some theatre. So let him go and hunt up a publisher or a manager. Now, very likely, his—his mother won't approve. I want you to urge—her, to let him go."
"Travelling might be good for Sam," said Dr. Lavendar; "I admit that—though not to learn the wickedness of the world. But I don't know that it would be worth while to take a journey just on account of his writing. He could put it in an envelope and mail it to a publisher; he'd get it back just as soon," Dr. Lavendar said chuckling. "Look here, what's the matter? I can see you're concerned about the boy."
"Concerned?" cried Benjamin Wright, pounding the table with his tumbler and chewing orange-skin rapidly. "I'm damned concerned."