The padre was making good.
Even Tosher, the dear old dollar-loving Canadian, was a champion of the padre. He was so powerful in the physical sense that he elected himself as a bodyguard. When there was a rough-and-tumble on, Tosher always rescued the gasping curate. There was something real good in the Canadian. If he was no great Christian, he was the best-hearted man in our platoon, and certainly the bravest of the crowd. His M.M. and D.C.M. were evidence of that. And if he did blow his own trumpet, it was not meant seriously, for Tosher, like all Canadians, was fond of ‘chewing the rag.’ The padre made it his business to take Tosher round all the nice people; indeed, he got Tosher fixed up with a neighbouring merchant’s daughter, a most charming girl.
Tosher ceased to violate the moral code.
So far as Beefy and I were concerned, the padre had a lot of work to do. But he kept at it in his own quiet way, and although we never said it, we secretly felt in touch with a better man, and we always accepted a good deal of his advice. Billy worked on ‘the chum principle.’ He simply wormed himself into our confidence, with the result that we never cared to offend him. When he called me ‘John,’ there was something so very paternal in it that I became submissive, and a supporter of Billy, if not a perfect ornament of the Church.
The padre was smashing our lax code.
‘You know, John,’ he said one night, ‘I shall be sorry to leave here.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s a lot of good work going on.’
‘Oh!’