‘Well, Billy, I’m giving you a hand, although my views are not your views. Personally, if all the padres were good fellows like you, I would cut out my doubting and inquiring brain, and become a sidesman in your parish church. Religion is all right; it’s the average parson who is all wrong. Some are the fag-ends of humanity; others are ordained Don Juans; many are mercenary adventurers; and only a few are like you—real good men, who believe in what they preach. Hang it all, Billy! half your parsons are not men; they’re women in breeks. You’re about the only man I’ve seen fit to be Archbishop of Canterbury. When I’m Premier, you’ll get the job.’
‘Hear, hear!’ echoed the boys, for Billy Greens was a popular chap.
‘Your flattery’s well meant, Ginger, but I’ve no need of it. I can carry my own bat. You’re not morally bad. Indeed, you’re on a higher plane than many. But, for all that, your intellect makes you dangerous. And it’s up to me to keep you in order. In this hut I’m the Church militant, and if you convert any of these boys to your doubting Rationalist creed, I’ll take it out of your skin.’
‘By Gad, Billy! I do like your pluck. You’re a white man, if you are a parson. I’ll be a real good boy,’ murmured Ginger, who in his heart had a swelling love for the plucky little padre.
‘I’ll vote you in as a bishop too, when I get into Parliament,’ interjected Nobby Clarke.
‘Thanks, Nobby; but you’re a rotten Radical. I’ve no use for your Mumbo-Jumbo trickery and Manchester morality. Your crowd is a mixed bunch of twisters and prudes. You sing the Auld Hundred on Sunday, and pull down the Established Church on Monday.’
‘Good old Billy!’ shouted Ginger.
‘My dear old Pieface, your Church won’t be any good till you get Disestablishment. As long as padres have got security of tenure, they won’t work. They regard a living as an investment. All you can get them to do is to play bowls, read Elinor Glyn, and drink whisky with the squires. They’re the enemies of freedom, Free Trade’——
‘And Free Beer,’ piped Beefy.
‘Yes, they are political mandarins who want to keep the Old Country in chains. The Liberal Party will save all you High Brows from revolution and anarchy. Yet you won’t thank us. You gobble the Morning Post, chew the Spectator, and lick the feet of Arthur Balfour. You Tories are a damned lot of nose-wipers and job-seekers. You haven’t the stomach of a fly.’