“That's so,” was Hi's thoughtful reply; “distributes the trumps.”
Somehow Bill came to be regarded as an authority upon questions of religion and morals. No one ever accused him of “gettin' religion.” He went about his work in his slow, quiet way, but he was always sharing his discoveries with “the boys.” And if anyone puzzled him with subtleties he never rested till he had him face to face with The Pilot. And so it came that these two drew to each other with more than brotherly affection. When Bill got into difficulty with problems that have vexed the souls of men far wiser than he, The Pilot would either disentangle the knots or would turn his mind to the verities that stood out sure and clear, and Bill would be content.
“That's good enough for me,” he would say, and his heart would be at rest.
CHAPTER XXII
HOW THE SWAN CREEK CHURCH WAS OPENED
When, near the end of the year, The Pilot fell sick, Bill nursed him like a mother and sent him off for a rest and change to Gwen, forbidding him to return till the church was finished and visiting him twice a week. The love between the two was most beautiful, and, when I find my heart grow hard and unbelieving in men and things, I let my mind wander back to a scene that I came upon in front of Gwen's house. These two were standing alone in the clear moonlight, Bill with his hand upon The Pilot's shoulder, and The Pilot with his arm around Bill's neck.
“Dear old Bill,” The Pilot was saying, “dear old Bill,” and the voice was breaking into a sob. And Bill, standing stiff and straight, looked up at the stars, coughed and swallowed hard for some moments, and said, in a queer, croaky voice:
“Shouldn't wonder if a Chinook would blow up.”
“Chinook?” laughed The Pilot, with a catch in his voice. “You dear old humbug,” and he stood watching till the lank form swayed down into the canyon.