“If you’d only wired me,” he said. “I could have dug up something that might have tided us over. This man’s dangerous.”
“Mea culpa!” the Head replied. “I had so much on hand. Our Governing Council alone——But what do We make of him?”
“Trust Youth! We call him ‘Mister.’”
“‘Mister Brownell’?”
“Just ‘Mister.’ It took Us three days to plumb his soul.”
“And he doesn’t approve of Our institutions? You say he is On the Track—eh? He suspects the worst?”
The School Chaplain nodded.
“We-ell. I should say that that was the one tendency we had not developed. Setting aside we haven’t even a curtain in a dormitory, let alone a lock to any form-room door—there has to be tradition in these things.”
“So I believe. So, indeed, one knows. And—’tisn’t as if I ever preached on personal purity either.”
The Head laughed. “No, or you’d join Brownell at term-end. By the way, what’s this new line of Patristic discourse you’re giving us in church? I found myself listening to some of it last Sunday.”