Friar Tuck Part 15

"Well," sez I, studying him sober, "those side-burns look as if they might 'a' been bangs which had lost their holt in front an' slipped down to your lip; but aside from this you don't resemble a girl enough to drive a man out o' church."

I allus had better luck with Horace after I'd spurred him up a bit.

"You see, Friar Tuck, as you call him, was a good deal of a fanatic, those days," sez Horace, after he'd thrown a stone at me. "He took his religion serious, an' wanted to transform the world into what it would be if all people tried their best to live actual Christ-like lives. He was a big country boy, fresh from college, an' full of ideals, an'

feelin' strong enough to hammer things out accordin' to the pattern he had chose.

"It was his voice which got him his place. He had a perfectly marvelous voice, an' I never heard any one else read the service like he did. This was what took me to church, and I'd have gone as long as he stayed. You see, Happy, life is really made up of sensations an'

emotions; and it used to lift me into the clouds to see his shinin'

youth robed in white, an' hear that wonderful voice of his fillin' the great, soft-lighted church with melody an' mystery. It was all I asked of religion an' it filled me with peace an' inspiration. Of course, from a philosophical standpoint, the Greek religion-"

"Did the girl believe in the Greek religion?" I asked to switch him back.

"No, no," he snapped. "This Greek religion that I'm speakin' of died out two thousand years ago."

"Then let's let it rest in peace," sez I, "an' go on with your story."

"You understand that this was a fashionable church," sez Horace. "They was willin' to pay any sum for music an' fine readin' an' all that; but they wasn't minded to carry out young Carmichaels plan in the matter of Christianizin' the world. They was respectable, an' they insisted that all who joined in with 'em must be respectable, too; while he discovered that a lot o' the most persistent sinners wasn't respectable at all. His theory was, that religion was for the vulgar sinners, full as much as for the respectable ones; so he made a round-up an' wrangled in as choice a lot o' sinners as a body ever saw; but his bosses wouldn't stand for his corralin' 'em up in that fashionable church.

"He stood out for the sinners; an' finally they compromised by gettin'

him a little chapel in the slums, an' lettin' him go as far as he liked with the tough sinners down there through the week; but readin'

the service on Sundays to the respectable sinners in the big church.

This plan worked smooth as ice, until they felt the need of a soprano singer who could sc.r.a.pe a little harder again' the ceilin' than the one they already had. Then Carmichael told 'em that he had discovered a girl with a phe-nominal voice, an' had been teachin' her music for some time. He brought her up an' gave her a trial-"

"An' she was the girl, huh?" I interrupted.

"She had a wonderful voice, all right," sez Horace, not heedin' me; "but she wasn't as well trained as that church demanded; so they hired her for twenty-five dollars a Sunday on the condition that she take lessons from a professor who charged ten dollars an hour. She was game, though, an' took the job, an' made good with it, too, improvin'

right along until it was discovered that she was singin' weeknights in a cafe, from six to eight in the evenin', an' from ten to twelve at night.

"The girl had been singin' with a screen o' flowers in front of her; and some o' the fashionable male sinners from the big church had been goin' there right along to hear her sing; but they couldn't work any plan to get acquainted with her, and this made her a mystery, and drew 'em in crowds. Finally, as her voice got better with the trainin', critics admitted 'at she could make an agreeable noise; and the common sinners was tickled to have their judgement backed up, so they began to brag about it. The result o' this was, that one ol' weasel had to swaller his extra-work-at-the-office excuse, and take his own wife to hear the singer. Then the jig was up. The woman recognized the voice first pop; and within a week it was known that Carmichael had been goin' home with her every night.

"Now, you may be so simple-minded that you don't know it; but really, this was a perfectly scandalous state of affairs, and the whole congregation began to buzz like a swarm of angry bees. Carmichael was as handsome a young feller as was ever seen; but he had never taken kindly to afternoon teas and such-like functions, which is supposed to be part of a curate's duties; so now, when they found he had been goin' home nights with a girl 'at sang in a cafe it like to have started an epidemic of hysteria.

"They found that the girl lived in a poor part o' the town, and supported her mother who was sickly, that they were strangers to the city, and also not minded to furnish much in the way o' past history.

They insisted upon her givin' up the cafe-singin' at once; and from what I've heard, they turned up their noses when they said it.

"Carmichael pointed out that she was givin' up twenty a week for lessons which they had insisted upon; and asked 'em if they were sure a girl could be any more, respectable, supportin' a sickly mother on five a week, than if she added fifteen to it by singin' in a cafe. He got right uppish about it and said right out that he couldn't see where it was one bit more h.e.l.lish for her to sing at the cafe than for other Christians to pay for a chance to listen to her.

"This tangled 'em up in their own ropes consid'able; but what finally settled it was, 'at their richest member up and died, and they simply had to have a sky-sc.r.a.pin' soprano to start him off in good style; so they gave her twenty a week and paid for her lessons. The cafe people soon found what a card she'd been and they offered her fifty a week; but she was game and stuck to the agreement."

"How did you find out all this, Horace?" I asked.

"A friend o' mine belonged to the vestry," sez Horace; "and he kept me posted to the minute. This was his first term at it, and it was his last; but he was a lucky cuss to get the chance just when he did. I have since won him over to see the beauty o' the Greek religion."

"What became o' the girl?" sez I with some impatience, for I didn't care as much as a single cuss-word for the Greek religion.

"Carmichael was a gentle spoken young feller," sez Horace, "but for all that, he wasn't a doormat by inheritance nor choice, and he kept on payin' attention to the girl, and got her to sing at his annex in the slums. Night after night he filled the place with the best a.s.sortment o' last-chance sinners 'at that locality could furnish; and he an' the girl an' the sinners all pitched in and offered up song music to make the stars rock; but St. Holiernthou wasn't the sort of a parish to sit back and let a slum outfit put over as swell a line o'

melody as they were servin', themselves; so they ordered Carmichael to cut her off his list. He tried to get 'em to hire another curate, and let him have full swing at the annex; but they told him they'd close it up first.

"Next, a delegation o' brave an' inspired women took it upon 'emselves to call on the girl. They pointed out that she was standin' in the way o' Carmichael's career, that, under good conditions, his advance was certain; but that a false step at the start would ruin it all. They went on and hinted that if it wasn't for her, he might have married an heiress, and grow up to be one o' the leadin' ministers o' the whole country."

"What did she do, Horace?" sez I.

"The girl was proud; she thanked the delegation for takin' so much interest in her-and said that she would not detain 'em any longer; but would think it over as careful as she could. Then she walked out o' the room; and the delegation strutted off with their faces shinin'

like a cavey o' prosperous cats. The girl vanished, just simply vanished. She wrote Carmichael a letter, and that was the end of it.

Some say she committed suicide, and some say she went to Europe and became a preemie donner-a star singer-but anyway, that was the end of her, as far as that region was concerned."

"She was a fine girl," sez I; "though I wish that instead of slippin'

off that way, she had asked me to drown the members o' that delegation as inconspicuous as possible. I wouldn't put on mournin', if the whole outfit of 'em was in the same fix your confounded Greek Religion is.

What was her name, Horace?"

"Janet Morris," sez he.

I said it over a time or two to myself; and it seemed to fit her. "I like that name," sez I. "Now tell me the way 'at the Friar cut loose and tied into that vestry. I bet he made trade boom for hospitals and undertakers."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HAPPY'S NEW AMBITION

Ol' Tank Williams allus maintained that I had a memory like the Lord; but this ain't so. What I do remember, I actually see in pictures, just like I told you; but what my memory chooses to discard is as far out o' my reach as the smoke o' last year's fire. I've worked at my memory from the day I was weaned, not bein' enough edicated to know 'at the proper way is to put your memory in a book-and then not lose the book. I've missed a lot through not gettin' on friendly terms with books earlier in life; but then I've had a lot o' fun with my memory to even things up.

This part about the Friar, though, isn't a fair test. Horace's vestry-man friend was what is known as a short-hand reporter.

Short-hand writin' is merely a lot o' dabs and slips which'd strain a Chinaman; but Horace said it was as plain to read as print letters, and as fast to write as spoke words. Hugo took it down right as it was given; and Horace had a copy which I made him go over with me until I had scratched it into the hardest part o' my memory; and now it is just the same as if I had seen it with my own eyes-me knowin' every tone in the Friar's voice, and the way his eyes shine; yes, and the way his jaws snap off the words when he's puttin' his heart into a thing.

Horace sat thinkin', before he started on with his tale; and I sat watchin' his face. It was just all I could do to make out the old lines which had give me the creeps a few weeks before. Now, it had a fine, solid tan, the eyes were full o' fire, and he looked as free from nerves as a line buckskin. The Friar sez we're all just bits o'

gla.s.s through which the spirit shines; and now that I had cleaned Horace up with my nerve treatment, the' was a right smart of spirit shinin' out through him, and I warmed my hands at it. He simply could not learn to roll a cigarette with one hand; but in most things, he was as able a little chap as ever I took the kinks out of.

"I'm sorry I didn't belong to that vestry," sez Horace, after a bit.

"When I look back at all the sportin' chances I've missed, I feel like kickin' myself up to the North Pole and back. From now on I intend to mix into every bloomin' jambaree 'at exposes itself to the vision of my gaze. I'm goin' to ride an' shoot an' wrestle an' box an' gamble an' fight, and get every last sensation I'm ent.i.tled to-but I'll never have another chance at a vestry-meetin' like the one I'm about to tell you of.

"You saw how toppy Carmichael got this afternoon; so you can guess purty close how he looked when he lined up this vestry."

"Oh, I've seen the Friar in action," sez I; "and you can't tell me anything about his style. All you can tell is the details. So go to 'em without wastin' any more time."

"How comes it you call such a man as him Friar Tuck?" asked Horace, who allus was as hard to drive as an only son burro.

"Well, I don't approve of it," sez I, "and I kicked about it to the Friar; but he only laughed, and said 'at one name was as good as another. A bettin' barber over at Boggs give it to him for admonishin'

a gambler from Cheyenne."

"Was he severe?" asked Horace.

"Depends on how you look at it," sez I. "He took a club away from the gambler an' spanked him with it; but he didn't injure him a mite."

"Humph," sez Horace, "I guess the name won't rust much while it's in his keepin'. He took other methods at this vestry meetin', though I don't say they were any more befittin'. Hugo-such was the name of my friend-said it was the quietest, but the most dramatic thing he ever saw.

"They started in by treatin' him like the boy he was, gave him a lot o' copy-book advice, especially as to the value o' patience, how that Paul was to do the plantin', Appolinaris, the waterin'; but that the size an' time o' the harvest depended on the Lord, Himself; and that it was vanity to think 'at a young boy just out o' college could rush things through the way he was tryin' to.