What is your opinion of
a man who tumbles a poor, defenseless girl into prison and then
refuses to let her be decently cared for? How do you express
yourself about him?"
"My son, men often do things of which they ought to be ashamed. I
heard of a young officer once who maltreated a little girl that he
met at night in the street. What evil he would have done, had not
a passing kind-hearted man reminded him of his honor by a friendly
punch in the ribs, I dare not surmise."
"True, and your sarcasm goes home as hard as your fist did,
Father. I know that I've been a sad dog all my life. Miss
Roussillon saved you by shooting me, and I love her for it. Lay
on, Father, I deserve more than you can give me."
"Surely you do, my son, surely you do; but my love for you will
not let me give you pain. Ah, we priests have to carry all men's
loads. Our backs are broad, however, very broad, my son."
"And your fists devilish heavy, Father, devilish heavy."
The gentle smile again flickered over the priest's weather-beaten
face as he glanced sidewise at Farnsworth and said:
"Sometimes, sometimes, my son, a carnal weapon must break the way
for a spiritual one. But we priests rarely have much physical
strength; our dependence is upon--"
"To be sure; certainly," Farnsworth interrupted, rubbing his side,
"your dependence is upon the first thing that offers.
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