ould have shaken hands after
every sentence. He would acknowledge this and claim it as a merit.
It was consistency in his eyes. If our astronomers and inventors and
law-givers had been equally consistent where would modern civilisation
be? Is religion the only domain of thought which is non-progressive, and
to be referred for ever to a standard set two thousand years ago?
Can they not see that as the human brain evolves it must take a wider
outlook? A half-formed brain makes a half-formed God, and who shall say
that our brains are even half-formed yet? The truly inspired priest is
the man or woman with the big brain. It is not the shaven patch on the
outside, but it is the sixty ounces within which is the real mark of
election.

You know that you are turning up your nose at me, Bertie. I can see you
do it. But I'll come off the thin ice, and you shall have nothing but
facts now. I'm afraid that I should never do for a story-teller, for the
first stray character that comes along puts his arm in mine and walks me
off, with my poor story straggling away to nothing behind me.

Well, then, it was night when we reached Avonmouth, and as I popped my
head out of the carriage window, the first thing that my eyes rested
upon was old Cullingworth, standing in, the circle of light under a
gas-lamp. His frock coat was flying open, his waistcoat unbuttoned at
the top, and his hat (a top hat this time) jammed on the back of his
head, with his bristling hair spurting out in front of it. In every way,
save that he wore a collar, he was the same Cullingworth as ever.
He gave a roar of recognition when he saw me, bustled me out of my
carriage, seized my carpet bag, or grip-sack as you used to call it, and
a minute later we were striding along together through the streets.

I was, as you may imagine, all in a tingle to know what it was that he
wanted with me. However, as he made no allusion to it, I did not care to
ask, and, during our longish walk, we talked about indifferent matters.
It was football first, I remember, whether Richmond had a chance against
Blackheath, and the way in which the new passing game was shredding the
old scrimmages. Then he got on to inventions, and became so excited that
he had to give me back my bag in order that he might be able to slap all
his points home with his fist upon his palm. I can see him now stopping,
with his face leaning forward and his yellow tusks gleaming in the
lamplight.

"My dear Munro"