being undermined by so-called scholarship, which is
nothing less than blasphemy and impudent scepticism.' And so he went on
shrieking more and more wildly a lot of tommy-rot. But the worst was yet
to come. All at once Sandy changed his line of attack and proceeded to
take Boyle on the flank. 'Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker?' he asked. 'Yes,'
stammered poor Boyle, getting red in the face, 'I smoke some.' 'Are you
a total abstainer?' And then Boyle got on to him, and I saw his head
go back for the first time. Before this he had been sitting like a
convicted criminal. 'No, sir,' he answered, turning square around
and facing old Squeaky, 'I am not pledged to total abstinence.' Don't
suppose he ever took a drink in his life. 'Did you ever attend the
theatre?' This was the limit. It seemed to strike the brethren all at
once what the old inquisitor was driving at. The words were hardly out
of his mouth when there was a weird sound, a cross between a howl and a
roar, and Grant was at the Moderator's desk. It will always be a mystery
to me how he got there. There were three pews between him and the
desk, and I swear he never came out into the aisle. 'Mr. Moderator,
I protest', he shouted. And then the dust began to fly. Say! it was a
regular sand storm! About the only thing visible was the lightning from
Grant's eyes. By Jingo! 'Mr. Moderator, I protest,' he cried, when he
could get a hearing, 'against these insinuations. We all know what
Mr. Naismith means by this method of inquisition. But let me tell Mr.
Naismith--' Don't know what in thunder he was going to tell him, for
the next few moments they mixed it up good and hot. Say! it was a circus
with all the monkeys loose and the band playing seventeen tunes all
at once! But finally Grant had his say and treated the Presbytery to a
pretty full disquisition of his own theology, and when he was done my
pity was transferred from Boyle to him, for it seemed that on every
doctrine where Boyle was a heretic Grant had gone him one better. And
I believe the whole Presbytery were vastly relieved to discover how
slight, by contrast, were the errors to which Boyle had fallen. Then
Henderson, good old soul, took his innings and poured on oil, with the
result that Boyle was turned over to a committee--and that's where he is
now. But he'll never appear. He's going in for journalism. The Telegraph
wants him."

"Journalism?" cried Margaret faintly. She was thinking of the dark-faced
old lady up