day
gratefully acknowledge that the camps were the turning-point of their
whole lives. The secret was unconventionality and absolute naturalness
with no "shibboleths." The boys were allowed to be boys absolutely in
an atmosphere of sincere if not omniscient fervour. On one occasion
when breaking up camp, a curly-headed young rascal in my tent, being
late on the last morning--unknown to any one--went to the train in his
pajamas, hidden only by his raincoat. At a small wayside station over
a hundred miles from London, whither he was bound, leaving his coat in
the carriage, he ventured into the refreshment stall of the
waiting-room. Unfortunately, however, he came out only to find his
train departed and himself in his nightclothes on the platform without
a penny, a ticket, or a friend. Eluding the authorities he reached the
huge Liverpool terminus by night to find a faithful friend waiting on
the platform for him with the sorely needed overgarment.

No one was ever ashamed to be a Christian, or of what Christ was, or
what he did and stood for. However, to ignore the fact that the mere
word "missionary" aroused suspicion in the average English
unconventional mind--such as those of these clean, natural-minded
boys--would be a great mistake. Unquestionably, as in the case of
Dickens, a missionary was unpractical if not hypocritical, and mildly
incompetent if not secretly vicious. I found myself always fighting
against the idea that I was termed a missionary. The men I loved and
admired, especially such men as those on our athletic teams, felt
really strongly about it. Henry Martyn--as a scholar--was a hero to
those who read of him, though few did. Moreover, who does not love
Charles Kingsley? Even as boys, we want to be "a man," though Kingsley
was a "Parson Lot." It always seemed that a missionary was naturally
discounted until he had proved his right to be received as an ordinary
being. Once after being the guest of a bank president, he told me that
my stay was followed by that of their bishop, who was a person of
great importance. When the bishop had gone, he asked his two boys one
day. "Well, which do you like best, the bishop or the doctor?" "Ach,"
was the reply, "the bishop can't stand on his head." On another
occasion during a visit--while lecturing on behalf of the
fishermen--and doing my usual evening physical drill in my bedroom,
by a great mischance I missed a straight-arm-balance on a chair, fell
over, and nearly