eak pane of the
window and read all there was to read about Mesopotamian gods. He read
how the Mesopotamians had a god named Sho (sometimes pronounced Ji), and
that he was described as being very powerful, a striking similarity to
some expressions about Jahveh, who is also described as having power.
Evan had never heard of Jahveh in his life, and imagining him to be some
other Mesopotamian idol, read on with a dull curiosity. He learnt that
the name Sho, under its third form of Psa, occurs in an early legend
which describes how the deity, after the manner of Jupiter on so many
occasions, seduced a Virgin and begat a hero. This hero, whose name is
not essential to our existence, was, it was said, the chief hero and
Saviour of the Mesopotamian ethical scheme. Then followed a paragraph
giving other examples of such heroes and Saviours being born of
some profligate intercourse between God and mortal. Then followed a
paragraph--but Evan did not understand it. He read it again and then
again. Then he did understand it. The glass fell in ringing fragments
on to the pavement, and Evan sprang over the barrier into the shop,
brandishing his stick.

"What is this?" cried little Mr. Turnbull, starting up with hair aflame.
"How dare you break my window?"

"Because it was the quickest cut to you," cried Evan, stamping. "Stand
up and fight, you crapulous coward. You dirty lunatic, stand up, will
you? Have you any weapons here?"

"Are you mad?" asked Turnbull, glaring.

"Are you?" cried Evan. "Can you be anything else when you plaster your
own house with that God-defying filth? Stand up and fight, I say."

A great light like dawn came into Mr. Turnbull's face. Behind his red
hair and beard he turned deadly pale with pleasure. Here, after twenty
lone years of useless toil, he had his reward. Someone was angry with
the paper. He bounded to his feet like a boy; he saw a new youth opening
before him. And as not unfrequently happens to middle-aged gentlemen
when they see a new youth opening before them, he found himself in the
presence of the police.

The policemen, after some ponderous questionings, collared both the two
enthusiasts. They were more respectful, however, to the young man who
had smashed the window, than to the miscreant who had had his window
smashed. There was an air of refined mystery about Evan MacIan, which
did not exist in the irate little shopkeeper, an air of refined mystery
which appealed to the policemen, for