There was something about Courtland's voice, and the way Bill Ward kept
up winking his off eye, that subdued Tennelly.

"Sure, I'll go," he growled, reluctantly.

"You old crab, you," chirped Bill, cheerfully, when Courtland had gone
out. "Can't you see you've got to humor him? He needs homeopathic
treatment. 'Like cures like.' Give him a good dose of religion and he'll
get good and tired of it. Church won't hurt him any, just give him a
good, pious feeling so he'll feel free to do as he pleases during the
week. I had a 'phone from Gila this morning. She says he's made another
date with her after exams. He fell, all right, so go get your little lid
and toddle off to Sunday-school. Try to toll him into a big, stylish
church. They're safest; but 'most any of 'em are cold enough to freeze
the eye-teeth out of a stranger as far as my experience goes."

"Well, this isn't my funeral," sulked Tennelly, going to his closet for
suitable raiment. "I s'pose you get your way, but Court's keen
intellectually, and if he happens to strike a good preacher he's liable
to fall for what he says, in the mood he's in now."

"Well, he won't strike a good preacher. There isn't one nowadays. There
are orators in the pulpit, plenty of them, but they're all preaching
about politics these days, or raving about uplifting the masses, and
that sorta thing won't hurt Court. Most of 'em are dry as punk. If Court
keeps awake through the service he won't go again, mark my words."

They chose a church at random, these two who had decided to go up to the
house of God. High-arched and Gothic were its massive walls, with intricate