In the shed they sluiced each other with pails of water, had a rub down
and got into their dressing gowns.

"I feel fine, now, dad, and ready for anything," said Barry, glowing
with his exercise and his tub. "I was feeling like a quitter. I guess
that asthma got at my nerve. But I believe I will see it through some
way."

"Yes?" said his father, and waited.

"Yes. They were talking blue ruin in there to-night. Finances are
behind, congregation is running down, therefore the preacher is a
failure."

"Well, lad, remember this," said his father, "never let your liver
decide any course of action for you. Some good stiff work, a turn
with the gloves, for instance, is the best preparation I know for any
important decision. A man cannot decide wisely when he feels grubby.
Your asthma this afternoon is a symptom of liver."

"It is humiliating to a creature endowed with conscience and intellect
to discover how small a part these play at times in his decisions.
The ancients were not far wrong who made the liver the seat of the
emotions."

"Well," said his father, "it is a good thing to remember that most of
our bad hours come from our livers. So the preacher is a failure? Who
said so?"

"Oh, a number of them, principally Hayes."