"But the language!" objected Morrison, the white-faced, earnest-eyed
improver, who was leading a profoundly religious life under great
difficulties.

"_Language_, man!" roared Parsons, "why, it's _Literature_!"

"Sunday isn't the time for Literature."

"It's the only time we've got. And besides--"

The horrors of religious controversy would begin....

Mr. Polly stuck loyally to the Three Ps, but in the secret places of
his heart he was torn. A fire of conviction burnt in Morrison's eyes
and spoke in his urgent persuasive voice; he lived the better life
manifestly, chaste in word and deed, industrious, studiously kindly.
When the junior apprentice had sore feet and homesickness Morrison
washed the feet and comforted the heart, and he helped other men to
get through with their work when he might have gone early, a
superhuman thing to do. Polly was secretly a little afraid to be left
alone with this man and the power of the spirit that was in him. He
felt watched.

Platt, also struggling with things his mind could not contrive to
reconcile, said "that confounded hypocrite."

"He's no hypocrite," said Parsons, "he's no hypocrite, O' Man. But
he's got no blessed Joy de Vive; that's what's wrong with him. Let's
go down to the Harbour Arms and see some of those blessed old captains