“Well, now Kenneth, I don’t think you ought to talk that way about the doctor.  A preacher has to watch his interests, hasn’t he?  You remember that in the Bible about—­about being diligent in the Lord’s business, or something?”

“All right, I’ll get something in if you want me to, Mr. Babbitt, but I’ll have to wait till the managing editor is out of town, and then blackjack the city editor.”

Thus it came to pass that in the Sunday Advocate-Times, under a picture of Dr. Drew at his earnestest, with eyes alert, jaw as granite, and rustic lock flamboyant, appeared an inscription—­a wood-pulp tablet conferring twenty-four hours’ immortality: 

The Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drew, M.A., pastor of the beautiful Chatham Road Presbyterian Church in lovely Floral Heights, is a wizard soul-winner.  He holds the local record for conversions.  During his shepherdhood an average of almost a hundred sin-weary persons per year have declared their resolve to lead a new life and have found a harbor of refuge and peace.

Everything zips at the Chatham Road Church.  The subsidiary organizations are keyed to the top-notch of efficiency.  Dr. Drew is especially keen on good congregational singing.  Bright cheerful hymns are used at every meeting, and the special Sing Services attract lovers of music and professionals from all parts of the city.

On the popular lecture platform as well as in the pulpit Dr. Drew is a renowned word-painter, and during the course of the year he receives literally scores of invitations to speak at varied functions both here and elsewhere.

V

Babbitt let Dr. Drew know that he was responsible for this tribute.  Dr. Drew called him “brother,” and shook his hand a great many times.

During the meetings of the Advisory Committee, Babbitt had hinted that he would be charmed to invite Eathorne to dinner, but Eathorne had murmured, “So nice of you—­old man, now—­almost never go out.”  Surely Eathorne would not refuse his own pastor.  Babbitt said boyishly to Drew: 

“Say, doctor, now we’ve put this thing over, strikes me it’s up to the dominie to blow the three of us to a dinner!”

“Bully!  You bet!  Delighted!” cried Dr. Drew, in his manliest way. (Some one had once told him that he talked like the late President Roosevelt.)

“And, uh, say, doctor, be sure and get Mr. Eathorne to come.  Insist on it.  It’s, uh—­I think he sticks around home too much for his own health.”

Eathorne came.

It was a friendly dinner.  Babbitt spoke gracefully of the stabilizing and educational value of bankers to the community.  They were, he said, the pastors of the fold of commerce.  For the first time Eathorne departed from the topic of Sunday Schools, and asked Babbitt about the progress of his business.  Babbitt answered modestly, almost filially.

A few months later, when he had a chance to take part in the Street Traction Company’s terminal deal, Babbitt did not care to go to his own bank for a loan.  It was rather a quiet sort of deal and, if it had come out, the Public might not have understood.  He went to his friend Mr. Eathorne; he was welcomed, and received the loan as a private venture; and they both profited in their pleasant new association.