“I listen to that sermon, suh,” said Kettle, earnestly, to the chaplain, “and it cert’ny wuz a corker, suh.”

“That is high praise,” answered the chaplain, “I would rather an enlisted man should tell me that a sermon of mine was a corker, than for the archbishop of the archdiocese to write me a personal letter of praise.”

Just then the chaplain, who was accused of having eyes in the back of his head, saw something directly behind him.  No less than four of the seven McGillicuddy boys were altar boys, wearing little red cassocks and white surplices in church.  They were supposed to leave the cassocks and surplices in the sacristy, but Ignatius McGillicuddy, aged ten, had sneaked out of the sacristy, still wearing his red cassock, and, seeing the chaplain passing out of the gate, thought it safe to begin an elaborate skirt dance, in his cassock, and making many fancy steps, with much high kicking, while the skirt of his cassock waved in the air.  In the midst of his final pirouette, he caught the chaplain’s stern glance fixed on him.  Instantly Ignatius appeared to turn to stone, and the vision of a switch, wielded by Mrs. McGillicuddy’s robust arm, passed before his eyes.  He was immensely relieved when the chaplain said, grimly: 

“Ten pages of catechism next Sunday.”

Kettle went home and was very solemn all day.  Not even the After-Clap’s pranks could make him smile, nor were the After-Clap’s orders always orders to him that day.  In the late afternoon Mrs. Fortescue, seeing Kettle seated in a corner of the back hall, and evidently in an introspective mood, asked him: 

“What’s been the matter with you all day, Kettle?”

“I’m a-seekin’, Miss Betty,” Kettle replied solemnly.

“What are you seeking?” Mrs. Fortescue inquired.

“Seekin’ light, Miss Betty,” answered Kettle.  “I’m seekin’ light on my duty to my country, arter the chaplain done preached to-day.”

“Glad to hear it,” responded Mrs. Fortescue.  “Your duty at present is to look after the baby and me.”

“Gord knows I does the bes’ I kin,” replied Kettle, raising his eyes, full of faith and love and simplicity, to Mrs. Fortescue’s.  “But the chaplain, he say we orter fight for our country; maybe at this heah very minute I orter be a-settin’ on a hoss, a-shootin’ down the enemies of my country.”

“Well, Kettle,” said Mrs. Fortescue, laughing, “as you can’t ride and you can’t shoot, I don’t think you will ever do much damage to the enemies of your country.”

Mrs. Fortescue passed on, laughing.  But some one else had heard Kettle.  This was Sergeant Halligan, a chum of Sergeant McGillicuddy, who had stopped at the Commandant’s house on an errand.  Sergeant Halligan, seeing no one around in that part of the house, winked to himself, and went up to “the naygur,” as he, like Sergeant McGillicuddy called Kettle.

“I say,” said the sergeant, in a whisper, “you’re right about the chaplain’s sermon.  It’s the duty of every man who can carry a gun to fight for his country.  I saw the chaplain looking straight at you, and he was as mad as fire.  A white-livered coward stands a mighty poor chanst of salvation, is what the chaplain thinks.”