Wednesday of that week he was surprised by an unexpected manner by an event which did more than anything else to hasten his recovery.  He was still confined to bed downstairs when in the afternoon the bell rang, and Mrs. Strong went to the door supposing it was one of the church people come to inquire about the minister.  She found instead Alfred Burke, Philip’s old college chum and Seminary classmate.  Mrs. Strong welcomed him heartily, and in answer to his eager inquiry concerning Philip’s condition she brought him into the room, knowing her patient quite well and feeling sure the sight of his old chum would do him more good than harm.  The first thing Alfred said was: 

“Old man, I hardly expected to see you again this side of heaven.  How does it happen that you are alive here after all the times the papers have had you killed?”

“Bad marksmanship, principally.  I used to think I was a big man.  But after the shooting I came to the conclusion that I must be rather small.”

“Your heart is so big it’s a wonder to me that you weren’t shot through it, no matter where you were hit.  But I tell you it seems good to see you in the flesh once more.”

“Why didn’t you come and preach for me last Sunday?” asked Philip, quizzically.

“Why, haven’t you heard?  I did not get news of the affair until last Saturday in my Western parish, and I was just in the throes of packing up to come on to Elmdale.”

“Elmdale?”

“Yes, I’ve had a call there.  So we shall be neighbors.  Mrs. Burke is up there now getting the house straightened out, and I came right down here.”

“So you are pastor of the Chapel Hill Church?  It’s a splendid opening for a young preacher.  Congratulations, Alfred.”

“Thank you, Philip.  By the way, I saw by the paper that you had declined a call to Elmdale, so I suppose they pitched on me for a second choice.  You never wrote me of their call to you,” he said, a little reproachfully.

“It didn’t occur to me,” replied Philip, truthfully.  “But how are you going to like it?  Isn’t it rather a dull old place?”

“Yes, I suspect it is, compared with Milton.  I suppose you couldn’t live without the excitement of dodging assassins and murderers every time you go out to prayer meeting or make parish calls.  How do you like your work so far?”

“There is plenty of it,” answered Philip, gravely.  “A minister must be made of cast-iron and fire-brick in order to stand the wear and tear of these times in which we live.  I’d like a week to trade ideas with you and talk over the work, Alfred.”

“You’d get the worst of the bargain.”

“I don’t know about that.  I’m not doing any thinking lately.  But now, as we’re going to be only fifty miles apart, what’s to hinder an exchange once in a while?”

“I’m agreeable to that,” replied Philip’s chum; “on condition, however, that you furnish me with a gun and pay all surgeons’ bills when I occupy your pulpit.”