He had not, certainly, the air of a dupe or a sentimentalist, but inspired confidence by his very personality.  Youthlike, I watched him narrowly for flaws, for oratorical tricks, for all kinds of histrionic symptoms.  Again I was near the secret; again it escaped me.  The argument for Christianity lay not in assertions about it, but in being it.  This man was Christianity....  I must have felt something of this, even though I failed to formulate it.  And unconsciously I contrasted his strength, which reinforced the atmosphere of the room, with that of Ralph Hambleton, who was, a greater influence over me than I have recorded, and had come to sway me more and more, as he had swayed others.  The strength of each was impressive, yet this Mr. Brooks seemed to me the bodily presentment of a set of values which I would have kept constantly before my eyes....  I felt him drawing me, overcoming my hesitation, belittling my fear of ridicule.  I began gently to open the door—­when something happened,—­one of those little things that may change the course of a life.  The door made little noise, yet one of the men sitting in the back of the room chanced to look around, and I recognized Hermann Krebs.  His face was still sunken from his recent illness.  Into his eyes seemed to leap a sudden appeal, an appeal to which my soul responded yet I hurried down the stairs and into the street.  Instantly I regretted my retreat, I would have gone back, but lacked the courage; and I strayed unhappily for hours, now haunted by that look of Krebs, now wondering what the remarkably sane-looking and informal clergyman whose presence dominated the little room had been talking about.  I never learned, but I did live to read his biography, to discover what he might have talked about,—­for he if any man believed that life and religion are one, and preached consecration to life’s task.

Of little use to speculate whether the message, had I learned it then, would have fortified and transformed me!

In spite of the fact that I was unable to relate to a satisfying conception of religion my new-born determination, I made up my mind, at least, to renounce my tortuous ways.  I had promised my father to be a lawyer; I would keep my promise, I would give the law a fair trial; later on, perhaps, I might demonstrate an ability to write.  All very praiseworthy!  The season was Lent, a fitting time for renunciations and resolves.  Although I had more than once fallen from grace, I believed myself at last to have settled down on my true course—­when something happened.  The devil interfered subtly, as usual—­now in the person of Jerry Kyme.  It should be said in justice to Jerry that he did not look the part.  He had sunny-red, curly hair, mischievous blue eyes with long lashes, and he harboured no respect whatever for any individual or institution, sacred or profane; he possessed, however, a shrewd sense of his own value, as many innocent and unsuspecting souls discovered as early as our freshman year, and his method of putting down the presumptuous was both effective and unique.  If he liked you, there could be no mistake about it.