Tom opened his paper and read it aloud,--
'"There will be a short service on the shore next Sunday morning." Oh,
indeed,' he said, 'that's what they're after, is it? Distributing
notices for some Methodist meeting. Is that where Christie holds forth?'
'Yes,' I said, 'he preaches every Sunday.'
'Well, Mr. Christie,' he went on, 'you won't have _me_ there to
hear you. I hate those canting meetings, don't you, Jack?
_Subject_. Ah, he tells us his subject beforehand, does he? Very
kind of him, I'm sure! _Subject: Where are you going_? Ah,' said
Tom, 'that's soon answered: I'm going to Scarborough, old fellow, and a
jolly good day I hope to have there'; and he threw the little pink paper
into the air, and the wind carried it far out to sea.
[Illustration]
All this time I had never spoken a word. A great battle was going on in
my heart. Conscience was speaking very loudly, and telling me that I
could not possibly take my pleasure on my Master's own day, but the
tempter's voice was arguing that the time to speak had not yet come, and
that perhaps for this once it would be better to yield to Tom's wishes,
and that I might talk to him quietly about it, and make a fresh start
after our return to London.
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