The clergyman was a nice, chubby, youngish man, and, curiously enough, very like Charlie, my friend in Paris. He was shy and embarrassed, and did not speak except for a brief good evening; he simply hurried down the line of men, thrusting a ticket upon each, and not waiting to be thanked. The consequence was that, for once, there was genuine gratitude, and everyone said that the clergyman was a —— good feller. Someone (in his hearing, I believe) called out: “Well, he’ll never be a —— bishop!”—this, of course, intended as a warm compliment.
