“Confound it, I can’t go round wrecking people’s homes!”

“Need you take me so literally?” asked Rollison. “Ever done any boxing, Kemp?”

“A bit, at Oxford,” Kemp answered.

“I thought you looked as if you could pack a punch.”

“I suppose you do realise that I’m—”

“A parson, yes. Is that any reason why you shouldn’t behave like a human being?” asked Rollison. “You want to get on top of this trouble and you want the people friendly, don’t you?”

Kemp said: “Yes.” He spoke with restraint, as if he had difficulty in preventing himself from saying just how badly he wanted both those things.

“Then give my way a trial,” advised Rollison. “You’ll soon find out if it flops.” He stepped forward towards the stage and looked at the writing thoughtfully, murmuring: “A nice taste in capitals. Now, let’s get busy,” he said more briskly. “It’s personal but it isn’t aimed at you because you’re Ronald Kemp, recently from Oxford and trying to muscle in on a new district. It’s because of something you’ve done or you want to do, which is upsetting someone’s applecart. Have you any ideas about it?”

“Not the faintest!”

“Try to think some up,” urged Rollison. “Go over everything that’s happened since you arrived and find out whose corns you’ve trodden on. What kind of reforms have you tried to start?” he added drily. “You haven’t seriously had a shot at turning the pagans teetotal, have you?”

“Great Scott, no! I don’t know that I’ve done anything that could offend anyone,” Kemp went on worriedly. “I’ve started one or two of the mission halls going again, there hadn’t been any meetings or social evenings for some time. And I’ve tried to step up the collection of old clothes for some of the poorer people. Do you think they resent that kind of charity?”

“They’d be queer fish if they liked it,” Rollison said.