nd it doesn't seem any good. It's as
if our engineer found quicksands that wouldn't hold his stone, and
cross-currents that smashed up all his piles.... I mean, I thought I knew
what would save souls. But I find that I can't because my methods are--I
don't know, faulty perhaps, out of date maybe possibly worse; and, what
is more, the souls don't want my saving. The Lord knows they want
something; I can see that fast enough, but what it is I don't know.
Heavens! I remember preaching in the beginning of the war from the text
'Jesus had compassion on the multitude.' Well I don't feel that He has
changed, and I'm quite sure He still has compassion, but the multitude
doesn't want it. I was wrong about the crowd. It's nothing like what I
imagined. The crowd isn't interested in Jesus any more. It doesn't
believe in Him. It's a different sort of crowd altogether from the one He
led."

"I wonder," said Arnold.

Peter moved impatiently. "Well, I don't see how you can," he said. "Do
you think Tommy worries about his sins? Are the men in our mess
miserable? Does the girl the good books talked about, who flirts and
smokes and drinks and laughs, sit down by night on the edge of her little
white bed and feel a blank in her life? Does she, Arnold?"

"I'm blest if I know; I haven't been there! You seem to know a precious
lot about it," he added dryly.

"Oh, don't rag and don't be facetious. If you do, I shall clear. I'm
trying to talk sense, and at any rate it's what I feel. And I believe you
know I'm right too." Peter was plainly a bit annoyed.

The elder padre sat up straight at that, and his tone changed. He stared
thoughtfully out to sea and did not smoke. But he did not speak all at
once. Peter glanced at him, and then lay back in his chair and waited.

Arnold spoke at last: possibly the harbour works inspired him. "Look
here, boy," he said, "let's get back to your illustration, which is no
such a bad one. What do you suppose your engineer would do when he got
down to the new sea-beach and found the conditions you described? It
wouldn't do much good if he sat down and cursed the blessed sea and the
sands and the currents, would it? It would be mighty little use if he
blamed his good stone and sound timber, useless though they appeared.
I'm thinking he'd be no much of an engineer either if he chucked his
job. What would he do, d'you think?"

"Go on," said Peter, interested.

"Well," said the speaker in parables, "unless I'm