anything should happen to that chapel, it would break my heart," he said.
"We mustn't let anything happen to it. That's our job," returned Douglas stoutly.
The next morning, Saturday, Douglas left the preacher while he went down to his father's place for his day's work. He was as nervous as a mother with her first baby all day and he galloped the Moose back up the trail long before sunset. When Mr. Fowler waved at him from the door of the cabin, he gave a gusty sigh of relief.
While Doug was cooking the bacon for supper he asked the preacher what was to be the subject of the morrow's sermon.
"I was going to preach on the Golden Rule," replied Mr. Fowler.
"No," said Douglas decidedly. "You give 'em a talk on the hereafter and why you think there is one." He lighted a cigarette and cut more bacon.
"Young man, are you presuming to dictate to me how to preach the word of God?"
"I sure am!" grinning with the cigarette between his white teeth. "I'm in this thing up to my horns and I don't aim to make any false moves that I can help. I've been reading the New Testament this summer. So far, the most I've got out of it is that Christ was the most diplomatic preacher that ever lived. Let's be as diplomatic as we can. What's the use of preaching slush to a lot of sensible, hard-thinking folks who don't believe in anything."
The preacher bit his knuckles and took a turn or two up and down the cabin. Douglas noted with a little sense of pity the extreme thinness of the rounded shoulders under the denim jumper. Douglas dished the bacon
