It appeared that he had chosen the "Leather
Bottle" at Clifton Hampden for headquarters, and had spent a part of
Sunday discussing Christian Science with an atheistical bagman.
He said not a word of Saturday's happenings--talked away, in fact, as
if he had returned to us, on perfect terms of understanding, out of a
void. Jimmy played up and mulled some beer for us afterwards, on a
recipe of which (he gave us to know) the College of Brasenose,
Oxford, alone possessed the secret, to be imparted only to such of
its sons as had deserved it by godliness and good learning.
Foe commended the brew, declined a cigar, and pulled out his old
pipe.
"Infernal job," he began, "having to talk business, 'specially when
you've tasted freedom."
He filled his pipe, lit it carefully, and went on. "I got back to
London early yesterday morning. Spent the day clearing up my worldly
affairs. . . . Don't look scared, Roddy. I've thrown up the
Professorship--that's all."
"Why, in the world?" I wanted to know.
"You may put it," he answered easily, "that, as the clerics say, I've
had a higher call.
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