Let to-morrow, with its old
round of degrading tasks, take care of itself.
At 10:30 he was in church. He was not as attentive to the sermon as
he should have been, for it now occurred to him that he had no
stills of himself in the garb of a clergyman. This was worth
considering, because he was not going to be one of those one-part
actors. He would have a wide range of roles. He would be able to
play anything. He wondered how the Rev. Otto Carmichael would take
the request for a brief loan of one of his pulpit suits. Perhaps he
was not so old as he looked; perhaps he might remember that he, too,
had once been young and fired with high ideals. It would be worth
trying. And the things could be returned after a brief studio
session with Lowell Hardy. He saw himself cast in such a part, the
handsome young clergyman, exponent of a muscular Christianity. He
comes to the toughest cattle town in all the great Southwest,
determined to make honest men and good women of its sinning
derelicts. He wins the hearts of these rugged but misguided souls.
Though at first they treat him rough, they learn to respect him, and
they call him the fighting parson.
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