“Well, now Kenneth, I don’t think you
ought to talk that way about the doctor. A preacher
has to watch his interests, hasn’t he? You
remember that in the Bible about—about
being diligent in the Lord’s business, or something?”
“All right, I’ll get something in if you
want me to, Mr. Babbitt, but I’ll have to wait
till the managing editor is out of town, and then
blackjack the city editor.”
Thus it came to pass that in the Sunday Advocate-Times,
under a picture of Dr. Drew at his earnestest, with
eyes alert, jaw as granite, and rustic lock flamboyant,
appeared an inscription—a wood-pulp tablet
conferring twenty-four hours’ immortality:
The Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drew, M.A., pastor of the
beautiful Chatham Road Presbyterian Church in lovely
Floral Heights, is a wizard soul-winner. He holds
the local record for conversions. During his
shepherdhood an average of almost a hundred sin-weary
persons per year have declared their resolve to lead
a new life and have found a harbor of refuge and peace.
Everything zips at the Chatham Road Church. The
subsidiary organizations are keyed to the top-notch
of efficiency. Dr. Drew is especially keen on
good congregational singing. Bright cheerful hymns
are used at every meeting, and the special Sing Services
attract lovers of music and professionals from all
parts of the city.
On the popular lecture platform as well as in the
pulpit Dr. Drew is a renowned word-painter, and during
the course of the year he receives literally scores
of invitations to speak at varied functions both here
and elsewhere.
Babbitt let Dr. Drew know that he was responsible
for this tribute. Dr. Drew called him “brother,”
and shook his hand a great many times.
During the meetings of the Advisory Committee, Babbitt
had hinted that he would be charmed to invite Eathorne
to dinner, but Eathorne had murmured, “So nice
of you—old man, now—almost never
go out.” Surely Eathorne would not refuse
his own pastor. Babbitt said boyishly to Drew:
“Say, doctor, now we’ve put this thing
over, strikes me it’s up to the dominie to blow
the three of us to a dinner!”
“Bully! You bet! Delighted!”
cried Dr. Drew, in his manliest way. (Some one had
once told him that he talked like the late President
Roosevelt.)
“And, uh, say, doctor, be sure and get Mr. Eathorne
to come. Insist on it. It’s, uh—I
think he sticks around home too much for his own health.”
Eathorne came.
It was a friendly dinner. Babbitt spoke gracefully
of the stabilizing and educational value of bankers
to the community. They were, he said, the pastors
of the fold of commerce. For the first time Eathorne
departed from the topic of Sunday Schools, and asked
Babbitt about the progress of his business. Babbitt
answered modestly, almost filially.
A few months later, when he had a chance to take part
in the Street Traction Company’s terminal deal,
Babbitt did not care to go to his own bank for a loan.
It was rather a quiet sort of deal and, if it had come
out, the Public might not have understood. He
went to his friend Mr. Eathorne; he was welcomed,
and received the loan as a private venture; and they
both profited in their pleasant new association.
