To do him justice it was not himself that he greatly cared about.  He knew he had been humbugged, and he knew also that the greater part of the ills which had afflicted him were due, indirectly, in chief measure to the influence of Christian teaching; still, if the mischief had ended with himself, he should have thought little about it, but there was his sister, and his brother Joey, and the hundreds and thousands of young people throughout England whose lives were being blighted through the lies told them by people whose business it was to know better, but who scamped their work and shirked difficulties instead of facing them.  It was this which made him think it worth while to be angry, and to consider whether he could not at least do something towards saving others from such years of waste and misery as he had had to pass himself.  If there was no truth in the miraculous accounts of Christ’s Death and Resurrection, the whole of the religion founded upon the historic truth of those events tumbled to the ground.  “My,” he exclaimed, with all the arrogance of youth, “they put a gipsy or fortune-teller into prison for getting money out of silly people who think they have supernatural power; why should they not put a clergyman in prison for pretending that he can absolve sins, or turn bread and wine into the flesh and blood of One who died two thousand years ago?  What,” he asked himself, “could be more pure ‘hanky-panky’ than that a bishop should lay his hands upon a young man and pretend to convey to him the spiritual power to work this miracle?  It was all very well to talk about toleration; toleration, like everything else, had its limits; besides, if it was to include the bishop let it include the fortune-teller too.”  He would explain all this to the Archbishop of Canterbury by and by, but as he could not get hold of him just now, it occurred to him that he might experimentalise advantageously upon the viler soul of the prison chaplain.  It was only those who took the first and most obvious step in their power who ever did great things in the end, so one day, when Mr Hughes—­for this was the chaplain’s name—­was talking with him, Ernest introduced the question of Christian evidences, and tried to raise a discussion upon them.  Mr Hughes had been very kind to him, but he was more than twice my hero’s age, and had long taken the measure of such objections as Ernest tried to put before him.  I do not suppose he believed in the actual objective truth of the stories about Christ’s Resurrection and Ascension any more than Ernest did, but he knew that this was a small matter, and that the real issue lay much deeper than this.

Mr Hughes was a man who had been in authority for many years, and he brushed Ernest on one side as if he had been a fly.  He did it so well that my hero never ventured to tackle him again, and confined his conversation with him for the future to such matters as what he had better do when he got out of prison; and here Mr Hughes was ever ready to listen to him with sympathy and kindness.