These two, the town preacher and the young circuit rider, read to each other J.W.’s letters, and talked much about him and his experiences, and made J.W. in general the theme of many discussions.

“It has been good for the boy that he has had that border trip,” said the pastor to Marty a few days before J.W. got back.  “Don’t you think so?”

Marty was, as ever, J.W.’s ardent and self-effacing chum.  “I certainly do,” he said.  “He’s growing, is J.W., and growing the right way.  We need business men of just the quality that’s showing in him.”

The pastor hesitated a moment.  Then he spoke:  “Marty, when J.W. comes home I hope something will set him thinking about the outer world that has no word of our Christ.  He hasn’t seen it yet, not clearly; and you know that there isn’t any hope for that world to get out of the depths until it gets the news of a Helper.  I’m counting on you to help me with J.W. if the chance comes.  Just between ourselves, you know.”

“I’ll do all I can, Mr. Drury; you may be sure of that,” said Marty.  And he did.

J.W.’s holiday brought several young people together who had not met for a long time.  Marty came up again, and spent the day with J.W., all over town, from the store to the house and back again.  In the evening Mrs. Farwell made a feast, to which, besides Marty, Jeannette and Alma and Pastor Drury were bidden.  Mrs. Farwell was much more to Delafield than the best cook and the most remarkable housekeeper in the place, but her son insisted that she was these to begin with.  Certainly, she had not been experimenting on the two J.W.’s all these years for nothing.

After dinner—­talk.  No need of any other game in that company at such a time.  There was plenty to talk about, and all had their reasons for enjoying it.  Naturally, J.W. must tell about himself.  Letters are all very well, but they are no more than makeshifts, after all.  He was modest enough about it, not having any special exploits to parade before their wondering eyes, but quite willing.  His Western experiences being called for, he was soon telling, not of desert and cactus and irrigation, but of the people who had so taken his attention, the Mexicans.

“I believe,” said he, “that we can do something really big down there.  And it’s our business.  Nobody except American Christians will do it; nobody else can.  Besides, the Mexicans are Christians in name, now.  What they need is the reality.  They are not impossible—­just uncertain.  All I heard and what little I saw made me believe they are suffering from bad leadership and ignorance more than from anything hopelessly wrong.  They seem easy to get along with.  The women are the most patient workers I ever heard of.  And the poor Mexicans, the ‘peons,’ do want an end to fighting and banditry.”

“Well, J.W.,” Marty asked, “what’s the first thing we ought to think about for Mexico?”