Just because nobody seemed to realize that being a Christian in business could be as distinct a vocation as any, J.W. was at times vaguely troubled, in spite of his confident stand at the Institute.  He wondered a little at what he had almost come to feel was his callousness.  Not that he was uninterested; for Marty he had vast unspoken ambitions which would have stunned that unsuspecting youth if they had ever become vocal; and he never tired of the prospects which opened up before his other friends.  He kept up an intermittent correspondence with Joe Carbrook, and found himself thinking much about the strange chain of circumstances which promised to make a medical missionary out of Joe.  He more than suspected that Joe and Marcia Dayne were vastly interested in each other’s future, and he got a lot of satisfaction out of that.  They would have a great missionary career.

No; he was not unfeeling about all these high purposes of the boys and girls he knew; and if he could just get a final answer to the one question that was bothering him, his college life would need nothing to make it wholly satisfying.  He had early forgotten all his old reluctance to put college before business.

Marty knew something of what was passing in J.W.’s mind, and it troubled him a little.  He thought of tackling J.W. himself, and by this time there was nothing under the sun they could not discuss with each other freely.  But he did not quite trust himself.

At last he made up his mind to write to their pastor at home.  He knew that for some reason Mr. Drury had a peculiar interest in J.W. and was sure he could count on it now.

“I know J.W.’s bothered,” he wrote, “but he doesn’t talk about it.  I think he has been disturbed by hearing so much about special calls to special work.  We’ve had several lifework meetings lately, and the needs of the world have been pretty strongly stated.  But the stand he took at the Institute is just as right for him as mine is for me.  Can’t you write to him, or something?”

Walter Drury could do better than write.  He turned up at Cartwright that same week.

It happened that three or four prospective preachers and Christian workers had been in their room that afternoon, and J.W. was trying to think the thing through once more.  He recalled what his pastor had said at the camp fire, and his own testimony on Institute Sunday in the life-service meeting, after Marcia Dayne had put it up to him.  But he was making heavy weather of it.  And just then came the pastor’s knock at the door.

There was a boisterous welcome from them both, with something like relief in J.W.’s heart, that he would not, could not speak.  But he could get help now.  For the sake of saying something he asked the usual question.  “What in the world brings you to Cartwright?”

“Oh,” said Pastor Drury, “I like to come to Cartwright.  Your President’s an old friend.  Besides, why shouldn’t I come to see you two, if I wish?  You are still part of my flock, you know.”