J.W. was by no means sure of that, and the more he thought about his speech in the next few days, the more confused he became.  Any ordinary speech of welcome would be easy—­“Glad you were sensible enough to come to Delafield,” “make yourselves at home,” “freedom of the city,” “our latch strings are out,” “command us for anything we can do,” “congratulate you on the fine work you are doing,” “know when we return this visit and come to the places you represent you will make us welcome”—­and so on.  But it was plainly impossible for him to talk like that.  It wouldn’t be true, and it would certainly not be prudent.

He put the thing up to J.W., Sr.  “What’ll I say, dad?” he asked.  “You know we haven’t had much to do with the people of Saint Marks, and maybe it wouldn’t be best for us to make any sudden change as to that, even if some of us wanted to.  But I’ve got to talk like a Christian, whether I feel like one or not.”

“My son,” his father answered him, sententiously, “it’s your speech, not mine.  But if an old fogy may suggest something, why not forget all about the usual sort of welcome address?  Why not say something of the whole program of our church as it affects our colored people?  It touches the young folks more than any others.  Welcome them to that.”

“That’s all very fine,” J.W. objected.  “Everybody who’s on for an address of welcome is advised by his friends to cut out the old stuff, but it means work.  And you know that I don’t know the first thing about what you call the whole program of our church for the colored people.  That man Driver knows, but I can’t ask him.”

“Of course not,” assented J.W., Sr., “but you can ask somebody else.  I’ll venture Mr. Drury can tell you where to find all you would want to talk about.  Ask him.  You’re never bothered by bashfulness with him, if I remember right.”

J.W. admitted he had already thought of that.  “He and I were talking about this very thing the night before I went to see about that roofing.  But here’s the point—­I’m not to represent the pastor, but the young people.  And I’m not so sure that what Mr. Drury might give me, if he were willing, could be made to fit into a League speech, under the circumstances.”

“I’d try it anyway,” said the elder Farwell.  “He’s nearly always willing, seems to me, and a pretty safe adviser most of the time.”

“All right,” agreed J.W., “I’ll see him, but he’ll probably tell me to find things out for myself.  He’s a good scout, is Mr. Drury; the best pastor I ever knew or want to know, but sometimes he has the queerest streaks; won’t help a fellow a little bit, and when you’re absolutely sure he could if he would.  It won’t be enough to see him, though; even if he is in a generous mood and gives me more dope than I can use.  I’d better talk to some of the League people.”  And still he gravitated toward the pastor’s study.  It was the easiest way.

The pastor was always in a more generous mood than J.W. gave him credit for.  It was only that he never supplied crutches when people needed to use their legs, nor brains when they needed to use their heads, nor emotions when they needed to use their hearts.