The Father was a great
red-bearded giant, who seemed to have still stored up in him all the
energy of the North. While the steamer was unloaded he raced me
over the vegetable garden and showed me his farm. I had seen other
of the Catholic Missions, and I spoke of how well they looked, of
the signs they gave of hard work, and of consideration for the
blacks.
"I am not of that Order," the Father said gravely. He was speaking
in English, and added, as though he expected some one to resent it:
"We are Jesuits." No one resented it, and he added: "We have our
Order in your country. Do you know Fordham College?"
Did I know it? If you are trying to find our farm, the automobile
book tells you to leave Fordham College on your left after Jerome
Avenue.
"Of course, I know it," I said. "They have one of the best baseball
nines near New York; they play the Giants every spring."
The Reverend Father started.
"They play with Giants!" he gasped.
I did not know how to say "baseball nines" in French, but at least
he was assured that whatever it was, it was one of the best near New
York.
Then Captain Jensen's little black boy ran up to tell me the
steamer was waiting, and began in Bangalese to beg something of the
Father. The priest smiled and left us, returning with a rosary and
crucifix, which the boy hung round his neck, and then knelt, and the
red-bearded Father laid his fingers on the boy's kinky head.
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