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otherwise lack faith. The final challenge comes in a mounting bombardment of passionate, grammatically unnerving pseudo-Biblical phrases. “And if any one of you here present today—can find evidence of a single advantage—one single benefit—be it in the past, be it stored away for the future—directly or indirectly from this enterprise—which I have derived—ambitious though it may have been, make no two ways about it—let him come forward now, with a clear heart—and point the finger where it belongs.”
    From there it is but a step to that sublime vision of the Pym & Salvation Coach Company Ltd., which will bring profit to piety and worshippers to our beloved Tabernacle.
    The magic box is unlocked. Flinging back the lid Rick displays a dazzling confusion of promises and statistics. The present bus fare from Farleigh Abbott to our Tabernacle is twopence. The trolley bus from Tambercombe costs threepence, four-up in a cab from either spot costs sixpence, a Granville Hastings motor coach costs nine hundred and eight pounds discounted for cash, and seats thirty-two fully loaded, eight standing. On the sabbath alone—my assistants here have made a most thorough survey, gentlemen—more than six hundred people travel an aggregate of over four thousand miles to worship at this fine Tabernacle. Because they love the place. As Rick does. As we all do, every man and woman here present—let’s make no bones about it. Because they want to feel drawn from the circumference to the centre, in the spirit of their faith. (This last is one of Makepeace Watermaster’s own expressions and Syd says it was a bit cheeky of Rick to throw it back in his face.) On three other days in the week, gentlemen—Band of Hope, Christian Endeavour and Women’s League Bible Group—another seven hundred miles are travelled leaving three days clear for normal commercial operation, and if you don’t believe me watch my forearm as it beats the doubters from my path in a series of convulsive elbow blows, the cupped fingers never parting. From such figures it is suddenly clear there can be only one conclusion.
    â€œGentlemen, if we charge half the standard fare and give a free ticket to every disabled and elderly person, to every child under the age of eight—with full insurance—observing all the fine regulations which rightly apply to the operation of commercial transport carriages in this increasingly hectic age of ours—with fully professional drivers with every awareness of their responsibilities, god-fearing men recruited from our own number—allowing for depreciation, garaging, maintenance, fuel, ticketing and sundries, and assuming a fifty-percent capacity on the three days of commercial operation—there’s a forty-percent clear profit for the Appeal and room left over to see everybody right.”
    Makepeace Watermaster is asking questions. The others are either too full or too empty to speak at all.
    â€œAnd you’ve bought it?” says Makepeace.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou’re not of age, half of you.”
    â€œWe used an intermediary, sir. A fine lawyer of this district who in his modesty wishes to remain anonymous.”
    Rick’s reply draws a rare smile from the improbably tiny lips of Sir Makepeace Watermaster. “I never knew a lawyer who wished to remain anonymous,” he says.
    Perce Loft frowns distractedly at the wall.
    â€œSo where is it now?” Sir Makepeace continues.
    â€œWhat, sir?”
    â€œThe coach, boy.”
    â€œThey’re painting it,” says Rick. “Green with gold lettering.”
    â€œWith whose permission, at any stage, have you embarked on this project?” asks Watermaster.
    â€œWe’re asking Miss Dorothy to cut the tape, Sir Makepeace. We’ve drafted the invite already.”
    â€œWho gave you permission? Did Mr. Philpott here? Did the deacons? Did the committee?