swered with some dignity, “for the Bodymaster of a lodge of Freemen to give to a stranger brother.”
“Aye, but it’s just that same that you have to prove,” said McGinty, “and God help you if you fail! Where were you made?”
“Lodge 29, Chicago.”
“When?”
“June 24, 1872.”
“What Bodymaster?”
“James H. Scott.”
“Who is your district ruler?”
“Bartholomew Wilson.”
“Hum! You seem glib enough in your tests. What are you doing here?”
“Working, the same as you—but a poorer job.”
“You have your back answer quick enough.”
“Yes, I was always quick of speech.”
“Are you quick of action?”
“I have had that name among those that knew me best.”
“Well, we may try you sooner than you think. Have you heard anything of the lodge in these parts?”
“I’ve heard that it takes a man to be a brother.”
