"They have to buy books and magazines, and entertain missionaries,
and hire teams to go on exchanges."

"That's something," admitted the deacon. "Maybe it amounts to twenty
or thirty dollars a year."

"More likely a hundred," said Grant.

"That would be awful extravagant sinful waste. If I was a minister,
I'd be more keerful."

"Well, Deacon Gridley, I don't want to argue with you. I came to see
if you hadn't collected some money for father. Mr. Tudor has sent in
his bill, and he wants to be paid."

"How much is it?"

"Sixty-seven dollars and thirty-four cents."

"You don't tell me!" said the deacon, scandalized. "You folks must
be terrible extravagant."

Grant hardly knew whether to be more vexed or amused.

"If wanting to have enough to eat is extravagant," he said, "then we
are."

"You must live on the fat of the land, Grant."

"We haven't any of us got the gout, nor are likely to have,"