"And that's why I think you're a little crazy. Even your best
friends say you're daft on some things."

"So did Christ's."

The Deacon's face clouded and his black eyes flashed.

"From denouncing private pews you have begun to denounce private
property. Our church is becoming a Socialist rendezvous and you
a firebrand." "Deacon, you have allowed your commercial habits to
master your thinking, your religion and your character. In your
home, you are a good man. In Wall Street," he smiled, "pardon me,
you are a highwayman, and you carry the ideals and methods of the
Street into your duties as a churchman."

"Pretty far apart for a pastor and deacon, then, don't you think?"

"You ran the preacher away who preceded me, too," mused Gordon.

The Deacon's eyes danced at this acknowledgment of his power.

"He was a little slow for New York. You are rather swift."

Gordon rose and looked down good-naturedly on the shining bald head
as he took his leave.

"I suppose we will have to fight it out?"

"It looks that way. My kindest regards to Mrs. Gordon."