blossomed every Sunday morning and evening on the little table
beside his chair in the pulpit. The sexton could not tell who paid
the bills. A florist sent them.

The Deacon had been bitterly chagrined at the outcome of his
movement in reducing the salary. At first the people heard it with
amazement, and then, when Gordon informed a reporter of the fight
in progress and it was published, they laughed, and a cheque was
sent him for two thousand dollars to make good the deficit and add
one thousand more.

The day after this advent he had a hard day's work. A procession
of people drained him of every cent of money he could spare and
every ounce of sympathy and shred of nerve force in his body.

He had tried the year before to establish a free employment bureau
to relieve him of this strain. But the bureau added to his work. He
had to close it. It had required the employment of five assistants,
and even these could make little impression on the list of applicants
who crowded the rooms and blocked the pavements from morning until
night.

When the sick and hungry and out-of-works had been disposed of
after a fashion, the miscellaneous crowd filed in.

An old college mate came in shivering in a dirty suit. He fumbled
at his hat nervously until he caught Gordon's eye and saw him smile.

"Well, by the great hornspoon, Ned, you look like you've fallen
into a well!"