"Don't know you. Don't know any Blake. Don't read the Dial. What is the personal matter?"
"For God's sake, sir, let me speak with you! It's a matter of life and death. Don't deny me, sir. Hear me first."
The little old man closed the door a couple of inches.
"Want money, eh?"
"Help, sir. Only a word of sympathy. I've a dying child——"
"Can't you come round in the morning?"
"It will be too late then. I implore you to listen to me for only a few moments. I've been waiting two hours upon the sidewalk for you to return, and it's too late for me to go elsewhere."
The door opened sufficiently for the old man to thrust his face close to the crack and inspect his visitor from head to heels. Evidently McCartney's appearance and the manner of his speech had made an impression which was now struggling with prudence and common sense. The deacon, moreover, had a reputation to support. It would not do to turn an applicant away who might be in dire extremity—and who might go elsewhere and carry the tale with him.
"Won't a bed ticket do you, eh? And come in the morning?"
McCartney saw the vacillation in the other's mind.