“But, really, you must,” answered Father Tunicle. “You are still a member of the vestry, and matters will move more smoothly now, for Yetts has resigned. He was the thorn in my side.”
“Where has Yetts gone?”
“I believe he has taken a pew at St. Sepulchre’s, which, you know, is extremely Low Church. Poor Yetts! He has fallen very far! Do you know that the rector of St. Sepulchre’s positively will not use a red altar-cloth on martyrs’ days; and that he walks to church with an umbrella upon the Festival of St. Swithin,—a positive insult to the memory of the saint.”
“Incredible!” exclaimed Mr. Cowdrick.
“I have it upon good authority. Such practices do much to hinder the progress of the work of evangelization.”
“I should think so,” said Mr. Cowdrick.
“And speaking of that work,” continued Father Tunicle, “I want to obtain a little pecuniary assistance from you. I have just prepared for circulation among the depraved poor a little tract upon the sufferings of St. Blasius of Cappadocia, but I have not money enough to print it. Can you help me?”
“Certainly. How much do you want?”
“Fifty dollars are all that I ought to ask for. That sum, I think, will enable me to increase the religious fervor of the poor in my parish to a notable extent.”
Mr. Cowdrick handed the money to the devoted clergyman, who thereupon withdrew.