“I am hungry,” said Merriwether.
“Dear me!” said the reverend gentleman. “I shouldn't have thought it.”
“Will you ask me to lunch?”
“Eh?” It was an embarrassing question; but the gentleman was all good nature. His air indicated that he did not intend to let his own embarrassment embarrass Merriwether too much. “My dear man, you know—really——” He placed a shapely hand upon Merriwether's shoulder, rallyingly, almost affectionately, and completed the sentence with a laugh.
“It's charity I'm asking for,” said Merriwether.
“Oh!” For some reason he seemed vastly relieved. “Have you been—but, dear me, are you sure you aren't joking?”
“Yes; sure.”
“And have you—ahem!—have you sought aid from any institution; any charitable organization, you know?”
“But no,” said Merriwether, who had instinctively eliminated charitable organizations, free lunches and police stations from the terms of his wager, “I thought——”
“My, my, my,” hummed the reverend gentleman, interrupting him. He produced his card case and took a card therefrom. “I am going,” he said, writing on the card with a pencil, “to give you my card to the secretary of the Combined Charities. Excellent system they have there. You'll be investigated, you know,” he said brightly, as if that were an especial boon he was conferring, “your record looked into—character and antecedents and all that sort of thing!”