“Nothing more, Doctor?”
“No; I thank you very much, Brother Shaw. I—er—most sincerely hope my—ah—your—I should say—ah—our investment, may result in—ah—favorably for our Bolivian Missionary Fund. Thanks very much.”
“Don’t mention it, Doctor. And don’t you worry. We will come out O.K. You’ll hear from me in a week or two. Good-morning.”
The reverend doctor went across the Street to the office of one of his parishioners, Walter H. Cranston, a stock broker.
Mr. Cranston was bemoaning the appalling lack of business and making up his mind about certain Delphic advice he contemplated giving his timid customers, in order to make them “trade,” which would mean commissions, when Dr. Ramsdell’s card was brought.
“Confound him, what does he want to come around, bothering a man at his business for?” he thought. But he said: “Show him in, William.”
“Good-morning, Brother Cranston.”
“Why, good-morning, Dr. Ramsdell. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“I’ve called to see you about our Missionary Fund. You know I take a great deal of interest in it. We desire to build a chapel in Bolivia, where the light is needed, Brother Cranston, as much as in China, I assure you. And it is so much nearer home.”
“Doctor, I really—” began Cranston, with an injured air.