“I want your valuable autograph to head the subscription list,” said the clergyman with an air he endeavored to make arch and playful. “Don’t refuse me.”
“Why don’t you try some well-known person?” said Cranston, modestly.
“To tell you the truth, Brother Cranston, I did try Silas Shaw.” And he added, hastily, “Not but that you are sufficiently well-known for my purpose.”
“What did the old ras—the Old Man say?”
“He said he never signed subscription lists.”
“Didn’t he give you anything at all?”
“Oh, yes; he—er—he did something for me.” The doctor’s face assumed a portentous air.
Cranston’s eyes brightened. “What was that?” he said.
“Well,” said the clergyman, hesitatingly, “he said we would come out O.K. Those are his own words, Brother Cranston.”
“Yes?” Cranston’s face did not look promising for Bolivian enlightenment.