“Yes,” he said reminiscently, “six of the leading dailies. And good position in all of them, too. It’s a splendid thing for us. So far the Honorable Samuel Rogers has made the largest individual subscription—two hundred and fifty dollars—and his name at the head of the list will of course mean a great deal. We consider that he has acted very handsomely. But—” the smile again appeared, like the sun from behind the clouds, deprecating, wistful, with just a hint of gentle reproach, and oily enough to have turned an ocean into calm—“but above that of Mr. Rogers we had hoped to have one other name, one other name still more widely and—if you will pardon me—still more favorably known than even that of Mr. Rogers himself.”
Henry Carleton looked, as he felt, a trifle uncomfortable. “I deplore,” he said, a little stiffly, “any publicity in such matters. The right hand, and the left, Van Socum, you know.”
Occasionally an expert boxer, for some reason of his own, will leave himself unguarded, purposely to invite a blow. With joy the Reverend William Van Socum foresaw the beginning of the end. “True! true!” he cried, “as far as the giver is concerned. But for the effect on others, Mr. Carleton. That is where you are in error. Let your light so shine! That is the injunction which covers the case. The shining light, Mr. Carleton! The shining light!”
The blow sped home. Henry Carleton meekly inclined his head, as it seemed, a willing sacrifice. “I deplore publicity—” he again began, but his tone was feebler by far; and then he added, metaphorically throwing up the sponge, “in six papers, did you say?”
Van Socum bore his honors modestly. “Six,” he answered, again producing the subscription book from his pocket, “six; and excellent position in all. And of course our own paper, The Flaming Torch, which in itself has a circulation by no means contemptible. Let me see. Five hundred, Mr. Carleton? A thousand, perhaps, would be almost too large a sum.”
Inwardly Henry Carleton was returning the compliment the Reverend Doctor had just paid to him. “This fellow,” he thought, “is thrown away on the church. I could use a man like him to excellent advantage.” “Yes,” he answered, “five hundred, I think. I shouldn’t wish to be criticized on the score of ostentation.”
The victor drew out his pencil; then, almost in the act of writing, paused, as if suddenly recalling something to mind.
“By the way, Mr. Carleton,” he asked, “did some one tell me the other day that your nephew had returned from the West?”
Henry Carleton’s face was expressionless. “Yes,” he answered, “he is back. He has been in town several days.”
Van Socum nodded amiably. “How very pleasant!” he said smoothly. “He is—improved—I trust?”