“I most certainly do. You and Dad are passing the buck. I thought from all reports that you would stand up to any proposition like a man, no matter how unpleasant.”
“There is nothing for me to stand up to, Mr. Fox.”
“You absolutely refuse to tell me what you know?”
“I absolutely refuse, for I know absolutely nothing.”
Harold Fox studied the set features of the minister in the dim light of the moon. He then cordially extended his hand.
“Pardon me, sir. I believe you. But there’s something damned crooked somewhere, and I intend to ferret it out. If Dad’s in it–––Well, I hope to the Lord he isn’t. You’d better watch your p’s and q’s pretty close, for Dad mentioned the fact that Mr. Means has it in for you, and the two of them can make it hell for you. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s God’s truth. I wouldn’t trust Means with a pet skunk. I never have liked the fellow. I’ve said too much. Good night, and good luck.”
Harold abruptly left, and Mr. McGowan walked slowly and heavily from the garden into the road that led toward the sea.
Following that night, things began to happen with lightning-like rapidity. A spirit of distrust and suspicion sprang up among the members of the little church over night. The congregations dwindled down, till within a month they were not one-half their original size. But in spite of the friction that was grinding at the religious machinery, Mr. McGowan went on steadily about his work. He 77 visited the Inn more frequently, and won no little renown among the members of the club. But here he also had his enemies, and they were becoming bolder in proportion as the church grew more hostile toward its minister. Sim Hicks, the keeper of the Inn, began an open fight against Mr. McGowan’s intrusions, declaring he would make good a former threat to oust the “Psalm-singer” from the village.