“Pass the General Election,” shouted Archie. “Mr. Wynne hates that sort of thing. Now give an account of yourself. What have you done to earn your screw since morning?”
“This is what I have come to, Mr. Wynne,” said Playdell. “Think of it; a clergyman and M.A. Oxon, forced to give an account of his stewardship to a young cub like that!” He laughed after a moment of seriousness.
“You don’t seem to feel deeply the degradation,” remarked Harold.
“It’s nothing to the depths to which I have fallen,” said Mr. Playdell. “I was never more than a curate, but in spite of the drawback of being privileged to preach the Gospel twice a week, the curacy was a comfortable one. I published two volumes of my sermons, Mr. Wynne. They sold poorly in England, but I believe that in America they made the fortune of the publishers that pirated them. It is perfectly well known that my sermons achieved a great and good purpose in the States. They were practical. I will say that for them. The leader of the corner in hogs who ran the prices up last autumn, sold out of the business, I understand, after reading my sermon on the text, ‘The husks that the swine do eat.’ Several judges also resigned, admitting that they were converted. It was freely stated that even a Congressman had been reformed by one sermon of mine, while another was known to have brought tears to the eyes of a reporter on the New York Herald. And yet, with all these gratifying results, I never got a penny out of the American edition. Just think what would happen on this side of the Atlantic if, let us say, a Royal Academician were to find grace through a sermon, or—to assume an extreme case—a member of the Stock Exchange? Why, the writer would be a made man. I had thoughts of going to America, Mr. Wynne. At any rate, I’m going to deal with the publishers there directly. A firm in Boston is at present about to boom a Bowdlerized edition of the Bible which I have prepared for family reading in the States—not a word in it that the purest-minded young woman in all Boston might not see. It should sell, Mr. Wynne. I’m also translating into English a volume of American humour.”
“I’ll give you a chance of going to America, before you sleep if you don’t dry up about your sermons and suchlike skittles,” said Archie. “The decanter’s beside you. Fill your glass. Mr. Wynne is coming to my show to-night.”
Mr. Playdell passed the decanter without filling his glass. “You know that I never take more than one glass of La Rose,” said he. “I have found out all about your house painter who fell off the ladder and broke all his ribs—he is the same as your Clergyman’s Orphan, and he lives in the same house as your Widow of a Naval Officer whose little all was invested in a fraudulent building society—he is also ‘First Thessalonians seven and ten. P.O.O. or stamps’.”
“Great Godfrey!” cried Archie; “and I had already written out a cheque for twenty pounds to send to that swindler! Do you mean to tell me, Play, that all those you’ve mentioned are impostors?”
“All? Why, there’s only one impostor among the lot,” said Mr. Playdell. “He is ‘First Thessalonians,’ and he has at least a dozen branch establishments.”
“It’s enough to make a tarty chip disgusted with God’s footstool,” said Archie. “Before old Play took me in hand I used to fling decimals about right and left, without inquiry.”
“He was the sole support of several of the most notorious swindlers in the country,” said Mr. Playdell. “I’ve managed to whittle them down considerably. Shakespeare is at present the only impostor that has defied my efforts,” he added, in a whisper to Harold.