“I don’t seem to be worrying much about it, do I?”
“No,” he agreed—and added, “and I’m dum sure I would like a day off now and then from preachin’ and callin’ on old maids, if I was you. But there’s times I might be willin’ for to let you take my work for yours.”
“Now see here, if you’ll do my work for a few days, I’ll do yours.”
“Well, what’d I have to do? I ’aint makin’ any contract without specifications.”
“Well, suppose we say you do my work Saturday and Sunday. That means you finish up two sermons, 245 which must be original and interesting when you are preaching to the same set of people about a hundred and fifty times a year. Then you must go and see a woman who is always complaining, and listen to her woes for three-quarters of an hour. Then you must go and see what you can do for Tom Bradsaw, who is dying of tuberculosis. Then you must conduct a choir rehearsal—not always the highest gratification of a musical ear. Sunday, you must conduct four services and try to rouse a handful of people, who stare at you from the back pews, to some higher ideals of life and common decency, Then––”
“Oh, heavens, man! Sure, an’ that’s enough; I stick to the stone wagon every time.”
“You’d be a fool if you didn’t,” replied Maxwell straightly. “Then again you get your pay promptly every Saturday night. I never know when I am going to get mine.”
“You don’t? Begad, and I wouldn’t work for anybody if I wasn’t paid prompt. I’d sue the Bishop or the Pope, or somebody.”
“Parsons don’t sue: it’s considered improper.”
“Well, well,” muttered the astonished Danny. “Be you sure you can shovel stone then?” he asked.