“And you, sir, are engaged to work for the parish, as a minister of God.”
“Unfortunately, I am not being paid by the parish; that is why I am working here. Neither my wife nor myself is going to starve.”
“You haven’t any pride, sir!” Bascom fumed, his temper out of control. “We have had many incompetent rectors, but this really surpasses anything. We have never had anyone like you.”
Maxwell paused again in his work, and, leaning on his shovel, looked Bascom in the eye:
“By which you mean that you have never had anyone who was independent enough to grip the situation in both hands and do exactly what he thought best, independent of your dictation.”
“I will not converse with you any more. You are insulting.”
“As the corporation is paying me for my time, I prefer work to conversation.”
Bascom strode along the road towards his home. Danny Dolan, who had been a shameless auditor of this conversation, from the other side of the wagon, was beside himself with delight:
“Holy Moses! but didn’t you give it to the old man. And here be all your adorers from town after comin’ to tea at the house, and you lookin’ like the 251 stoker of an engine with black grease half an inch thick on your cheek.”
Maxwell pulled out his handkerchief, and made an abortive effort to get his face clean.