Brother Bill listened mighty patiently to him, and when the Deacon had pumped out all the Scripture that was in him, and was beginning to suck air, he sort of slunk into the conversation like a setter pup that’s been caught with the feathers on its chops.
“Brother Zeke,” says he, “I shall certainly let your words soak in. I want to be a number two red, hard, sound and clean sort of a man, and grade contract on delivery day. Perhaps, as you say, the rust has got into me and the Inspector won’t pass me, and if I can see it that way I’ll settle my trades and get out of the market for good.”
The Deacon knew that Brother Bill had scraped together considerable property, and, as he was a bachelor, it would come to him in case the broker was removed by any sudden dispensation. What he really feared was that this money might be fooled away in high living and speculation. And so he had banged away into the middle of the flock, hoping to bring down those two birds. Now that it began to look as if he might kill off the whole bunch he started in to hedge.
“Is it safe, William?” says he.
“As Sunday-school,” says Bill, “if you do a strictly brokerage business and don’t speculate.”
“I trust, William, that you recognize the responsibilities of your stewardship?”
“I started in to curl up that young fellow to a crisp.”
Bill fetched a groan. “Zeke,” says he, “you cornered me there, and I ’spose I might as well walk up to the Captain’s office and settle. I hadn’t bought or sold a bushel on my own account in a year till last week, when I got your letter saying that you were coming. Then I saw what looked like a safe chance to scalp the market for a couple of cents a bushel, and I bought 10,000 September, intending to turn over the profits to you as a little present, so that you could see the town and have a good time without it’s costing you anything.”