The Deacon judged from Bill’s expression that he had got nipped and was going to try to unload the loss on him, so he changed his face to the one which he used when attending the funeral of any one who hadn’t been a professor, and came back quick and hard:
“I’m surprised, William, that you should think I would accept money made in gambling. Let this be a lesson to you. How much did you lose?”
“That’s the worst of it—I didn’t lose; I made two hundred dollars,” and Bill hove another sigh.
“Made two hundred dollars!” echoed the Deacon, and he changed his face again for the one which he used when he found a lead quarter in his till and couldn’t remember who had passed it on him.
“Yes,” Bill went on, “and I’m ashamed of it, for you’ve made me see things in a new light. Of course, after what you’ve said, I know it would be an insult to offer you the money. And I feel now that it wouldn’t be right to keep it myself. I must sleep on it and try to find the straight thing to do.”
I guess it really didn’t interfere with Bill’s sleep, but the Deacon sat up with the corpse of that two hundred dollars, you bet. In the morning at breakfast he asked Brother Bill to explain all about this speculating business, what made the market go up and down, and whether real corn or wheat or pork figured in any stage of a deal. Bill looked sort of sad and dreamy-eyed, as if his conscience hadn’t digested that two hundred yet, but he was mighty obliging about explaining everything to Zeke. He had changed his face for the one which he wore when he sold an easy customer ground peas and chicory for O. G. Java, and every now and then he gulped as if he was going to start a hymn. When Bill told him how good and bad weather sent the market up and down, he nodded and said that that part of it was all right, because the weather was of the Lord.
“Not on the Board of Trade it isn’t,” Bill answered back; “at least, not to any marked extent; it’s from the weather man or some liar in the corn belt, and, as the weather man usually guesses wrong, I reckon there isn’t any special inspiration about it. The game is to guess what’s going to happen, not what has happened, and by the time the real weather comes along everybody has guessed wrong and knocked the market off a cent or two.”
That made the Deacon’s chin whiskers droop a little, but he began to ask questions again, and by and by he discovered that away behind—about a hundred miles behind, but that was close enough for the Deacon—a deal in futures there were real wheat and pork. Said then that he’d been misinformed and misled; that speculation was a legitimate business, involving skill and sagacity; that his last scruple was removed, and that he would accept the two hundred.
Bill brightened right up at that and thanked him for putting it so clear and removing the doubts that had been worrying him. Said that he could speculate with a clear conscience after listening to the Deacon’s able exposition of the subject. Was only sorry he hadn’t seen him to talk it over before breakfast, as the two hundred had been lying so heavy on his mind all night that he’d got up early and mailed a check for it to the Deacon’s pastor and told him to spend it on his poor.
Zeke took the evening train home in order to pry that check out of the elder, but old Doc. Hoover was a pretty quick stepper himself and he’d blown the whole two hundred as soon as he got it, buying winter coal for poor people.