“I won’t pay that price, and I won’t let the property alone,” Allison snapped back. “The city needs it.”
For a moment the two men looked each other levelly in the eyes. There seemed to have sprang up some new enmity between them. A thick man with a stubby moustache came puffing up to the fire, and sat down on his sled with a thump.
“Splendid exercise,” he gasped, holding his sides. “I think about a week of it would either reduce me to a living skeleton, or kill me.”
“Your vestry’s an ass,” Allison took pleasure in informing him.
“Same to you and many of them,” puffed Jim Sargent. “What’s the trouble with you? Trying to take a business advantage of a church.”
“I’d have a better chance with a Jew,” was Allison’s contemptuous reply.
“Oh, see here, Allison!” remonstrated Jim Sargent seriously. He even rose to his feet to make it more emphatic. “You mustn’t treat Market Square Church with so much indignity.”
“Why not? Market Square Church puts itself in a position to be considered in the light of any other grasping organisation.”
The Reverend Smith Boyd, finding in himself the growth of a most uncloth-like anger, decided to walk away rather than suffer the aggravation which must ensue in this conversation. Consequently, he started down the hill, dragging Jim Sargent’s sled behind him for company. There were no further insults to the church, however.
“Jim, what are the relations of the Towando Valley to the L. and C.?” asked Allison, offering Sargent a cigar.