Kermode said that he would be glad to do so.
“You encourage me to go a little farther,” Ferguson continued. “Building a church is a costly proposition.”
“So I should imagine; I can’t speak from experience.” Kermode was generally liberal, and he took out some money. “I think you ought to let me off with this, as I don’t belong to your flock.”
“It’s a generous contribution; better than the excuse. There are, I may remind you, many kinds of sheep, and the outward difference is often marked. Since, you’re from the old country, you can take the little Cheviot and the ponderous Shropshire as examples. You see the drift of this?”
“That they’re all sheep. I’ve noticed, however, that they wear a good many different brands.”
“Ah, the pity of it! After all, a shepherd has his human weaknesses; perhaps he’s too fond of using his private mark or the stamp of his guild.”
“That,” Kermode smiled, “is a handsome admission. Anyway, you have no rival in shepherding the boys here; and taking us all round, we need it. But can you raise building funds on the spot?”
“Oh, no! I went to Ontario this summer and spent a month begging from people who have very little to spare. The response was generous—I’ve a carload of shiplap lumber coming out; but you may understand how that adds to one’s responsibility.”
“It’s obvious. I suppose you know you’re up against a strong opposition?”
“That’s true, unfortunately.” The clergyman looked thoughtful. “There’s one group, the Mitcham crowd, who would like to run me out. The fellow’s piling up money by smuggling in liquor; he and his friends are depraving the camp. They must be stopped.”