"In that case," said the preacher, "I am not free."
"The salary, I should have told you, will be twenty thousand dollars."
"You ought to get a first-rate man for that amount," replied the preacher. "I should advise you to consult the Bishop."
"Thank you," said Mr. Wattles, "and good-night."
"Wattles," cried Mr. Clatfield, who had heard the conversation with stupefied astonishment which deprived him of the power of speech; "Wattles, I have not the slightest idea of building a church either on the Heights or anywhere else."
"No," said Mr. Wattles, "I suppose not."
"I'm going home," announced the banker.
"All right," agreed the other. "We'll strike through here to Main Street."
At Main Street they were detained for several minutes at the corner where the trolleys cross, by the crowds waiting for the cars or flocking about the transfer agent like so many sheep for salt. They seemed a dull, bedraggled lot to Mr. Clatfield, just like every other lot who waited every night there for blue or red or yellow trolley cars. But the cashier's eyes went wandering from face to face, more in selection than in search, and presently he nudged his companion to call attention to a couple who stood apart a little from the rest under the shelter of a small, inadequate umbrella.