“Bricky,” he shouted, “you’re crazy!”
Bricky never moved nor changed the tone of his voice.
“Maybe I am,” he replied. “But I ain’t crazy enough to start five hunderd men on the road to perdition jest because a black-eyed, smooth-tongued woman puts me up to it. And I ain’t crazy enough nor yellow-hearted enough to sell them men out jest because the same shaller-minded woman gits cold feet an’ purrs it into me ears to do it, an’ pays me my price fer it. Oh, I know the game! You can’t put nothin’ over on me!”
“Bricky, you damned, black-hearted scoundrel, get out o’ here!”
And Bricky got out.
CHAPTER XVIII
A CRUEL SURPRISE
On the afternoon of the day following his fruitless interview with the president of the Malleson Manufacturing Company, the rector of Christ Church sat alone in his study, immersed in thought. Not pleasant thought; far from it. The times were too sadly out of joint for that, the outlook was too darkly threatening. His own path was filled, not only with obstacles ahead, but with failures and wrecks behind. His dream of fusing the classes together in Christian fellowship in Christ Church had not been fulfilled. His months of effort in that behalf had not only been wasted, but had resulted in widening the breach between the very classes he would have brought together. He had succeeded only in crippling and disorganizing his church, and in splitting the body of it in twain. He had offended, antagonized, and driven from his communion, many of the chief supporters of the church, and not a few of its most devout and zealous members. Alas! their places had not been filled by people of any class. He had made no substantial inroad into the ranks of the toilers. Few of those who had at first flocked to his standard remained to help him fight his battles. Fewer still accepted the creed of his Church, or declared their intention of uniting with it. The throngs that, during the first months of his crusade, had come to hear him preach the new gospel of Christian fellowship, had fallen sadly away. There was now room, and plenty of it, in all the pews, at all the services. The treasury of the church was empty, its obligations were unpaid, many of its institutions were either dormant or wholly abandoned. He, himself, refusing to accept the bounty of his treasurer, or the charitable offerings of those few among the wealthier of his parishioners who still stood listlessly by him, was facing an ever-increasing burden of personal debt. What was wrong? Had God forsaken him? Had the Son of God repudiated the doctrine laid down in His Holy Scriptures? Had that doctrine been divinely carved into his believing heart in simple mockery? They were indeed disturbing, insidious, sinister thoughts with which he struggled that day.
In the midst of his contemplation Barry Malleson entered. It was evident, even before he spoke, that something had gone wrong with him. He had lost his air of easy self-assurance. He had a troubled look; his eyes were widely open as if in sorrow, at the cause of which he was still wondering. His face was unshaven, his hair was rumpled, his clothes hung loosely on him, and his soft shirt and flowing tie, the like of which he had affected since his conversion to socialism, were soiled and awry.
“Well, Farrar,” he said, “it’s all up with me. I came over to tell you.”