The last night of the meeting was devoted to foreign missions. The preacher rose to inspired heights of eloquence. In vivid colors he painted the forlorn and ignorant state of the heathen and the crying need of funds with which to spread the Christian doctrine in far-off pagan lands. At the psychological moment, when the assemblage had been worked up into a fit frame of mind for contributing heavily, the preacher called upon the fascinating stranger to pass the hat. It developed later that upon that very day the latter had gone to the minister and volunteered for this service.
He passed the hat. He passed it until it was filled to the brim with the offerings of the multitude. When his round of the pews was completed, instead of marching up to the pulpit and depositing the funds there, the newcomer began to edge toward the door of the church, and, incidentally, toward where his horse was tethered outside. Observing this suspicious maneuver, the preacher was filled with a horrid dread.
“My brother,” he called out, “if you go away from the house of God with that there money you will be damned!”
On the words, the stranger vanished out of the door. The voice of a resident in a back pew broke the horrified hush which followed.
“Well, parson,” he said, “ef he ain’t went, I’ll be damned!”
§ 207 The Final Smash
There was company at the farmhouse that evening and Mrs. Purdy, who had her share and more of New Hampshire thrift, was moved through hospitality to offer the suggestion that possibly the guests might like a glass apiece of fresh apple cider. There was unanimous endorsement of the idea. So Mr. Purdy got a china pitcher from the pantry and started for the cellar where the cider was stored.
The cellar was dark and the steps leading to it were steep. Half way down he stumbled and dropped with a resounding thump upon the brick floor six feet below, where he lay half-stunned.
Upstairs in the parlor they heard the sound of his fall. With alarm and wifely solicitude writ large upon her face Mrs. Purdy ran to the head of the cellar steps.
“Paw,” she called down, “did you break the pitcher?”