“‘Nothing,’ said the old man, with a chuckle. ‘He’s a complete gentleman, complete! So plaguy beautiful that he’s a kind of a girl’s plaything. He couldn’t milk a cow or dig a hill o’ potatoes. Acts kind o’ faint an’ sickly to me.’
“The Deacon thoughtfully stirred the roots of his beard with the fingers of his right hand, and went on with a squint and a feeble tone which he seemed to think best suited to his subject.
“‘Talks so low you can hardly hear him. I have to set with my hand to my ear every Sunday to make out what he’s sayin’, an’ he prays as if he had the lung fever. Talks o’ hell as though it was a quart o’ cold molasses. That’s one reason we ain’t no respect for it in this community. Ay––’es! That’s the reason.’
“He squinted his face thoughtfully and resumed with more energy.
“‘I like to hear a man get up on his hind legs and holler as they used to––by 132 gravy! Ye can’t scare anybody by whispers. Damn it, sir, what we need is an old-fashioned revival.’
“The Deacon halted to take a chew of tobacco, and went on, with a sorrowful calmness:
“‘Now this young feller don’t want to give no credit to God––not a bit––no, sir! Science has done everything. I’ve noticed it time an’ ag’in. T’other Sunday he said that an angel spoke to Moses, an’ the Bible says, as plain as A B C, that God spoke to him. How can he expect that God is going to bless his ministry, an’ he never givin’ Him any credit?’
“‘It’s rather bad politics, anyhow,’ I said.
“‘An’ the church is goin’ from bad to worse,’ he complained. ‘The average attendance is about forty-seven, an’ it used to be between five an’ six hundred, an’ we are all taxed to death to keep it goin’. I have to pay three hundred a year for the 133 privilege o’ gittin’ mad every Sunday. Two or three of us have got after him an’ made him promise to do better. Some awful free-minded folks have crept into the church, an’ the fact is, we need their money,’ Deacon Joe went on. ‘What the minister ought to do is stick to the old doctrines that are safe an’ sound. ‘St’id o’ that he’s tryin’ to sail ’twixt rock an’ reef.’
“‘Between Scylla and Charybdis,’ I suggested.