“Mr. Horn, I believe you are the first man, since the foundation of the world, who has been troubled because his money didn’t go fast enough!”
“Well, sir, that is the case.”
His unwieldy wealth weighed too heavily upon his heart and conscience to permit of his adopting the half-humorous view of the situation which Mr. Durnford seemed to take.
“But surely, Mr. Horn,” urged the minister, becoming serious, “there are plenty of ways for your money. To get money is often difficult; it should be easy enough to get rid of it.”
“Yes, sir, there are plenty of ways. My poor, devoted secretary knows that as well as I do. But the puzzle is, to find the right ways. If I merely wanted to get rid of my money, the letters of a single week would almost enable me to do that.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Durnford, “of course. I know exactly how it is. You could make your money up in a bag, and toss it into the sea at one throw, if that were all.”
“Yes,” replied “Cobbler” Horn, with a quiet smile; and he sighed faintly, as though he wished it were permissible to rid himself thus easily of his golden encumbrance.
“But that is not all, Mr. Durnford,” he then said.
“No, Mr. Horn, you feel that it would not do to cast your bread on the waters in that literal sense. You are constrained to cast it, not into the sea, but, like precious seed, into the soil of human hearts and lives—soil that has been prepared by the plough of poverty and the harrow of suffering. Isn’t that it, my friend?”
“Cobbler” Horn leaned forward in his chair, with glistening eyes.