An angry discussion in the shop interrupted us. Jack had returned, and was threatening an excited woman with the police. It seemed she had miscalculated the date, and had come a day too late with her interest.
Having got rid of her, he came into the parlour with the watch in his hand.
“It’s providential she was late,” he said, looking at it; “it’s worth ten times what I lent on it.”
He packed his father back into the shop, and his mother down into the kitchen to get his tea, and for a while we sat together talking.
I found his conversation a strange mixture of self-laudation, showing through a flimsy veil of self-disparagement, and of satisfaction at the conviction that he was “saved,” combined with equally evident satisfaction that most other people weren’t—somewhat trying, however; and, remembering an appointment, rose to go.
He made no effort to stay me, but I could see that he was bursting to tell me something. At last, taking a religious paper from his pocket, and pointing to a column, he blurted out:
“You don’t take any interest in the Lord’s vineyard, I suppose, sir?”
I glanced at the part of the paper indicated. It announced a new mission to the Chinese, and heading the subscription list stood the name, “Mr. John Burridge, one hundred guineas.”
“You subscribe largely, Mr. Burridge,” I said, handing him back the paper.
He rubbed his big hands together. “The Lord will repay a hundredfold,” he answered.