“I always meant, and I still mean,” said he, “to do good with my money. That’s what it was given me for. I’m only the Lord’s steward——”
“And right here in Barton is where the Lord put you to do it,” said Crupp. “Here’s where you made your money; here are the people who know you and don’t suspect you of caring any less for your money than other folks do for theirs; here are the people you know all about; you know their weaknesses and their good points, and every dollar you spend on them you can watch, and see that it does its duty.”
“When I know that helping a man will be sure to reform him,” began the Squire, when again his companion interrupted him:
“Did you ever read of Christ’s letting a man suffer for fear that if he cured him or fed him he might get sick or hungry again? If I read straight, he helped everybody that came to him, and everybody that needed help. I suppose loafers were as thick in Judæa as they are in Barton; why, when he healed those ten lepers there was only one of them decent enough to come back and say “Thank you.” I’ve got money enough to take Bunley on my own shoulders for a little while, and I’m going to spend a good deal on such fellows; but they want to see that they’re thought something of by men who never sold whisky, who never made anything out of them, who are enough in earnest to do something for them that costs more than talk does. I know it isn’t easy, but it’s got to be done—that is, if Christianity is true.”
Crupp’s last shot told. Squire Tomple was orthodox, but he was not without reflective capacity, and many had been his twinges of conscience at his practical rejection of undoubted deductions which he had drawn from Christ’s teachings and example. But on this particular occasion, as on many others, he was not defeated; he was only temporarily demoralized. In a moment he was on the defensive again, and suddenly raised his head and opened his lips; but, whatever his idea was, it remained unspoken; for in the eye of Crupp, which had been intently scrutinizing his face and through it his heart, he detected a softness and haziness unusual in the eyes of men. The Squire, not without a struggle, became at once shamefaced and obedient, and said hurriedly,
“Crupp, you’re a good, square man; I’m proud to know you, and I’ll do what you like—for old Bunley, that is.”
Great was the surprise of Bunley himself, when he answered a knock at his door a few minutes later, to find Squire Tomple and Mr. Crupp upon his front stoop, both of them looking and acting as if extremely embarrassed. But old Bunley never forgot his Virginia breeding, not even before a couple of creditors; so he invited both gentlemen to seats on the top step, and then sat down between them.
The Squire looked appealingly at Crupp; Crupp winked encouragingly at the Squire; the Squire coughed feebly; Crupp plucked a stem of timothy grass, and gazed at it as if he had never seen such a thing before; the Squire took out a pocket-knife, and began to scrape his finger-nails, and then Crupp remarked that it was a fine day. Bunley having cheerfully assented to this expression of opinion, there was a moment or two of awkward silence, which was finally relieved by Bunley, who drew from his pocket a plug of tobacco, from which he took a bite, after first offering it to his visitors. A little more facial pantomime went on between Tomple and Crupp, and then the Squire spoke.
“Bunley,” said he, “you don’t seem to get along very fast in the world.”
“That’s a fact,” answered Bunley with hearty emphasis. “Luck seems to go against me, no matter how I lay myself out. There ain’t a man in this town that wants to do the right thing any more than I do, but somehow I don’t get the chance. I signed the pledge t’other night at the meetin’; but how I’m goin’ to stick to it, with all the trouble I’m in, is more than I can see through.”