“All fur charity, Bishop, except, you know, part fur keeps as a kinder nes' egg.”
“Of co-u-r-se—Archie B., of—course, no harm in the worl'—if—if—my son—if you carry out your original ideas, or promise, ruther; it won't work if you go back on yo' promise to God. 'God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform,'” added the Bishop solemnly.
Archie B. slipped fifty of his dollars into the old man's hands.
“Do you know, Archie B., I prayed for this las' night? Now you tell me God don't answer prayers?”
He was silent, touched. Seldom before had a prayer of his been answered so directly.
“Fur charity, Archie B., fur charity. I'll take it, an' little you know what this may mean.”
Archie B. was silent. So far so good, but it was plain from his still thoughtful looks that he had only half won out yet. He had heard the old man speak, and there had been a huskiness about his voice.
“Now there is paw, Bishop—you know he ain't jes like you—he don't see so far. He might not understan' it. Would you mind jes' droppin' him a line, you know? I'll take it to him—in case he looks at the thing differently, you know, fur whut you write will go a long way with him.”
The old man smiled: “Of course, Archie B.—he must understan' it. Of course, it 'ud never do to have him spile as good a thing as that—an' fur charity, all fur the Lord—”
“An' why I didn't go to school, helpin' you all in the woods,” put in Archie B.