“You wish me to be perfectly frank?” he asked, with his black eyes twinkling.
“Perfectly so. You couldn’t say anything that would anger me. I am too much in earnest.”
“Well, to begin with, you don’t preach the simple gospel.”
“No; but I do preach the gospel of Christ.”
“Your reference to the strike amongst the women shirt-makers in New York drove one of the richest men out of our church.”
“Yes; I saw him jump up and go out during the service. The women were making shirts for his house at thirty-five cents a dozen, finding their own thread and using their own machines. I said if I found one of those shirts in my house I’d put it in the fire with a pair of tongs, and I would. I’d be afraid to touch a seam lest I felt the throb of a woman’s bruised fingers in it.”
The Deacon softly stroked his whiskers.
“It was an unfortunate remark. He contributed $500 a year to the church. He has gone where the simple gospel of Christ is preached.”
“Yes, so simple that he can sleep through it and know that it will never touch his life,” Gordon said with a sneer. “What’s the use to talk about mustard plaster? I say apply it to the place that hurts.”
“You preach Evolution. I don’t like the idea that man is descended from a monkey.”