“Maybe dar ain't goin' ter be no clinchin',” said Hasty, hoping for Mandy's assurance to the contrary.
“What?” shrieked Mandy. “Wid dat 'ere sneakin' Widow Willoughby already a-tellin' de deacons how to start de new parson a-goin' proper?”
“Now, why you's always a-pickin' onto dat 'ere widow?” asked Hasty, already enjoying the explosion which he knew his defence of the widow was sure to excite.
“I don' like no woman what's allus braggin' 'bout her clean floors,” answered Mandy, shortly. She turned out the last light, and tiptoed upstairs, trying not to disturb the pastor.
John Douglas was busy already with pencil and paper, making notes of the plans for the church and parsonage, which he would perfect later on. Alas, for Douglas's day dreams! It was not many weeks before he understood with a heavy heart that the deacons were far too dull and uninspired to share his faith in beauty as an aid to man's spiritual uplift.
“We think we've done pretty well by this church,” said Deacon Strong, who was the business head, the political boss, and the moral mentor of the small town's affairs. “Just you worry along with the preachin', young man, and we'll attend to the buyin' and buildin' operations.”
Douglas's mind was too active to content itself wholly with the writing of sermons and the routine of formal, pastoral calls. He was a keen humanitarian, so little by little, he came to be interested in the heart stories and disappointments of many of the village unfortunates, some of whom were outside his congregation. The mentally sick, the despondent, who needed words of hope and courage more than dry talks on theology, found in him an ever ready friend and adviser, and these came to love and depend on him. But he was never popular with the creed-bound element of the church.
Mandy had her wish about being on the spot the first time that the parson's jaw squared itself at Deacon Strong. The deacon had called at the parsonage to demand that Douglas put a stop to the boys playing baseball in the adjoining lot on Sunday. Douglas had been unable to see the deacon's point of view. He declared that baseball was a healthy and harmless form of exercise, that the air was meant to be breathed, and that the boys who enjoyed the game on Sunday were principally those who were kept indoors by work on other days. The close of the interview was unsatisfactory both to Douglas and the deacon.
“Dey kinder made me cold an' prickly all up an' down de back,” Mandy said later, when she described their talk to Hasty. “Dat 'ere deacon don' know nuffin' 'bout gittin' 'roun' de parson.” She tossed her head with a feeling of superiority. She knew the way. Make him forget himself with a laugh. Excite his sympathy with some village underdog.