“And me a-waiting to give him Mrs. Elverson's message,” piped Elverson.
“The church bore all this in silence so long as that girl was sick,” snapped Miss Perkins. “But now she's perfectly well, and still a-hanging on. No wonder folks are talking.”
“Who's talking?” thundered Strong.
“Didn't you know?” simpered Mrs. Willoughby, not knowing herself nor caring, so long as the suspicion grew.
“Know what?” yelled the excited deacon. Mrs. Willoughby floundered. Miss Perkins rushed into the breach.
“Well, if I was deacon of this church, it seems to me I'd know something about what's going on in it.”
“What IS goin' on?” shrieked the now desperate deacon.
The women looked at him pityingly, exchanged knowing glances, then shook their heads at his hopeless stupidity.
Strong was not accustomed to criticism. He prided himself upon his acuteness, and was, above all, vain about his connection with the church. He looked from one woman to the other. He was seething with helpless rage. The little deacon at his side coughed nervously. Strong's pent up wrath exploded. “Why didn't YOU tell me, Elverson, that people was a-talkin',” he roared in the frightened man's ear.
Elverson sputtered and stammered, but nothing definite came of the sounds; so Strong again turned to Miss Perkins: