"You aren't fit to be a minister," affirmed Mr. Ashton hotly; "I'm ashamed of you as the pastor of St. Andrew's, sir."
"Why?" pursued Gordon.
"Because our church, sir, our church has always been noted for its orthodoxy. We've always held to the simple Gospel—and you've gone back on it, sir. I knew it was coming; I could tell it by the things you preached about."
"What things?" although Gordon knew right well.
"Well, take last Sunday for instance; you preached on the duty of employers of labour—a lot of stuff about fresh air, and short hours, and taking care of sick hands—a lot of unspiritual stuff like that. When I go to church, sir, I want the Gospel, the simple Gospel—and nothing but the Gospel. Mr. Seybold's the same way; he says he's disgusted with many of your sermons, about worldly things. You stick to the Gospel, sir, and worldly things will take care of themselves," concluded Mr. Ashton, wagging his pious head.
"You mean Seybold the brewer, don't you?" enquired Gordon.
"Yes," said Mr. Ashton; "and he's one of the richest men in our church, as you know yourself."
"I don't know anything about it," was Gordon's curt reply; "but I don't wonder at his zeal for the Gospel—or yours either. I don't know any men that have more need to make their calling and election sure. He's a vampire, sir—and so are you."
"A what?" roared Mr. Ashton. "I'm a what?" He did not know what a vampire was, of course; but there was something in Gordon's voice and eye that made the word tell its meaning. Gordon would have withered him just the same if he had called him a rectangular hypotenuse.
"A vampire, I said," Gordon hurled back at him; "both of you live on the defenseless and the poor. It's sickening," and Gordon's voice rang higher, "to hear you, or him, prating about the Gospel, while he makes his wealth out of human misery—and you, you oppress the poor—you grind their faces, and you know it. You take your blood money from poor girls that have to toil in that sweat-box of yours—and you don't care whether they live or die, so long as they serve your selfish ends. I have visited more than one dying girl that got her death in your employ—as Jennie McMillan did—and you prance your horses past the door when they're dying, and even after the crape is on it, and you never stop to ask for them; and then you come prattling to me about not preaching the Gospel!"