"Engaged to preach."
"Where?" said uncle, quite forgetful now of the debate. I think the same question came in the same breath from my mother and Aunt Agnes.
"In the Coloured Methodist Church—I think they call it Zion," Mr. Laird informed us calmly. "I was there the other day at a funeral—pretty boisterous funeral it was, too—and the preacher got hold of me. They took up a collection," Mr. Laird laughed, "and that was how they located me. I didn't have anything but a shilling—a quarter, you call it. Well, he invited me to preach for him next Sabbath, and I agreed. So I won't be able to oblige Mr. Furvell."
"You agreed, sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Lundy, I agreed," repeated the stoical Scotchman.
"Good God!" said my Uncle Henry. My uncle was not a profane man—but this was something extra.
"Don't get excited, Henry, don't," began my mother; "Mr. Laird can easily change all that—he can get released from his engagement. He didn't know we wanted him in our church."
"I'm not excited, ma'am," puffed my uncle; "I was never calmer in my life—but the thing's preposterous, madam. It's utterly absurd—it's ridiculous."
"Yes, yes," broke in my Aunt Agnes, "of course, it's the easiest thing in the world to arrange. All Mr. Laird has to do is to explain to that coloured preacher that——"
"But I can't," interrupted Mr. Laird; "that is, I won't." The word fell strangely on the ears of Southern ladies. "I gave him my promise—and that's the end of it. I'll preach in Zion Church—or whatever they call it—next Sabbath morning. If the Lord will," he added, with what appeared to us all quite superfluous piety. I didn't know then that Scotch people never take any chances.