"It isn't religious bigotry; it's just stinginess. Grismer is the meanest man on Manhattan Island. Didn't you know it?"
"No. I don't know him well—though I've been acquainted with him for a long while. But I don't see how he can be stingy."
"Why?"
"Well, he's interested in charity——"
"He's paid a thumping big salary! He makes money out of charity. Why shouldn't he be interested?"
"But he publishes religious books——"
"Of course. They sell. It's a great graft, Cleland. Don't publish novels if you want to make money; print Bibles!"
"Is that a fact?"
"You bet! There are more parasites in pulpit, publishing house and charity concerns, who live exclusively by exploiting God, than there were unpleasant afflictions upon the epidermis of our late friend, Job. And Chiltern Grismer is one of them—the old skinflint!—hogging his only sister's share of the Grismer money and scared stiff for fear some descendant might reopen the claim and fight the verdict which beggared his own sister!"
"By Gad!" exclaimed Cleland, very red; "I've a mind to look into it and start proceedings again if there is any ground——"