“Oh, my dear sir! The wants of this parish! and my poor chapel! You can see the state of the roof, and the broken windows. The people are too poor to pay for repairs. My own pittance is far in arrears, but I can't complain of that since so many of my dear flock are in need. I was just about persuaded that we should have to abandon the fight to keep the church alive. I had not counted on miracles, but it seems that they do occur.”
“Well, I'm not exactly a miracle-worker, but I've got some money you can have if—there's a string to it, of course. But you could use ten thousand dollars, couldn't you?”
“Indeed not,” said Mr. Rutledge, feeling as Faust must have felt when Mephisto began to promise things. A spurt of water from a new leak brought him back from the Middle Ages and he cried: “You might lend a hand with this tub, sir, if you will.”
When the new cascade was provided for, Jim renewed his bids for the preacher's soul:
“If you can't use ten thousand, how much could you use?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, you could use a new roof at least. I'll give you a new roof, and a real stained-glass window of Charity to replace that broken imitation atrocity, and a new organ and hymn-books, and new pew covers, and I'll pay your arrears of salary and guarantee your future, and I'll give you an unlimited drawing account for your poor, and—any other little things you may think of.”
Mr. Rutledge protested:
“It's rather cruel of you, sir, to make such jokes at such a time.”
“God bless you, old man! I never was so much in earnest. It's easy for me to do those little trifles.”