Whetstone.
Bless me, I almost forgot it,—I own half a church, and built the steeple out of my own pocket.
Violet.
Art thou a pious knight?
Whetstone.
Heaven must have a share. Besides, it was a sharp business project. It is the highest steeple in the State; and some day I’ll ride into the governor’s chair on it.
Violet.
Thy steeple should turn thy thoughts to heaven, instead of to the earth.
Whetstone.
That reminds me of the lightning-rod. [Aside] I’ll give her a sample of my business talents. [Aloud] A pedler one day said to me: Mayor Whetstone, I wish to introduce into your community my patent flanged galvanized lightning-rods. Said I to him, pointing to the steeple: Eureka! Excelsior! Do you climb? Do you follow me? Do you donate? Is the advertisement worth the rod? Will you spare the steeple, and spoil the rod? He climbed. He donated. Before the next thunderstorm he received orders for over forty rods from members who were afraid the lightning would strike their property if they didn’t buy a rod.