"I can assure you, Mr. Waydean, that we all have habits of which we are totally unconscious. I, for instance, invariably moisten my thumb in turning the leaves of the pulpit Bible, and I am inclined to disbelieve my wife when she mentions the matter afterwards. Now, I want you to take my word for it that you have the habit I am about to speak of, even though you may think you haven't."
I remembered with an effort that my name was Peter Waydean; at the same time I was thrilled by a sudden conviction that, as resistance seemed useless, a delightful situation would result if I consented to play the part that was being thrust upon me so vigorously. There was no sound of scrubbing from the kitchen, and I was positive that Marion had left her work to listen to the conversation. This consideration gave zest to the idea, for things seemed to have been providentially arranged so that Marion might remain in the background, wrathfully powerless to interfere in what had every appearance of proving to be a most entertaining masquerade.
"Mr. Hughes, I'll try," I said meekly.
"Well then, I will say frankly that I think it excusable if you occasionally fall asleep during the sermon on a warm day, considering that you have but one day's rest in the week from most arduous manual labor; but, it happens, your pew is between Brother Bunce's and Brother Lemon's, and they, too, are sometimes overcome by somnolency. Don't be offended if I put the matter plainly,—they both complain that you have the habit of going to sleep and——"
"But what right have they to complain of my going to sleep, when they——"
"There,—there!—be calm, and I'll explain. Remember, they are both liberal givers and pillars of the church, and we must do nothing to alienate them; indeed, if we can do anything to make them more comfortable it is our duty to do so. Now they do not complain of your going to sleep, but they protest against having their rest disturbed by—ahem!—your—your snoring."
"My snoring!" I exclaimed wrathfully. "Let me inform you, sir, I never snore. I—" A choking guttural sound from the dining-room, followed by an artificial feminine cough, arrested my denial. I gulped twice, then I went on humbly: "I should say, rather, that I was not aware I snored."
"Well put, Mr. Waydean," said my mentor approvingly. "I remember the first time my wife told me I snored I was quite irritated, so I know how you feel. But I have investigated this matter thoroughly before coming to you, and I find the opinion is universal that you are in fault."
"Well, then, what are you going to do about it? If I'm not wanted in the church I'm willing to stay away."
"No, no,—my dear sir, I will not hear of such a thing. I am determined that no one shall leave the church during my pastorate. I would suggest, however, that you might change your pew to one at the rear of the building under the gallery. You would be more comfortable there, and Bunce and Lemon would be out of range, so to speak."