“Although it is for my struggling church, a weak blade of grass in the desert,” Santa Fé was saying when Hill got the range of ’em, “I cannot but regret having taken from you your splendid contribution to our parish fund in so unusual, I might almost say in so unseemly, a way. That I have returned to you a sufficient sum to enable you to prosecute your journey to its conclusion places you under no obligation to me. Indeed, I 39 could not have done less––considering the very liberal loan that you have made to my poor niece to enable her to return quickly to her helpless babe. As I hardly need tell you, that loan will be returned promptly––as soon as Mrs. Captain Chiswick gets East and is able to disentangle her affairs.”
“Indeed it will,” the Hen put in. “My generous benefactor shall be squared with if I have to sell my clothes!”
“Mustn’t think of such a thing. Catch cold,” the old gent said. “Pleasure’s all mine to assist such noble a woman in her unmerited distress. And now I shall have happiness, and same time sorrow, to give her fatherly kiss for farewell.”
The Hen edged away a little, Hill said, and Santa Fé shortened his grip a little on the old gent’s arm––so his fatherly kissing missed fire. But he didn’t seem to notice, and said to Santa Fé: “Never knew a minister know cards like you. Wonderful! And wonderful luck what you held. Played cards a good deal myself. Never could play like you!”
Santa Fé steadied the old gent, Hill said, and said to him in a kind of explaining way: “As I told you, my dear sir, in my wild college days––before I got light on my sinful path and headed for the ministry––I was reckoned something out of the common as a card-player; and what the profane call luck used to be with me all the time. Of course, since I humbly––but, I trust, helpfully––took to being a worker in the vineyard, I have not touched those devil’s picture-books; nor should I have touched them to-night but for my hope that a little game would help to while away your time of tedious waiting. As for playing for money, that would have been quite impossible had it not been for my niece’s suggestion that my winnings––in case such came to me––should be added to our meagre parish fund. I trust that I have not done wrong in yielding to my impulse. At least I have to sustain me the knowledge that if you, my dear sir, are somewhat the worse, my impoverished church is much the better for our friendly game of chance.”
Hill said hearing Santa Fé Charley talking 41 about chance in any game where he had the dealing was so funny it was better’n going to the circus. But the old gent took it right enough––and the Hen added on: “Yes, Uncle Charley can get the organ he’s been wanting so badly for his church, now. And I’m sure we’ll all think of how we owe its sweet music to you every time we hear it played!”––and she edged up to him again, so he could hold her hand. “It must make you very, very happy, sir,” she kept on, speaking kind of low and gentle, but not coming as close as he wanted her, “to go about the world doing such generous-hearted good deeds! I’m sure I’d like to thank you enough––only there aren’t any fit words to thank you in––for your noble-hearted generous goodness to me!”
The old gent hauled away on her hand, Hill said, trying to get her closer, and said back to her: “Words quite unnecessary. Old man’s heart filled with pleasure obliging such dear child. Never mind about words. Accept old man’s fatherly kiss, like daughter, for good-bye.”
But he missed it that time too, Hill said––and Hill said, speaking in his careless cuss-word way, it was pretty damn rough on him what poor luck in fatherly kisses he seemed to have––because just then the train conductor swung his lantern and sung out: “All aboard!”