The Booming of Acre Hill | Page 7

the financier. "I suppose, Mr. Carson," he added, "that if we do put it in and pass around a subscription paper, we can count on you for--say two hundred and fifty dollars?"
I stood aghast, for I saw the thread of Carson's philosophy snap.
"What?" he said, with an effort to control himself.
"I say I suppose we can count on you for a subscription of two hundred and fifty dollars," repeated the financier.
There was a pause that seemed an eternity in passing. Carson's face worked convulsively, and the seeming complacency of the Chairman of the Finance Committee gave place to nervous apprehension as he watched the color surge through the cheeks and temples of our host.
He thought Carson was about to have a stroke of apoplexy.
I tried to think of something to say that might relieve the strain, but it wouldn't come, and on the whole I rather enjoyed the spectacle of the strong philosopher struggling with inclination, and I think the philosopher might have conquered had not the Chairman of the Music Committee broken in jocularly with:
"Unless he chooses to make it five hundred dollars, eh?" And he grinned maddeningly as he added: "If you'll give five hundred dollars we'll put a brass plate on it and call it 'The Carson Memorial,' eh? Ha--ha--ha."
Carson rose from his seat, walked into the hall and put on his hat.
"Mr.--ah--Blank," said he to the financier, "would you and Mr. Hicks mind walking down to the church with me?"
"Say, he's going to put it in for us!" whispered Hicks, the Chairman of the Music Committee, rubbing his hands gleefully.
"Don't you want me, Carson?" I asked, rising.
"No--you stay here!" he replied, shortly.
And then the three went out, while I lit a cigar and pottered about Carson's library. In half an hour he returned alone. His face was red and his hand trembled slightly, but otherwise he had regained his composure.
"Well?" said I.
"Well, I'm going to put it up," said he.
"Now--see here, Carson," I remonstrated. It seemed so like a rank imposition on his generosity. To give the organ was enough, without putting him to the expense of erecting it.
"Don't interrupt," said he. "I'm not going to put it up in the organ-loft, as you suppose, but in a place where it is likely to be quite as much appreciated."
"And that?" I asked.
"In the hay-loft," he replied.
"I don't blame you," said I, after a pause.
"Neither do I," said he.
"But why did you go down to the church?" I asked.
"Well," he explained, chuckling in spite of himself. "It was this way. My grandfather, I have been told, used to be able to express himself profanely without using a profane word, but I can't, and there were one or two things I wanted to say to those men that wouldn't go well with the decorations of my house, and which couldn't very well be said to a guest in my house."
"But, man alive, you didn't go to the church to do your swearing?"
"No," he answered. "I did it on the way down; and," he added, enthusiastically, "I did it exceeding well."
"But why the church?" I persisted.
"I thought after what I had to say to them," said he, "that they might need a little religious consolation."
And with that the subject was dropped.
The organ, as Carson threatened, was transferred to the hay-loft and not to the church, and as for the two Chairmen, they have several times expressed themselves to the effect that Carson is a very irritable, not to say profane, person.
But I am still inclined to think him a philosopher. Under the provocation any man of a less philosophical temperament might have forgotten the laws of hospitality and cursed his offending guests in his own house.

THE PLOT THAT FAILED
Among the most promising residents of Dumfries Corners some ten years ago was a certain Mr. Richard Partington Smithers, whose brilliant début and equally sudden extinguishment in the field of literary endeavor have given rise from time to time to no little discussion. He was young, very young, indeed, at the time of his great literary success, and his friends and neighbors prophesied great things for him. Yet nothing has since come from his pen, and many have wondered why.
Thanks to Mr. Smithers himself I am enabled to make public the story of his sudden withdrawal from the ranks of the immortals when on the very threshold of the temple of fame.
Ten years have changed his point of view materially, and an experience that once seemed tragedy to him is now in his eyes sufficiently tinged with comedy, and his own position among us is so secure that he is willing that the story of his failure should go forth.
After trying many professions Smithers had become a man of schemes. He devised plans that should enrich other people. Unfortunately, he sold