It was eleven o’clock at night. Mrs. Betty had retired, while her husband was still struggling to finish a sermon on the importance of foreign missions. Ordinarily, the work would have been congenial and easy for him, because he was an enthusiast in the matter of missionary work: but now for some reason his thoughts were confused; his enthusiasm was lacking, and his pen dragged. He tried hard to pull himself together, but over and over again the question kept repeating itself in his tired brain: Why 239 should the Church support foreign missions, while she lets her hard working clergy at home suffer and half starve in their old age, and even fails to give them decent support while they are working in their prime? Why should a doctor reach his highest professional value at seventy, and a parson be past the “dead-line” at forty-five? Here he was, subject to the caprice and ill-will of a sour and miserly Senior Warden, and a cowed and at least partially “bossed” vestry—and he, the rector, with no practical power of appeal for the enforcement of his legal contract. It was only thanks to Jonathan Jackson, the Junior Warden, that any revenue at all reached him; for Bascom had used every grain of influence he possessed to reduce or stop Maxwell’s salary. Mrs. Betty, plucky and cheery though she was, already showed the results of the weary struggle: it was not the work that took the color from her cheeks and the freshness from her face, but the worry incidental to causes which, in any other calling in life but his, would be removable.

Already he had parted with a considerable number of his books to eke out, and meet the many calls upon him—urgent and insistent calls. It became abundantly clear, as his mind strayed from the manuscript before him and turned to their immediate situation, 240 that he was already forced to choose between two alternatives: either he must give up, and own himself and all the better influences in the place beaten by Bascom and his satellites; or he must find some means of augmenting his means of living, without allowing his time and energy to be monopolized to the neglect of essential parish and church duties.

As he thought on these things, somehow his enthusiasm for foreign missions ebbed away, and left him desperately tired and worried. He made several abortive attempts to put some fire into his missionary plea, but it was useless; and he was about to give up when he heard Mrs. Betty’s gentle voice inquiring from the next room:

“May I come in? Haven’t you finished that wretched old missionary sermon yet?”

“No, dear; but why aren’t you asleep?”

“I have been anxious about you. You are worn out and you need your rest. Now just let the heathen rage, and go to bed.”

Maxwell made no reply, but picked at his manuscript aimlessly with his pen. Betty looked into his face, and then the whole stress of the situation pierced her; and sitting down by his side she dropped her head on his shoulder and with one arm around his neck stroked his cheek with her fingers. For a few 241 moments neither of them spoke; and then Maxwell said quietly:

“Betty, love, I am going to work.”

“But Donny, you are one of the hardest working men in this town. What do you mean?”

“Oh, I mean that I am going to find secular work, the work of a day laborer, if necessary. Matters have come to a crisis, and I simply cannot stand this sort of thing any longer. If I were alone I might get along; but I have you, sweetheart, and––”

Maxwell stopped suddenly, and the brave little woman at his side said:

“Yes, I know all about it, Donald, and I think you are fully justified in doing anything you think best.”

“And you wouldn’t feel ashamed of me if I handled a shovel or dug in the street?”

“I’d be the proudest woman in the town, Donny; you are just your fine dear self, whatever you do; and if you have the courage to put your pride in your pocket and work in overalls, that would make you all the finer to me. Manual work would relieve the tension of your nerves. You seem to be in fairly good physical condition. Don’t you worry one bit about me. I am going to wash some lace curtains for Mrs. Roscoe-Jones, and that will keep me out of mischief. Now, if you will allow me, I am going to tear up 242 that sermon on foreign missions, and start a little home mission of my own by sending you to bed.”

The second morning after this ruthless destruction of Maxwell’s eloquent plea for the mission at Bankolulu, Danny Dolan drove up to the tent-rectory at half-past six, and Maxwell emerged and jumped up by Danny’s side, dressed in a rather soiled suit of overalls: Danny was a teamster, a good looking youth, and a devoted friend of Maxwell’s since the parson had taken care of him and his family through an attack of malignant diphtheria. But while Danny was a most loyal friend, he was not of the emotional type, and so, when Maxwell had seated himself comfortably and had lighted his briar pipe, Danny started down the road at a vigorous pace, grinning broadly at Maxwell’s attire as he remarked:

“So you’re really goin’ to work like the rest of us, I reckon.”

“Right you are, Danny—four days a week, anyhow. Don’t I look like the real thing?”

“Sure you do; only you better not shave every day, and you’ll have to get your hands dirty before you can fool anybody, and maybe your face’ll give you away even then. Be you comfortable in them clothes?”

“Sure thing; I’m never so contented as I am in working clothes.” 243

“That’s all right. You’re the stuff. But how about the proper old maids in the parish who ogle and dance around you; they won’t cotton to your clothes a little bit. They’ll think you’re degradin’ of yourself and disgracin’ of the parish. Here you be ridin’ on a stone wagon, and you don’t look a bit better than me, if I do say it.”

“I’m afraid they’ll have to survive the shock somehow or other; a man has to dress according to his work.”

“Hm! Now there’s that there Mrs. Roscoe-Jones and Miss Bascom; I’ll bet if they saw you in that rig they’d throw a fit.”

“Oh no; it isn’t as bad as that, Danny.”

“They’d think you’d been disgraced for life, to become a laborin’ man, you bet.”

“A what?”

“A laborin’ man.”

“Then you think that a parson doesn’t labor?”

“Well, I always thought that bein’ a parson was a dead easy job, and a nice clean job too.”

“Danny,” Maxwell inquired after a momentary silence, “don’t you suppose that a man labors with his brain as well as with his muscles? And sometimes a parson labors with his heart, and that is the hardest kind of work a man ever does. The man who is most 244 of a laboring man is the man who labors with every power and faculty he possesses.”

“Well, now, I guess that may be right, if you look at it that way.”

“Yes; you speak of a laboring man, and you mean a man who uses his muscles and lets his brain and his feelings die of starvation. To try to help some one you’re fond of, who is going to the bad, is the most nerve-racking and exhausting work which any man can possibly do.”

“Hm! you always was a dum queer parson, more like the rest of us, somehow. And you don’t hold that you’re disgracin’ your profession ridin’ with me, and shovelin’ gravel?”

“I don’t seem to be worrying much about it, do I?”

“No,” he agreed—and added, “and I’m dum sure I would like a day off now and then from preachin’ and callin’ on old maids, if I was you. But there’s times I might be willin’ for to let you take my work for yours.”

“Now see here, if you’ll do my work for a few days, I’ll do yours.”

“Well, what’d I have to do? I ’aint makin’ any contract without specifications.”

“Well, suppose we say you do my work Saturday and Sunday. That means you finish up two sermons, 245 which must be original and interesting when you are preaching to the same set of people about a hundred and fifty times a year. Then you must go and see a woman who is always complaining, and listen to her woes for three-quarters of an hour. Then you must go and see what you can do for Tom Bradsaw, who is dying of tuberculosis. Then you must conduct a choir rehearsal—not always the highest gratification of a musical ear. Sunday, you must conduct four services and try to rouse a handful of people, who stare at you from the back pews, to some higher ideals of life and common decency, Then––”

“Oh, heavens, man! Sure, an’ that’s enough; I stick to the stone wagon every time.”

“You’d be a fool if you didn’t,” replied Maxwell straightly. “Then again you get your pay promptly every Saturday night. I never know when I am going to get mine.”

“You don’t? Begad, and I wouldn’t work for anybody if I wasn’t paid prompt. I’d sue the Bishop or the Pope, or somebody.”

“Parsons don’t sue: it’s considered improper.”

“Well, well,” muttered the astonished Danny. “Be you sure you can shovel stone then?” he asked.

Maxwell unbuttoned his wristband, rolled up his 246 sleeve. “If I can’t, I’ll know the reason why,” he remarked tersely.

“That’s the stuff,” laughed Danny, looking at Maxwell’s muscle. “I guess I don’t want to meet you out walkin’ after dark without a gun. But say, why don’t you swat the Bishop one, and get your pay?”

“The Bishop isn’t responsible.”

“Well, I’ll bet I know who is, dang him; and I’d like to swat him one for you, the miserable old bag-of-bones.”

“Never you mind, Danny; I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can, and I guess you’re a laborin’ man all right, even if you don’t belong to the Union. Why don’t you get up a parson’s Union and go on strike? By Jove! I would. Let your parish go to––”

“Danny, don’t you think it looks like rain?”

“No, neither do you; but here we are at the stone pile. My! but how the fellers will grin when they see a tenderfoot like you, and a parson at that, shovelin’ stone. But they won’t think any the less of you for it, mind you,” he reassured his companion.

Maxwell knew most of the men, and greeted them by name, and when he rolled up his sleeves and began work, they quickly saw that he was “no slouch,” and that he did not “soldier,” or shirk, as many of them 247 did—though sometimes they were inclined to rest on their shovels and chaff him good-naturedly, and ask him if he had his Union card with him.

Shoveling stone is no picnic, as Danny and his fellows would have put it. It is not only the hard, obstructed thrust, thrust of the shovel into the heap of broken stone, and the constant lift and swing of each shovelful into the wagon; it is the slow monotony of repetition of unvarying motion that becomes most irksome to the tyro, and wears down the nervous system of the old hand till his whole being is leveled to the insensibility of a soulless machine.

But, though new to the process itself, Maxwell was not ignorant of its effects; and soon he found himself distracting his attention from the strain of the muscular tension by fitting the action to the rhythm of some old sailor’s chanteys he had learned at college. The effect amused the men; and then as some of them caught the beat, and others joined in, soon the whole gang was ringing the changes on the simple airs, and found it a rousing and cheerful diversion from the monotony of labor.

If a pause came, soon one of them would call out: “Come on, Parson; strike up the hymn.”

One by one the wagons were loaded, and driven to the road. After they had filled the last wagon, Danny 248 put on his coat, and he and Maxwell mounted and drove out of the yard.

“Where are we going with this?” Maxwell inquired.

“Down on the state road, first turn to the left.”

“Why, that must be near Willow Bluff, Mr. Bascom’s place, isn’t it?”

“Right opposite. Bascom, he come out yesterday, and said he wouldn’t stand for that steam roller snortin’ back and forth in front of his house. But Jim Ferris told him he had his orders from Williamson, and he wasn’t goin’ to be held up by nobody until Williamson told him to stop. Jim isn’t any kind of fool.”

When they arrived in front of Willow Bluff, they stopped, dismounted, and dumped the crushed stone, and then returned to the stone yard. At noon they camped out on the curb in front of Willow Bluff. After Maxwell had done full justice to the contents of his dinner pail, he stretched himself full length on the grass for a few moments, chatting with his mates in friendly fashion. Then he went over to the roller and assisted the engineer in “oiling up.” Being a novice at the business, he managed to get his hands black with oil, and smeared a streak across one cheek, which, while it helped to obscure his identity, did not add to his facial beauty. He was blissfully unconscious of this. About three o’clock Bascom returned from his office, just as Maxwell was dismounting from the wagon after bringing a load. At first Bascom did not recognize the rector, but a second glance brought the awful truth home to his subliminal self, and he stopped and stared at Maxwell, stricken dumb. Maxwell politely touched his hat, and smilingly remarked that it was a fine day. Bascom made no reply at first.

“Can it be possible that this is you, Mr. Maxwell?” he almost whispered, at last.

“It is, to the best of my knowledge and belief.”

“What in the name of heaven are you working with these men for, if I may ask?”

“To earn sufficient money to pay my grocer’s bill.”

Bascom colored hotly, and sputtered:

“I consider it a shame and a disgrace to the parish to have our rector in filthy clothes, drawing stone with a lot of ruffians.”

Maxwell colored as hotly, and replied:

“They are not ruffians, sir; they are honest men, supporting their families in a perfectly legitimate way, giving their labor and”—significantly—“receiving their pay for it.” 250

“And you, sir, are engaged to work for the parish, as a minister of God.”

“Unfortunately, I am not being paid by the parish; that is why I am working here. Neither my wife nor myself is going to starve.”

“You haven’t any pride, sir!” Bascom fumed, his temper out of control. “We have had many incompetent rectors, but this really surpasses anything. We have never had anyone like you.”

Maxwell paused again in his work, and, leaning on his shovel, looked Bascom in the eye:

“By which you mean that you have never had anyone who was independent enough to grip the situation in both hands and do exactly what he thought best, independent of your dictation.”

“I will not converse with you any more. You are insulting.”

“As the corporation is paying me for my time, I prefer work to conversation.”

Bascom strode along the road towards his home. Danny Dolan, who had been a shameless auditor of this conversation, from the other side of the wagon, was beside himself with delight:

“Holy Moses! but didn’t you give it to the old man. And here be all your adorers from town after comin’ to tea at the house, and you lookin’ like the 251 stoker of an engine with black grease half an inch thick on your cheek.”

Maxwell pulled out his handkerchief, and made an abortive effort to get his face clean.

“How is it now, Danny?”

“Oh, it ’aint nearly as thick in any one place; it’s mostly all over your face now.” Then Danny laughed irreverently again. “Sure, an’ you certainly do look like the real thing now.”

Maxwell was raking gravel when the guests for the afternoon tea were passing; and though he did not look up, he fully realized that they had recognized him, from the buzz of talk and the turning of heads.

Danny returned from his safer distance when he saw the coast was clear. Maxwell had a shrewd suspicion that the boy had taken himself off believing it might embarrass Maxwell less if any of the ladies should speak to him.

“Did none of ’em know you, then?” he asked.

“Not one of them spoke; I guess my disguise is pretty complete.”

“Thank hiven!” Danny exclaimed. “Then the crisis is passed for to-day at least, and your reputation is saved; but if you don’t get out of this they’ll be comin’ out again, and then nobody knows what’ll 252 happen. Better smear some more oil over the other cheek to cover the last bit of dacency left in you.”

At the end of the day’s work, Maxwell threw his shovel into Dolan’s wagon and jumped up on the seat with him and drove back to town.

“Well,” said Maxwell’s friend, delightedly, “you done a mighty good day’s work for a tenderfoot; but you done more with that old Bascom than in all the rest of the day put together. My! but I thought I’d split my sides to see you puttin’ him where he belonged, and you lookin’ like a coal heaver. But it’s a howlin’ shame you didn’t speak to them women, goin’ all rigged up for the party. That would’ve been the finishin’ touch.”

He swayed about on his seat, laughing heartily, until they drew up before the rectory, where Mrs. Betty was waiting to greet Maxwell.

Danny touched his cap shyly—but Betty came down to the wagon and gave him a cheery greeting.

“Well—you’ve brought him back alive, Mr. Dolan, anyway.”

“Yes ma’am! And I reckon he’ll keep you busy puttin’ the food to him, if he eats like he works: he’s a glutton for work, is Mr. Maxwell.”