artful
discourse. He was a youngish man, threadbare and puckered of
garment--a quivering little aggregation of bones and blood-vessels,
with a lean, lipless, high-cheeked face, its pale surface splashed
with freckles; green eyes, red-rimmed, the lashes sparse and white;
wide, restless nostrils. "Brethren," said he, with a snap of the
teeth, his bony hand clinched and shaking above his gigantic head,
"con-_vict_ 'em! Anyhow. In any way. By any means. _Save_ 'em! That's
what we want in the church. Beloved," he proceeded, his voice dropping
to a hissing whisper, "save 'em. _Con_-vict 'em!" His head shot
forward; 'twas a red, bristly head, with the hair growing low on the
brow, like the spruce of an overhanging cliff. "It's the only _way_,"
he concluded, "to save 'em!" He sat down. "I'm hungry for souls!" he
shouted from his seat, as an afterthought; and 'twas plain he would
have said more had not a spasmodic cough put an end to his ecstasy.

"Praise God!" they said.

"'Low I got a cold," Parson Lute gasped, his voice changed now by the
weakness of an ailing man.

I feared to interrupt; but still must boldly knock.

"One moment, brethren!" Parson Stump apologized. "Ah, Daniel!" he
cried; "is that you? What's amiss, boy? You've no trouble, have you?
And your uncle--eh? you've no trouble, boy, have you?" The brethren
waited in silence while he tripped lightly over the worn cocoanut
matting to the rear--perturbed, a little frown of impatience and
bewilderment gathering between his eyes. The tails of his shiny black
coat brushed the varnished pine pews, whereto, every Sunday, the
simple folk of our harbor repaired in faith. Presently he tripped back
again. The frown of bewilderment was deeper now--the perturbation
turned anxious. For a moment he paused before the brethren. "Very
awkward," said he, at last. "Really, I'm very sorry." He scratched his
head, fore and aft--bit his lip. "I'm called to Whisper Cove," he
explained, pulling at his nose. "I'm sorry to interrupt the business
of the meeting, just at this time, but I do not see how it can be got
around. I s'pose we'd better adjourn until such a time as I--"

The chairman would hear of no adjournment.

"But," Parson Stump complained, "I'm the secretary!"

"We'll go right on, brother."

"I can't very well _stay_, brethren," said Parson Stump, chagrined.
"It's a case of--of--of spiritual consolation."

"Ah!" ejaculated Parson Lute.

"And I--"

"Now, Brother Wile