The Booming of Acre Hill | Page 7

is very good of you, Mr. Carson, to give us this organ. Heaven
knows we need it, but it will cost us about a thousand dollars to put it
in."
"So I judged," said Carson. "But when it is in you'll have a
thirty-five-hundred-dollar organ."

"Splendid!" ejaculated the Chairman of the Music Committee.
"The great difficulty that now confronts us," said the financier, "is as to
how we shall raise that money. The church is very poor."
"I presume it is a good deal of a problem in these times," acquiesced
Carson. "Ah--"
"It's a most baffling one," continued 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