“After all,” he said, “I made a mistake—­flying so high.  A man doesn’t want a church-organ in his house any more than he wants an elephant for a lap-dog.  I’ve offered it to the Unitarian Church.”

I felt a little hurt about this, for my own church was badly in need of an instrument of that nature, but I said nothing, and considering the amount of trouble the organ had given I got over my regret when I realized that the Unitarian Church, and not mine, was shortly to have it.  In this, however, I was mistaken, for, after due deliberation, the Unitarians decided that the organ was so very large that they’d have to build a new church to go with it, and so declined it with thanks.

Carson bit his lip and then offered it to us.  “Don’t seem to be able to give it away,” he said.  “But I’ll try again.  You tell your vestry that if they want it they can have it.  I’ll take it out and put it in the barn up in the hay-loft.  They can take it or leave it.  It will cost them cartage and the expense of putting it up.”

I thanked him, and joyously referred the matter to the vestry.  At first the members of that body were as pleased as I was, but after a few minutes of jubilation the Chairman of the Finance Committee asked; “How much will it cost to get this thing into shape?”

Nobody knew, and finally the acceptance of the gift was referred to a committee consisting of the Chairman of the Finance Committee, the Chairman of the Music Committee, and myself, with full power to act.

Inquiry showed that the cost of every item in connection with the acceptance of the gift would amount to about a thousand dollars, and we called upon Carson to complete the arrangement.  He received us cordially.  We thanked him for his generosity, and were about to accept the gift finally, when the Chairman of the Finance Committee said: 

“It 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.