“Deacon, we’re all a good, deal alike in this world in one respect:  our best thoughts come too late.  I don’t hesitate to say that some good thoughts, which I have heard you urge upon other people but which you never mentioned to me, have come to me a deal later than they should.  But, on the other hand, this matter of making Sam the master of this shop has already been attended to.  I’ve bought it for him myself, and made him a free and clear present of it last night in token of the immense amount of good which he has done me by personal example.”

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the deacon.

“I don’t mind saying,” continued the lawyer, “that if you will go to work and do me half as much good, I will buy just as much property and make you a free and clear present of it.  I am open to all possible benefits of that kind nowadays, and willing to pay for them, so far as money will go, to the full extent of my income and capital.”  The deacon arose and looked about him in a dazed sort of fashion.  Then he looked at the lawyer inquiringly, put his hand in his pocket, drew forth a mass of business papers, shuffled them over once more, looked again at the lawyer, and said,—­

“Mr. Bartram, I’ve got some particular business with you that I would like to talk about at once.  Would you mind coming to my office, or taking me around to yours?”

“Not at all.  Good luck, Sam,” said the lawyer.  “Good day.”

The two men went out together.  No sooner were they outside the shop than the deacon said, rapidly,—­

“Reynolds Bartram, my business affairs are in the worst possible condition.  You know more about them than anybody else.  You have done as much as anybody else to put them in the muddle that they’re in now.  You helped me into them, and now, church or no church, religion or no religion, you’ve got to help me out of them, or I’ve got to go to the devil.  Now, what are you going to do about it?”

“Is it as bad as that?” murmured the lawyer.

“Yes, it’s as bad as that, and I could put it a good deal stronger if it was necessary.  Everything has been going wrong.  That walnut timber tract over on the creek, that I expected to get about five thousand dollars out of, isn’t worth five thousand cents.  Since the last time I was over there some rascal stole every log that was worth taking, and the place wouldn’t bring under the hammer half what I gave for it.  I have been trying to sell it, but somehow everybody that wanted it before has found out what has been going on.  This is an awfully mean world on business-men that don’t look out for themselves all the time.”

“I should not think you had ever any right to complain of it, deacon,” said the lawyer.

“Come, come, now,” said the deacon, “I’m not in any condition to be tormented to-day, Reynolds,—­I really ain’t.  I’m almost crazy.  I suppose old Mrs. Poynter has been at you to get her interest-money out of me, hasn’t she?”