Jerome laid the empty sack, which he had brought for meal, on the counter, and stood about to listen with the rest.  Squire Eben Merritt, having given his chair to the minister and squared up his great shoulders against a pile of boxes on the counter, was near him, and saluted him with a friendly nod, which Jerome returned with a more ardent flash of his black eyes than ever a girl had called forth yet.  Jerome adored this kindly Squire, against whom he was always fiercely on his guard lest he tender him gratuitous favors, and his indebtedness to whom was his great burden of life.

His Uncle Ozias did not notice him or pause in his harangue.  “The poor ye have always with ye, the poor ye have always with ye,” he was repeating, with a very snarl of sarcasm.  “I reckon ye do; an’ why?  Why is it that folks had the Man that give that sayin’ to the world with ’em, and made Him suffer and die?  It was the same reason for both.  D’ye want to know what ’twas?  Well, I’ll tell ye—­it don’t take a very sharp mind to ferret that out.  It don’t even take college larnin’.  It is because from the very foundation of this green airth the rich and the wicked and the proud have had the mastery over it, an’ their horns have been exalted.  The Lord knows they’ve got horns to their own elevation an’ the hurt of others, as much as any horned animals, though none of us can see ’em sproutin’, no matter how hard we squint.”

With that Ozias Lamb gave a quick glance, pointed with driest humor, from under his bent brows at Simon Basset’s great jumble of gray hair and Doctor Prescott’s spidery sprawl of red wig.  A subdued and half-alarmed chuckle ran through the company.  Simon Basset chewed imperturbably, but Doctor Seth Prescott’s handsome face was pale with controlled wrath.

Ozias continued:  “I tell ye that is the reason for all the sufferin’, an’ the wrongs, an’ the crucifixion, on this earth.  The rich are the reason for it all; the rich are the reason for the poor.  If the money wa’n’t in one pocket it would be in many; if the bread wa’n’t all in one cupboard there wouldn’t be so many empty; if all the garments wa’n’t packed away in one chest there wouldn’t so many go bare.  There’s money enough, an’ food enough, an’ clothes enough in this very town for the whole lot, an’ it’s the few that holds ’em that makes the paupers.”

Doctor Seth Prescott’s mouth was a white line of suppression.  Some of the men exchanged glances of consternation.  Cyrus Robinson’s clerk, Samson Loud, leaning over the counter beside his employer, said, “I swan!” under his breath.  As for Cyrus Robinson, he was doubtful whether or not to order this turbulent spirit out of his domain, especially since he was no longer a good customer of his, but worked for and traded with the storekeeper in Dale.

He looked around at his son Elisha, who was married now these three years to Abigail Mack, had two children, and a share in the business; but he got no suggestion from him.  Elisha, who had grown very stout, sat comfortably on a half-barrel of sugar inside the counter, sucking a stick of peppermint candy, unmoved by anything, even the entrance of his old enemy, Jerome.  As Cyrus Robinson was making up his mind to say something, Doctor Seth Prescott spoke, coldly and magisterially, without moving a muscle in his face, which was like a fine pale mask.