“May I ask Mr. Lamb,” he said, “how long, in his judgment, when the money shall have been divided and poured from one purse into many others, when the loaves shall have been distributed among all the empty cupboards, and when all the surplus garments have been portioned out to the naked, this happy state of equal possessions will last?”

“Well,” replied Ozias Lamb, slowly, “I should say, takin’ all things into consideration—­the graspin’ qualities of them that had been rich, and the spillin’ qualities of them that had been poor, about fourteen hours an’ three-quarters.  I might make it twenty-four—­I s’pose some might hang on to it overnight—­but I guess on the whole it’s safer to call it fourteen an’ three-quarters.”

“Well,” returned Doctor Prescott, “what then, Mr. Lamb?”

“Give it back again,” said Ozias, shortly.

Squire Eben Merritt gave a great shout of mirth.  “By the Lord Harry,” he cried, “that’s an idea!”

“It is an entirely erroneous system of charity which you propose, Mr. Lamb,” said Doctor Prescott; “such a constant disturbance and shifting of the property balance would shake the financial basis of the whole country.  Our present system of one public charity, to include all the poor of the town, is the only available one, in the judgment of the ablest philanthropists in the country.”

Ozias Lamb got off his keg, straightened his bowed shoulders as well as he was able, and raised his right hand.  “You call the poorhouse righteous charity, do ye, Doctor Seth Prescott?” he demanded.  “You call it givin’ in the name of the Lord?”

Doctor Prescott made no response; indeed, Ozias did not wait for one.  He plunged on in a very fury of crude oratory.

“It ain’t charity!” he cried.  “I tell ye what it is—­it’s a pushin’ an’ hustlin’ of the poor off the steps of the temple, an’ your own door-steps an’ door-paths, to get ’em out of your sight an’ sound, where your purple an’ fine linen won’t sweep against their rags, an’ your delicate ears won’t hear their groans, an’ your delicate eyes an’ nose won’t see nor scent their sores; where you yourselves, with your own hands, won’t have to nurse an’ tend ’em.  I tell ye, that rich man in Scriptur’ was a damned fool not to start a poorhouse, an’ not have Lazaruses layin’ round his gate.  He’d have been more comfortable, an’ mebbe he’d have cheated hell so.

“You call it givin’—­givin’! You call livin’ in that house over there in the holler, workin’ with rheumatic old joints, an’ wearin’ stiff old fingers to the bone, not for honest hire, but for the bread of charity, a gift, do ye?  I tell ye, every pauper in that there house that’s got his senses after what he’s been through, knows that he pays for every cent he costs the town, either by the sweat of his brow an’ the labor of his feeble hands, or by the independence of his soul.”

Then Simon Basset spat, and shifted his quid and spoke.  “Tell ye what ‘tis, all of ye,” said he—­“it’s mighty easy talkin’ an’ givin’ away gab instead of dollars.  I’ll bet ye anything ye’ll put up that there ain’t one of ye out of the whole damned lot that ’ain’t got any money that would give it away if he had it.”