They came back as well pleased as the first committee had been, and the result was, to make a long story short, that last week a unanimous call was sent to Maurice, and as I write this letter I have before me a private note from him, saying that he has received it, and that, if agreeable to us, he will come down and spend a week with me.  He says he wants to see our prayer-meeting, our Sabbath-school teachers’ meeting, and our Sabbath-school.  He adds that he will preach for us on Sunday if we desire, but that he does not want it known that he will be here at the prayer-meeting, as he wants to take a back seat and see how it goes.

In short he gives me to understand that it is the church which is on trial, not the minister, and that whether he comes or not depends on what kind of a church he finds it to be.  This reversal of the ordinary course of things is a little queer; but I guess it is all right.  At all events it will not do the church at Wheathedge any harm.  Meanwhile until we get a final answer from Maurice Mapleson our pulpit is no longer in the market.  For after our experience of ministerial coquetry I do not think there will be any inclination on our part for a flirtation.

CHAPTER XXI.

Ministerial Salaries.

“Mr. Wheaton,” said I, “we made a queer blunder the other night; we did not settle on any salary when we made out our call to Mr. Mapleson.”

“No blunder,” said Mr. Wheaton, “I left it out on purpose.  I thought may be we could get him for less than fifteen hundred dollars.  What do you think?  Wouldn’t he come on twelve hundred, and the parsonage?” And Mr. Wheaton smiled on me with an air of self-satisfaction which seemed to say, ’Jim Wheaton is the man to manage church business.’

I confess I was indignant at the idea of driving a sharp bargain with a minister, but I rather suspect Jim Wheaton never makes any other than a sharp bargain.

“Not with my advice,” said I.  “I told him the church ought to pay fifteen hundred a year and a parsonage, and I presumed it would.  But I recommend him not to come till he knows.”

We were in the Post Office, waiting for the distribution of the evening mail.  Mr. Hardcap was one of our group.  So was Deacon Goodsole.  It was indeed a sort of extemporized and unintentional meeting of our supply committee, only Mr. Gear being absent.

“The church won’t give mor’n 1,200 with my advice,” said Mr. Hardcap decidedly.  “And that’s mor’n I make.  I would just like to contract my time for the year at four dollars a day.  And I have to get up at six and work till sunset, ten hours, hard work.  I don’t see why the parson should have half as much again for five or six hours’ work.  I have heard our old pastor say myself that he never allowed himself to study mor’n six hours a day.”

“But the pastoral work, Mr. Hardcap?” said I.  “You make no account of that.”