His cheque was waiting. As he fingered the green slip whose face value
was one hundred and twenty dollars, one fourth of his yearly stipend, he
felt relieved, and at the same time oddly reluctant. Not until late in
the evening did he get at the root of that reluctance. MacLeod had
hospitably insisted on putting him up. They sat in the factor's living
room before a great roaring fireplace. Their talk had lapsed into
silence. MacLeod leaned back in his chair, pipe in hand, frowning
abstractedly.
"Man," he said at length, his bearded face wrinkled with a smile, "I
wish ye were no a preacher wi' labors i' the vineyard of the Lord tae
occupy yer time. I'd have ye do a job for me."
"A job?" Thompson came out of his preoccupation.
"Aye," MacLeod grunted. "A job. A reg'lar man's job. There'd be a
reasonable compensation in't. It's a pity," he continued dryly, "that a
parson has a mind sae far above purely mateerial conseederation."
"It may surprise you," Mr. Thompson returned almost as dryly, "to know
that I have--to a certain extent--modified my views upon what you term
material considerations. They are, I have found, more important than I
realized."
The factor took his pipe out of his mouth and regarded Thompson with
frank curiosity.
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