“I guess he’s pulled the wool over the eyes o’ the Church,” said Mrs. Cattermole, sceptically.
“Not hardly! He turned thet thar table in broad daylight with the Bible open upon it, to show thet Satan didn’t hev a look in.”
“The Bible on it! ’Pears to me terrible ongodly.”
“Ongodly! Why, you an’ me kin do it--two pillars o’ the Church! I guess the Evil One couldn’t come nigh _us_, hey?”
“I dunno es it would turn if you an’ me was to do it.”
“You bet! It told me ’bout the future world, an’ my poor Susan’s Christian name, an’ how much to ast for my upland hay.”
“Good lan’!” cried Mrs. Cattermole. “An’ would it tell me whether my sister is through her sickness yet?”
“My! Thet’s jest great!” And Mrs. Cattermole eagerly inquired how one set about interrogating the oracle.
The deacon explained, adding that the parlor table would not do. It must be a rough deal table.
“Ah, the kitchin table,” said Mrs. Cattermole, walking into the elaborately laid trap.
“I dunno,” said the deacon, shaking his head. “Air you sure it ain’t too large for us to span around?”
“Waal, it might,” he said, cautiously, at last. “There ain’t no harm in tryin’. We hedn’t ought to give up anythin’ without tryin’, I allus thinks. One never knows, hey?”
“I kinder think we ought to try,” said Mrs. Cattermole.
The deacon rose ponderously, and followed his guide into the kitchen.
“Why, there’s Matt!” he cried, in astonished accents. “Good-day, sonny.”
Matt strained his ears, but pursed his lips and rocked the cradle in violent impassivity. The deacon was uneasy at the boy’s sullen resentment. He could not understand open enemies.
“How’s your health, hey?” he asked, affectionately.
“Oh, I’m hunky dory,” said Matt, in off-hand school-boy slang.
“I’m considerable glad you’ve found a good place with rael Christians, Matt. I on’y hope you’ve made up your mind to work hard an’ turn over a new leaf. It’s never too late to mend, I allus thinks. You’re growin’ a young man, now; no more picter-makin’, hey? If it warn’t that you air so moony an’ lay-abed I’d give you a chanst on my own land, with pocket-money into the bargain, hey, an’ p’raps a pair o’ store shoes fur a Chrismus-box.”
A flame shot from Mrs. Cattermole’s now-opened eyes. She shut the cellar door with a vicious bang, but ere she could speak Matt cried out, “I wouldn’t come, not fur five shillin’s a week!”