Norman Douglas came to church the first Sunday in
November and made all the sensation he desired.
Mr. Meredith shook hands with him absently on the
church steps and hoped dreamily that Mrs. Douglas
was well.
“She wasn’t very well just before I buried
her ten years ago, but I reckon she has better health
now,” boomed Norman, to the horror and amusement
of every one except Mr. Meredith, who was absorbed
in wondering if he had made the last head of his sermon
as clear as he might have, and hadn’t the least
idea what Norman had said to him or he to Norman.
Norman intercepted Faith at the gate.
“Kept my word, you see—kept my word,
Red Rose. I’m free now till the first
Sunday in December. Fine sermon, girl—fine
sermon. Your father has more in his head than
he carries on his face. But he contradicted
himself once—tell him he contradicted himself.
And tell him I want that brimstone sermon in December.
Great way to wind up the old year—with a
taste of hell, you know. And what’s the
matter with a nice tasty discourse on heaven for New
Year’s? Though it wouldn’t be half
as interesting as hell, girl—not half.
Only I’d like to know what your father thinks
about heaven—he can think—rarest
thing in the world—a person who can think.
But he did contradict himself. Ha, ha!
Here’s a question you might ask him sometime
when he’s awake, girl. ‘Can God
make a stone so big He couldn’t lift it Himself?’
Don’t forget now. I want to hear his opinion
on it. I’ve stumped many a minister with
that, girl.”
Faith was glad to escape him and run home. Dan
Reese, standing among the crowd of boys at the gate,
looked at her and shaped his mouth into “pig-girl,”
but dared not utter it aloud just there. Next
day in school was a different matter. At noon
recess Faith encountered Dan in the little spruce
plantation behind the school and Dan shouted once more,
“Pig-girl! Pig-girl! Rooster-girl!”
Walter Blythe suddenly rose from a mossy cushion behind
a little clump of firs where he had been reading.
He was very pale, but his eyes blazed.
“You hold your tongue, Dan Reese!” he
said.
“Oh, hello, Miss Walter,” retorted Dan,
not at all abashed. He vaulted airily to the
top of the rail fence and chanted insultingly,
“Cowardy, cowardy-custard
Stole a pot of mustard,
Cowardy, cowardy-custard!”
“You are a coincidence!” said Walter scornfully,
turning still whiter. He had only a very hazy
idea what a coincidence was, but Dan had none at all
and thought it must be something peculiarly opprobrious.
“Yah! Cowardy!” he yelled gain.
“Your mother writes lies—lies—
lies! And Faith Meredith is a pig-girl—a—pig-girl—a
pig-girl! And she’s a rooster-girl—a
rooster-girl—a rooster-girl! Yah!
Cowardy—cowardy—cust—”
