“Are you going out now?” he asked.
As I hesitated, he added, tactfully, “Perhaps
you would let me go with you?”
Here was indeed a startling proposition! His
costume, his long hair—there were many
things about him not adapted to Broadway at five o’clock
in the afternoon! But what could I say? It
would be rude to call attention to his peculiarities.
All I could manage was to stammer: “I thought
you belonged in the church.”
“Do I?” he replied, with a puzzled look.
“I’m not sure. I have been wondering—am
I really needed here? And am I not more needed
in the world?”
“Well,” said I, “there’s one
thing certain.” I pointed up to the window.
“That hole is conspicuous.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“And if it should rain, the altar would be ruined.
The Reverend Dr. Lettuce-Spray would be dreadfully
distressed. That altar cloth was left to the
church in the will of Mrs. Elvina de Wiggs, and God
knows how many thousands of dollars it cost.”
“I suppose that wouldn’t do,” said
the stranger. “Let us see if we can’t
find something to put there.”
He started up the aisle, and through the chancel.
I followed, and we came into the vestry-room, and
there on the wall I noticed a full length, life-sized
portrait of old Algernon de Wiggs, president of the
Empire National Bank, and of the Western City Chamber
of Commerce. “Let us see if he would fill
the place,” said the stranger; and to my amazement
he drew up a chair, and took down the huge picture,
and carried it, seemingly without effort, into the
church.
He stepped upon the altar, and lifted the portrait
in front of the window. How he got it to stay
there I am not sure—I was too much taken
aback by the procedure to notice such details.
There the picture was; it seemed to fit the window
exactly, and the effect was simply colossal.
You’d have to know old de Wiggs to appreciate
it—those round, puffy cheeks, with the afternoon
sun behind them, making them shine like two enormous
Jonathan apples! Our leading banker was clad
in decorous black, as always on Sunday mornings, but
in one place the sun penetrated his form—at
one side of his chest. My curiosity got the better
of me; I could not restrain the question, “What
is that golden light?”
Said the stranger: “I think that is his
heart.”
“But that can’t be!” I argued.
“The light is on his right side; and it seems
to have an oblong shape—exactly as if it
were his wallet.”
Said the other: “Where the treasure is,
there will the heart be also.”
We passed out through the arched doorway, and Broadway
was before us. I had another thrill of distress—a
vision of myself walking down this crowded street
with this extraordinary looking personage. The
crowds would stare at us, the street urchins would
swarm about us, until we blocked the traffic and the
police ran us in! So I thought, as we descended
the steps and started; but my fear passed, for we
walked and no one followed us—hardly did
anyone even turn his eyes after us.
