Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 127: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE CLOWN AND a little quickening of the breath. “You have the right.” “I'll dispose of my own case first,” said Horace. “In a way, I’ve been mas- querading up here. I am Horace At- kins, all right; but, say, have you ever heard of Billy Merry, the circus clown? His ring mug has been in about every paper in the country.” “Why, yes, I have heard of Billy Merry,” returned the other, mystified. “Well, I’m the little joker,” acknowl- edged Horace, with a sneer. “You!” exclaimed the preacher. “VYes—me! And I make a hundred and fifty a week—three times as much as you make in a month. But we're both in the same box. See? Our busi- ness keeps us from marrying as we want.” Horace laughed unpleasantly. To his friend’s face came an expression of compassionate understanding. “My dear fellow,” he began, “all hon- est work But Horace cut him short. “Oh, damn that piffle!” he cried. “Anything that isn’t crime is honest. But I’m one of these hideous clowns that Kitty hates so—a man who makes a fool of himself to raise a laugh. You’ve heard me draw her out, and probably wondered why. Now you know—and you know how much chance I’ve got with her.” The minister looked genuinely dis- tressed. “Tsn’t there something else you could do?” he suggested. “Something “Isn’t there something else you could do?” flung back Horace at him. “lve got a mother and a crippled father de- pendent on me. I’ve got to work at a trade that'll bring the money in. But you—you stand alone. Why don’t you break away and earn your girl? You think she likes me best. How do you know? How do I know? We haven't asked her. You’ve as good a chance as I. Better. You could make a gen- tleman’s wife of her, and I couldn’t. Get out and earn her!” “Horace! Horace!’ There was en- treaty—protest—in the cry. “T told you I'd talk to you straiehi:” THE CLERGYMAN 117 retorted the clown, “and I’m going to do it without any frills on. You’ve got the gumption to invent what looks like a pretty good thing. Why don’t you go on inventing things—make a busi- ness of it—earn enough to keep a wife? Then you’d be somebody, and of some use in the world. Now you're nothing but a stick, and a mighty weak one, at that—too weak, by George, for even a girl to lean on! 1" “Atkins!” There was shame now, and indignation, in the cry. “Just answer me this,’ went on the clown relentlessly : “What good are you doing yourself preaching to a bunch of leather-lined country boobs, who want salvation at cut-rate prices—want to sneak into heaven on a scalped ticket? Why, these guys up here are well fixed —got coin—and they won’t pay you the wages of a stake driver. Wait! An- swer me this, Lomas; you’ve been preaching here two years. What have you done in all that time that’s really worth while—that has paid you?” The young clergyman’s head was bowed, and for many seconds he re- mained strangely silent. Then he looked out over the placid waters of the lake, and it seemed as if the peace of them found reflection in his face. When he spoke, his voice was hushed and tremulous. “T have brought eighteen souls to God,” he said. “And I have brought the solace of His word to the sick and the sorrowing, to those dying and those bereaved, to those in trouble and those whose hearts had failed them utterly. I have done all that I could, Horace, and I have been richly paid.” There was a smile on the speaker’s lips as he finished. Horace, who had been intently studying him, dropped his eyes. He felt as one who has peered unbidden on a sacred thing. “Well,” he remarked awkwardly, “I guess we'can’t see it the same way, so there’s nothing more to be said. I’m going home in the morning, and you'll have a clear field with Kitty.” The clergyman’s eyes flashed with very worldly anger. “Your opinion of me is too low,” he COL G VOLK (C@