the Old House to the dining room,
where he breakfasts with Aaron Pennington, the little large-nosed gray man who, you remember, thumped the rostrum so eloquently
for contributions during the revival meeting. Esther, the plain girl whose face is as unmarked by bought color as her soul
is by artifice, waits on them humbly and neatly. The two men speak in low tones of practical matters; the destinies of the
Fold are determined at these breakfasts. So well do they understand each other that a reproduction of their conversation would
reveal nothing. A few words of obscure reference, a grunt, a nod, comprise a discussion and a decision. Pennington is dry,
dull, narrowly wise and devoted to the Fold and the Father. His tendency is to grasp and to build. Father Stanfield has gradually
passed most of the administration of the Fold into his hands, but he retains a firm control over his manager, whose usefulness
is limited by the fact that he has no intuition at all of the spirit of charity which animates the undertaking. This is not
to say that Pennington’s religion is anything but strict. In fact, were we to translate the cabalistic conversation between
the men now, an exchange more animated and protracted than usual, we would learn that it consists of vehement objection by
the manager to the presence of Andrew Reale in the Old House and to the implied consideration that the Father is giving to
the prospect of going on the radio. It is a venture off the soil, into places of urban carnality, that offends Pennington’s
mode of thought. The Father is reassuring him that nothing will be done to hurt the Fold, but he will not promise to send
Reale off without further discussion, and the breakfast ends in a silence that is not one of harmonious accord. Pennington
moves dourly off to inspect the cattle.
Look well to your kine, Aaron Pennington, for I strongly fear that your master grows neglectful of his muttons. The smoothly-spoken
young man from the city has descended to take breakfast and is talking to him now. The Faithful Shepherd is listening attentively
and saying little, but every now and then he nods pleasantly. The young man grows warm and terribly earnest; his food is hardly
touched; and now he has taken a paper out of his pocket and placed it in the Father’s hands. The Father reads it with an expression
of growing approval and pleasure. The young man falls silent. O, Pennington, Pennington, what is this? The stranger is taking
a fountain pen from his pocket; the Father accepts it; he bends over the table; he puts his pen to the paper; he signs!
Does dry, gray Aaron pause in the midst of scolding a young farmhand for slovenly cleaning of his beasts, and does a chill
of foreboding pass over his frosty spirit? Looking through the barn door, he sees the young man from the world of advertising,
the red valley of Hinnom, walk out of the Old House with a cheer in his expression and a spring in his step that argue triumph.
What has he said, what has he done, so completely to conquer the violent antipathy of the Shepherd to commercial radio?
At a bound, Andrew Reale has brought himself close to the riches that his soul desires. Father Stanfield has agreed to take
the Fold of the Faithful Shepherd on the air–
under the sponsorship of Aurora Dawn soap
.
CHAPTER 6
In which an important piece of the machinery
is set a-whirring.
T HE NEXT DAY Laura Beaton sat with two men at a table in the famous New York restaurant, “Le Boeuf Gras,” on East Fifty-second Street,
doing justice to a delectable luncheon and unconsciously spoiling the meals of a large number of people in her vicinity. She
was painfully fair to look upon. She was a taunt to man, a reproach to woman. Faithful husbands felt a stir of mild grief
as, against their will, they compared her to their spouses and knew that Fate had caged them forever in gray little traps.
The flames of ardent lovers flickered and
where he breakfasts with Aaron Pennington, the little large-nosed gray man who, you remember, thumped the rostrum so eloquently
for contributions during the revival meeting. Esther, the plain girl whose face is as unmarked by bought color as her soul
is by artifice, waits on them humbly and neatly. The two men speak in low tones of practical matters; the destinies of the
Fold are determined at these breakfasts. So well do they understand each other that a reproduction of their conversation would
reveal nothing. A few words of obscure reference, a grunt, a nod, comprise a discussion and a decision. Pennington is dry,
dull, narrowly wise and devoted to the Fold and the Father. His tendency is to grasp and to build. Father Stanfield has gradually
passed most of the administration of the Fold into his hands, but he retains a firm control over his manager, whose usefulness
is limited by the fact that he has no intuition at all of the spirit of charity which animates the undertaking. This is not
to say that Pennington’s religion is anything but strict. In fact, were we to translate the cabalistic conversation between
the men now, an exchange more animated and protracted than usual, we would learn that it consists of vehement objection by
the manager to the presence of Andrew Reale in the Old House and to the implied consideration that the Father is giving to
the prospect of going on the radio. It is a venture off the soil, into places of urban carnality, that offends Pennington’s
mode of thought. The Father is reassuring him that nothing will be done to hurt the Fold, but he will not promise to send
Reale off without further discussion, and the breakfast ends in a silence that is not one of harmonious accord. Pennington
moves dourly off to inspect the cattle.
Look well to your kine, Aaron Pennington, for I strongly fear that your master grows neglectful of his muttons. The smoothly-spoken
young man from the city has descended to take breakfast and is talking to him now. The Faithful Shepherd is listening attentively
and saying little, but every now and then he nods pleasantly. The young man grows warm and terribly earnest; his food is hardly
touched; and now he has taken a paper out of his pocket and placed it in the Father’s hands. The Father reads it with an expression
of growing approval and pleasure. The young man falls silent. O, Pennington, Pennington, what is this? The stranger is taking
a fountain pen from his pocket; the Father accepts it; he bends over the table; he puts his pen to the paper; he signs!
Does dry, gray Aaron pause in the midst of scolding a young farmhand for slovenly cleaning of his beasts, and does a chill
of foreboding pass over his frosty spirit? Looking through the barn door, he sees the young man from the world of advertising,
the red valley of Hinnom, walk out of the Old House with a cheer in his expression and a spring in his step that argue triumph.
What has he said, what has he done, so completely to conquer the violent antipathy of the Shepherd to commercial radio?
At a bound, Andrew Reale has brought himself close to the riches that his soul desires. Father Stanfield has agreed to take
the Fold of the Faithful Shepherd on the air–
under the sponsorship of Aurora Dawn soap
.
CHAPTER 6
In which an important piece of the machinery
is set a-whirring.
T HE NEXT DAY Laura Beaton sat with two men at a table in the famous New York restaurant, “Le Boeuf Gras,” on East Fifty-second Street,
doing justice to a delectable luncheon and unconsciously spoiling the meals of a large number of people in her vicinity. She
was painfully fair to look upon. She was a taunt to man, a reproach to woman. Faithful husbands felt a stir of mild grief
as, against their will, they compared her to their spouses and knew that Fate had caged them forever in gray little traps.
The flames of ardent lovers flickered and
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