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Her disappointment over Moses’ parsimony led her now to see the urgent necessity of ideas, vital ideas, in fact, ideas that could cause silver to flow to her empty coffers, or in other words her missionary box. If he was more thoughtful, quiet, at home, his hours of play were more keenly enjoyed as they grew daily fewer. He had found a “dandy job” that would not take him away from home; he could still mow the lawn, and do the chores. He was glad now that he had learned various parts of the housework, for he was to be janitor and messenger at one of the banks, a fact to be told his mother as a surprise on the last day of school. “That’s no giant. She isn’t bigger’n a kid. Will she let you come to play? The Gang’s coming to-morrow.”.
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The inexorable portrait on the wall seemed to gaze down on the recalcitrant youth with disapproval. “Not arf as smart as a magpie,” dissented Moses, “I’ve saw magpies that c’d think up the scheminest things.” Moses was beginning to suffer from a surfeit of information and wanted to make a break in the proceedings. “Do you like it, Sunday School, I mean? I don’t. I like church, though,—the great booming organ, the beautiful singing. And when the minister speaks I just float away into fairy-land and never come back till he says, ‘The-Lord-make-his-face-to-shine-upon-us-amen.’” “Rocky?” he interrupted. “You bet not. It’ll be just bully, that’s what!”.
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