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J. O'Dell is the pastor of Fishergate Baptist Chapel, and he is an exemplary man in his way, for be only receives a small salary and yet contrives to keep out of debt a thing which a good deal of parsons, and which many of the ordinary children of grace, can't accomplish. He is well liked by his congregation, and we have heard of no fighting over either his virtues or defects.
"Why, is anything the matter? What has happened? O'Dell?" The porter stood forward. He cleared his throat twice, but for all that, his words were barely audible. "Yes, Miss Carryll. Good-night, miss. You'd best be going on, miss, if you'll excuse " Behind O'Dell stood a policeman; behind him again, a grave-eyed man stooped to an unusual task. It arrested her attention like the flash of red danger.
It never reaches a point of raving, is never loudly pretentious, or ferocious in tone. Mr. O'Dell will never be a brilliant man; but he is now what is often much better a good working minister. He will never occupy the position of a commander, will never even be a lieutenant, but he will always be a good soldier in the ranks.
She gasped, drew back, felt horribly sick; and, as she turned, she caught O'Dell's muttered aside to the policeman. "Young lady's 'is seccereterry must be the last that seen 'im alive. All told, 'tain't more'n 'arf-an-'our since 'e left. 'Good-night, O'Dell, sez 'e. 'Miss Carryll's still working don't lock 'er in, sez 'e. Would 'ave 'is joke.
He has quite a clerical look, and, if he hadn't, his voice would give the cue to his profession. There is an earnest unctuous modulation about it, which, as a rule, is acquired after men have flung overboard the common idioms of secular life. The salary of Mr. O'Dell is about 160 pounds a year, and although he would like more, he can make himself and Mrs.
"Why is the door of your room being locked, O'Dell?" She knew her curiosity was indecent, but some powerful premonition was stirring in her, and she could not pass on. "Has there been an accident? Who is in there?" Then, almost under her feet, she saw a dark pool lying sluggishly against the tiles; nearer the door another on the pavement outside another and yet another.
O'Dell, and the younger branches of the house of O'Dell, comfortable on that sum. Some pastors gnash their teeth if their purse strings are opened for less than 300 pounds a year; Mr. O'Dell would purchase a pair of wings, and sing "'Tis like a little heaven below," if his stipend was raised to that figure. There is nothing very extraordinary in the preaching style of Mr. O'Dell.
But they seem all complacent, and the "happy family" element predominates. Mr. O'Dell suits them; they suit Mr. O'Dell; and if he had only a fuller chapel a better salary, too, wouldn't be despised by him he could send up his orisons with more courage, and preach to the sinners around him with the steam hammer force of a Gadsby. No. "My respecks to St.
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