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Updated: June 5, 2025
At times he thought he recognized these in his conversation with the Reverend John Hodder at Bremerton, especially in that last interview in the pleasant little study of the rectory overlooking Bremerton Lake. But the promptings were faint, and Langmaid out of his medium. He was not choosing the head of a trust company.
I hope you will bear in mind how remarkably well you have been getting along at St. John's, and what a success you've made." "Success!" echoed the rector. Either Mr. Langmaid read nothing in his face, or was determined to read nothing. "Assuredly," he answered, benignly. "You have managed to please everybody, Mr. Parr included, and some of us are not easy to please.
Langmaid found himself going back to the days when his mother had taken him to church, and he could not bear to look at, Hodder. Since six o'clock that afternoon had his companions but known it he had passed through one of the worst periods of his existence. . . . After the regular business had been disposed of a brief interval was allowed, for the sake of decency, to ensue.
"Haven't they the right," he asked, somewhat lamely to demand the kind of religion they pay for?" "Provided you don't call it religion," said the rector. Langmaid smiled in spite of himself. "See here, Hodder," he said, "I've always confessed frankly that I knew little or nothing about religion.
"You wouldn't exactly call him a heretic," Mr. Plimpton said ruefully. "Would you know a heretic if you saw one?" demanded Langmaid. "No, but my wife would, and Gordon Atterbury and Constable would, and Eldon Parr. But don't let's get nervous." "Well, that's sensible at any rate," said Langmaid . . . . So Mr.
He'd make a rattling missionary bishop, you know, holding services in saloons and knocking men's heads together for profanity, and he boxes like a professional. Now, a word from Eldon Parr might turn the trick. Every parson wants to be a bishop." Langmaid shook his head. "You're getting out of your depths, my friend. The Church isn't Wall Street.
That Eldon Parr would not lead the charge in person was a foregone conclusion. Whom, then, would he put forward? For obvious reasons, not Wallis Plimpton or Langmaid, nor Francis Ferguson. Hodder found his, glance unconsciously fixed upon Everett Constable, who, moved nervously and slowly pushed back his chair.
Hodder had spoken without bitterness, yet his irony was by no means lost on the lawyer. Langmaid, if the truth be told, found himself for the moment in the unusual predicament of being at a loss, for the rector had put forward with more or less precision the very cynical view which he himself had been clever enough to evolve.
It was this hair that hinted most strongly of individualism, that was by no means orthodox. Langmaid felt an incongruity, but he was fascinated; and he had discovered on the rector's shelves evidences of the taste for classical authors that he himself possessed. Thus fate played with him, and the two men ranged from Euripides to Horace, from Horace to Dante and Gibbon.
Plimpton had made many trips to the Capitol at Washington, sometimes in company with Mr. Langmaid, sometimes not, and on one memorable occasion had come away smiling from an interview with the occupant of the White House himself. Lest Mr. Plimpton's powers of premonition seem supernatural, it may be well to reveal the comparative simplicity of his methods.
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