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Updated: June 15, 2025
"So did Eldon Parr," remarked another man, amidst a climax of laughter. "Langmaid handled that pretty well." Hodder felt Everett Constable fidget. "Bedloe's all right, but he's a dreamer," Mr. Plimpton volunteered. "Then I wish he'd stop dreaming," said Mr. Ferguson, and there was more laughter, although he had spoken savagely. "That's what he is, a dreamer," Varnum ejaculated.
Hodder, but I don't mind telling you that for a clergyman, for a man absorbed in spiritual matters, a man who can preach the sermons you preach, you've got more common-sense and business thoroughness than any one I have ever run across in your profession." "Looking over the ground?" Hodder repeated, ignoring the compliment. "Sure," said Mr. Plimpton, smiling more benignly than ever.
As Hodder penetrated this hallowed precinct he recognized, on either hand, the residences of several of his parishioners, each in its ample allotted space: Mrs. Larrabbee's; the Laureston Greys'; Thurston Gore's, of which Mr. Wallis Plimpton was now the master, Mr.
Plimpton had moved towards her, as if to speak, but Alison hurried past, her exaltation suddenly shattered, replaced by a rising tide of resentment, of angry amazement against a materialism so solid as to remain unshaken by the words which had so uplifted her.
Hodder's continuance as rector would mean the ruin of the church in which all present took such a pride. That the great majority of its members would never submit to what was so plainly heresy. It was then that Mr. Plimpton gathered courage to pour oil on the waters.
Plimpton led the way with the simple, unassuming genial air of the high priest of modern finance who understands men. The room was eloquent almost to affectation of the system and order of great business, inasmuch as it betrayed not the least sign of a workshop. On the dark oak desk were two leather-bound books and a polished telephone.
Wallis Plimpton had made himself indispensable to both. His campaign for the daughter of Thurston Gore had been comparable to one of the great sieges of history, for Mr. Plimpton was a laughing-stock when he sat down before that fortress. At the end of ten years, Charlotte had capitulated, with a sigh of relief, realizing at last her destiny.
"Isn't there any poetry about it?" demanded Ethel Brown, who knew her grandfather's habit of collecting historical ballads. "Certainly there is. There are some verses on 'Fort Duquesne' by Florus Plimpton written for the hundredth anniversary of the capture." "Did they have a great old fight to take the fort?" asked Roger. "No fight at all. Here's what Plimpton says:
"They're frightened and out of breath," said Phil, "they had no idea that Bedloe would stick after they had licked him in three campaigns. Two years ago they tried to buy him off by offering to send him to the Senate, and Wallis Plimpton has never got through his head to this why he refused." Plimpton's head, Eleanor declared dryly, was impervious to a certain kind of idea.
Larrabbee's temptation to be witty at the expense of those for whom she had no liking had led Hodder to discount the sketch. He had not disliked Mr. Plimpton, who had done him many little kindnesses. He was good-natured, never ruffled, widely tolerant, hail-fellow-well-met with everybody, and he had enlivened many a vestry meeting with his stories.
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