He seems to have lost his legs. I suppose
parsons do."
"Not all of them," said Lorne. "There's a fellow that
has a church over in East Elgin, Finlay his name is, that
beats the record of anything around here. He just about
ranges the county in the course of a week."
"The place is too big for one parish, no doubt," Hesketh
remarked.
"Oh, he's a Presbyterian! The Episcopalians haven't got
any hold to speak of over there. Here we are," said Lorne,
and turned in at the door. The old wooden sign was long
gone. "John Murchison and Sons" glittered instead in the
plate-glass windows, but Hesketh did not see it.
"Why do you think he'll be in here?" he asked, on young
Murchison's heels.
"Because he always is when he isn't over at the shop,"
replied Lorne. "It's his place of business--his store,
you know. There he is! Hard luck--he's got a customer.
We'll have to wait."
He went on ahead with his impetuous step; he did not
perceive the instant's paralysis that seemed to overtake
Hesketh's, whose foot dragged, however, no longer than
that. It was an initiation; he had been told he might
expect some. He checked his impulse to be amused, and
guarded his look round, not to show unseemly curiosity.
His face, when he was introduced to Alec, who was sorting
some odd dozens of tablespoons, was neutral and pleasant.
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