"Yep," admitted that gentleman, just as dryly. Looking at Elder Burbeck’s large head, with its iron-gray hair, at the silk hat, which stuck perilously, but persistently, to the back of it; noticing the folds of oily flesh on his bullock neck, the working of his broad, fat shoulders, and the sweat standing out on his heavy jowls, as if protesting mutely this unusual activity discharged with such vehemence, John made up his mind that he could never like Elder Burbeck. In his heart he took the part of the disturber. "You know what this reminds me of, somehow?" he asked, with just a minor note of accusation in his tone. "Not being a mind reader, I don’t," replied Elder Burbeck, turning on John a look which showed as plainly as his speech that in the same interval of time when John was deciding he didn’t like Burbeck, Burbeck was deciding he didn’t like John. "What does it?" and the Elder-undertaker stared fiercely at the book agent. "Nailing Jesus to the Cross," replied John, shooting a glance at Burbeck that was hard and beamlike. "Hey!" exclaimed Burbeck, his red face reddening more. "But," explained the Secretary, interjecting himself anxiously, as a man not too proud of his duty that day, "it is in the interests of peace. We expect to give time a chance to heal the wounds. In six months the disturbing element will have gone away or given up, and then we can open the doors to peace and the old faith." "Oh, I see," said John, as instinctively liking the Missionary Secretary as he instinctively disliked Brother Burbeck, "it is a movement in behalf of the _status quo_?" "Yes," replied the Secretary, smiling faintly, as he noticed the shaft of humor in John’s eye. "And Brother Burbeck?" John twitched his chin in the direction of the tipsy silk hat and the vehemently swinging hammer. "He is the apostle of the _status quo_?" "Yes," assented the Missionary, smiling yet more faintly, after which he countered with: "Are you a Christian, my brother?" "I was a Deacon in the First Church, Los Angeles," answered John, "but I’ve been traveling round for a year or so. Hampstead’s my name." The Secretary’s face lighted with unexpected pleasure. "How do you do, Brother Hampstead," he exclaimed, putting out his hand quickly. "My name’s Harding." "Glad to meet you, Brother Harding," said John; "I’ve seen your name in the church papers." "Brother Burbeck, this is Brother Hampstead, of the First Church, Los Angeles," announced Harding, when that gentleman, having driven his last nail and smashed the plank a parting blow with his hammer, turned to them again. Elder Burbeck’s manner instantly changed. "Oh, one of our brethren, eh, Hampstead? Why, say, I remember hearing you talk one night down there in Christian Endeavor when I was down at the Undertakers’ Convention. They told me you were going on the stage. That’s how I remember you so well, I guess."