There was in the town a certain Stephen Whipple, a man about sixty-five years of age, who had come from one of the Southern States shortly after the Civil War. He had established himself, first, as a small grocer, but, having acquired considerable wealth, he was now the owner of the only wholesale grocery store in the place, an establishment which was known for miles around. He was an earnest member of the Presbyterian church of the town, and its chief pride, owing to his influence in the community. It had been his money which had built the church to which he belonged, and it was said that he practically paid the salary of its eloquent young preacher. In his great red-brick, four-story business-house on the main street Stephen Whipple had his private office. It was in the rear of the counting-room and was of unusual size, and by many deemed a curious place. Indeed, it was put to strange, unbusiness-like uses, for it was here that the owner of the establishment personally received all sorts of applications for aid. There were half a dozen plain chairs in the bare, uncarpeted room, and the Rev. Luke Matthews, who had the entrée to the office at any moment, often found a motley gathering of supplicants on hand, each patiently awaiting his turn to be beckoned to the seat close to the portly, shaggy-browed merchant. There were individuals who called the old man a deep-dyed hypocrite, for they held that no really self-sacrificing toiler in the Lord's vineyard could have amassed the great wealth old Whipple was known to possess. But this was disputed by all the men in his employment, at least, for they were ready to attest that Whipple had often held over important business matters till the case of some suffering applicant could be investigated and relief supplied. There were other uses to which this room was put. Old Whipple, in order to render his pet church more attractive to the public, selected and paid out of his own pocket the salaries of the best choir in town. He was no expert musician, but he had them meet in his office and practise on every Saturday afternoon, and he was always present, seeing to it that refreshments were served and the singers made comfortable. It was one morning when Dick Warren and Fred Walton had been in the town for a month, and had reached the lowest ebb of their resources, that the minister dropped in to see the merchant. The Rev. Luke Matthews was of unusual height, measuring six feet four, very slender in build, and of markedly nervous temperament. He was under thirty, unmarried, wore his black hair long enough to touch his shoulders, and had the thin-lipped, unbearded face of an Edwin Booth. It was said of him that he couldn't keep a coin in his pocket--that it was promptly given to the first beggar he met.