It was Deacon Surface who spoke, a gentleman who owed such influence as he possessed to the fact that he was an agent of the Baldwins, collecting their rents, superintending in a general way some of their enterprises, and administering their local charities. He was a man of excellent intentions, but shallow. One of his best friends thus described him:--“The Deacon has as many sides as a barrel. He doesn’t want to make any enemies, but when he is cornered, he will roll toward the money every time. If the Deacon were a judge, and a man were brought before him charged with stealing one hundred dollars, and the charge were proved, he would order the money divided equally between the thief and his victim. That is just about his idea of justice.” The Deacon’s critics, if put in his place, would perhaps do no better than he. Being the personal and confidential agent of the Baldwins, he must accept their ideas of right and wrong, adopt their conscience, as it were, or else surrender a fat job such as seldom comes to a man of common ability. “The top of the afternoon to you!” replied the Irishman addressed, whose traits were quite different from the Deacon’s. “Of course you are going to vote for Jacob Sharp for Selectman,” remarked the Deacon. “The divil a bit will I vote for Jake Sharp for any office, Deacon Surface.” “Indeed, Mr. Sharp is a fine Christian gentleman.” “Do yez call the likes of old Jake Sharp, the slave-driver, a fine Christian gentleman? A liar, a thief, and a murderer is what he is.” Good Deacon Surface was shocked. “Those are pretty hard names to apply to a neighbor, Mr. Moriarty. I think you would find it very difficult to prove that Mr. Sharp is what you call him.” “Indade I would not,” replied the indignant son of Erin. “A liar? Did he ever pay a man the wages he agreed to? Not if he could help it. Didn’t young Mike Silk knock him down flat in his tracks before Old Sharp could remember that he promised to pay him two dollars a day in haying? He remembered it all right after Mike flattened him. Oh, it’s a bad memory he has, all right. “A thief? Sure it’s yourself he was after st’aling a shovel from. And sure it’s your own memory needs bracing up, too. It’s your own shovel he was st’aling, whittling off your name and branding on his own with a red-hot iron. Forgot all about it, have yez? Do yez forget the time when he stole his own daughter’s money, that he was guardian for, and lost it, and the poor girl was nigh going crazy over it? It’s surely a poor memory ye has, Deacon Surface.