And so he thought and thought. He thought of a
dozen things--possible services, even probable services--but none of them
seemed adequate, none of them seemed large enough, none of them seemed
worth the money--worth the fortune Goodson had wished he could leave in
his will. And besides, he couldn't remember having done them, anyway.
Now, then--now, then--what KIND of a service would it be that would make
a man so inordinately grateful? Ah--the saving of his soul! That must
be it. Yes, he could remember, now, how he once set himself the task of
converting Goodson, and laboured at it as much as--he was going to say
three months; but upon closer examination it shrunk to a month, then to a
week, then to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered now, and with
unwelcome vividness, that Goodson had told him to go to thunder and mind
his own business--HE wasn't hankering to follow Hadleyburg to heaven!
So that solution was a failure--he hadn't saved Goodson's soul. Richards
was discouraged. Then after a little came another idea: had he saved
Goodson's property? No, that wouldn't do--he hadn't any.
Pages:
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46