"You'll do nothing of the sort, sir," thundered Jason's father, his great bass voice rising as it did in revival meetings. "You'll do nothing but wear donation clothes as long as you're under my roof. I've long noted your tendency to vanity and mammon. To my prayers, I shall begin to add stout measures."
Jason threw back his head, a finely shaped head it was with good breadth between the eyes.
"I tell you, sir, I'm through with donation pants. If folks don't think enough of the religion you preach to pay you for it I'd — I'd advise you to get another religion."
Under his beard, Ethan Wilkins went white, but not so white as Jason's mother. But she spoke quietly.
"Jason, apologize to your father at once."
"I couldn't accept an apology now," said the minister. "I shall have to pray to get my mind into shape. In the meantime Jason shall be punished for this. Not until every-
