The Messenger

Bearing news to duck camp

Eleven months out of the year the Deacon was a sane man. In fact, more than sane—he was absolutely stalwart. The nickname “Deacon” was well deserved, as he was an elected deacon in the First Presbyterian Church and rarely missed a Sunday service. He was also a devoted husband and family man and could be seen at every ballgame, play and recital his children participated in. In business his reputation was stellar. He handled his clients’ money with the utmost probity and was trusted to arrange their estates so that, in the event of some tragedy, the orphaned descendants would be fed, clothed and educated in the bosom of some giant insurance company. He was a man you could depend on, the kind you could turn to. Yes, for 11 months out of the year Mr. M. Porter Maxwell, the Deacon, was a pillar, a rock, a brick. It was during that twelfth month that he went off the skids.

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