T looked as if Dole thought he could get down to the matter better out of the pulpit, so he descended the steps on the side near Abner, and stood on the floor inside the altar railing.

“We didn't assemble heer to argue with brother Daniel,” he informed the congregation, “fer that's evidently jest what he'd like. It would be raily kind of you all to consider what he's jest said as the product of a weak brain ruther 'n a bad heart. Brother Throgmartin, have you any other charges to prefer agin brother Daniel?” Dole looked as if he had already been apprised of the extent of the witness's testimony.

“That's all I keer to say,” replied the man addressed, and he coughed.

Dole consulted the scrap of paper in his hand, and while he did so Abner stole a glance at Bishop and his wife. Mrs. Bishop had her handkerchief to her eyes as if she were crying, and her husband's face wore the impatient look of a man detained by trivialities.

“Brother Daniel,” the preacher began, suddenly, “charges has been preferred agin you on the score that you are a profane man. What have you got to say on that line?”

Abner bent his head and spat down into the hopper-shaped box in the aisle.

“I hardly know, brother Dole,” he said. “It's all owin' to what profanity is an' what it hain't. I don't know that I ever used but one word out o' the general run, an' that is 'dem.' I don't believe thar's any more harm in sayin' 'dem' than 'scat,' ur gruntin' when thar's no absolute call fer it. I don't know as anybody knows what it means. I don't. I've axed a number o' times, but nobody could tell me, so I knowed it wasn't patented anyway. Fer a long time I 'lowed nobody used it but me. I met a feller from up in Yankeedom that said 'darn,' an' another from out West that said 'dang,' so I reckon they are all three in a bunch.”

At this juncture some one in the rear of the church laughed out, and the entire congregation turned its head. It was Pole Baker. He was red in the face, had his big hand pressed tightly over his mouth, and was bent over the bench towards the open doorway. Abner's eyes sparkled with appreciative merriment as he saw him, but he did not permit himself to smile. Dole could not hide his irritation, for Pole's unalloyed enjoyment had communicated itself to some of the less rigid members, and he felt that the reply which was stinging his tongue would fall less forcefully than if the incident hadn't happened.

He held up his hand to invoke silence and respect. “I believe such a word, to say the least, is unbecoming in a Christian, and I think the membership will back me up in it.”

“I don't look at it that away,” argued Abner. “I'd be above takin' the Lord's name in vain, but a little word that nobody cayn't find no fault with or tell its origin shorely is different.”

“Well, that 'll be a matter to decide by vote.”

Dole paused a moment and then introduced another topic.

“A report has gone round among the members that you said that red-handed murderer who killed a man over in Fannin' an' was hung, an' passed on without a single prayer fer pardon to his Maker—that he'd stand a chance fer redemption. In all my experience I've never heerd sech a dangerous doctrin' as that, brother Daniel—never, as I myself hope to be redeemed.”

“I said he'd have a chance—I thought,” said Abner. “I reckon I must 'a' got that idee from what Jesus said to the thief on the cross. You see, brother Dole, I believe the Almighty gives us all equal chances, an' I don't believe that feller in Fannin' had as good a opportunity to git his heart saftened as the feller did that was dyin' right alongside o' the great Redeemer o' the world. Nobody spoke a kind word to the Fannin' man; on the contrary, they was hootin' an' spittin' at 'im night an' day, an' they say the man he killed had pestered 'im all his life. Scriptur' says we ort to forgive a man seventy times seven, an' that is four hundred an' ninety. Why they didn't make it even five hundred I never could tell. An' yet you-uns try to make folks believe the Lord that made us, frail as we are an' prone to sin, won't forgive us once ef we happen to die sudden. Shucks! that doctrine won't hold water; it's hide-bound an' won't stretch one bit. It seems to me that the trouble with yore—”

“We haven't time to listen to a speech on the subject,” interrupted the preacher, whose anger was inflamed by hearing Pole Baker sniggering. “If thar is anybody else that has anything to say we'd be glad to hear from 'em.”

Then Mrs. Bishop rose, wiping her eyes. She was pale and deeply agitated. “I jest want to ax you all to be lenient with my pore brother,” she began, her thin voice cracking under its strain. “I've predicted that he'd bring disrepute down on us with his ready tongue an' odd notions. I've tried an' tried to stop 'im, but it didn't do a bit o' good.”

“It's very good of you to speak in his behalf,” said Dole, as she sank back into her seat. “I'm sure the membership will do its duty, sister Bishop.”

Then a little, meanly clad man behind Daniel stood up. It was Jasper Marmaduke, a ne 'er-do-well farmer, who had a large family, few friends, and no earthly possessions. He was greatly excited, and as white as if he were on trial for his life.

“I ain't no member,” he began. “I know I ort to be, but I hain't. I don't know whether a outsider's got a right to chip into this or not, but it seems to me I 'll bu'st wide open ef I don't git up heer an' say as loud as I kin holler that Abner Daniel's the best man I ever seed, knowed, ur heerd tell of.” Tears were on the man's face and his voice shook with emotion. “He's fetched food an' medicine over to my folks an' run after a doctor when all the rest o' humanity had turned the'r backs on us. He made me promise not to cheep it to a soul, but I'm a-goin' to tell it—tell it, ef he never speaks to me agin. I ain't no godly man, an' this thing's makin' me so mad I feel like throwin' rocks!” And with a sob bursting from him, Marmaduke strode from the church with a loud clatter of his untied shoes.

“Good! Good man!” spoke up Pole Baker, impulsively, unconscious of where he was. “Jas', yo're the right stuff.” And then, in the dead silence that followed his ejaculation, Pole realized what he had said and lowered his head in red embarrassment, for Dole's fierce eyes were bearing down on him. The preacher's pent-up wrath burst; he was really more infuriated at the man who had just left the church, but he had to make an example of some one, and Pole had laid himself open to attack.

“This is no place fer rowdies,” he snarled. “That outlaw back thar who has been continually disturbing these proceedings ort to be jailed. He's undertakin' to bring his violations of decency into the very house of God.”

A vast surprise clutched the congregation, who, knowing Pole, scented trouble. And Pole did not disappoint them. With his flabby hat in his brawny grasp, Pole stood up, but his wife, who sat on the women's side across the aisle from him with her three eldest children, stepped to him and drew him back in his seat, sitting by him and whispering imploringly. Dole stared fiercely for a moment, and then, seeing that the disturbance was over, he shrugged his broad shoulders and applied himself to the business in hand.

“Is thar anybody else pro or con that ud like to be heerd?”

It was the widow Pellham, sitting well towards the front, who now rose. “I feel like Jas' Marmaduke does,” she began, falteringly. Her hearers could not see her face, for she wore a black calico sunbonnet, and it was tilted downward. “I believe I 'll be committin' of a grievous sin ef I let my natural back'ard-ness keep me quiet. Abner Daniel was the fust, last, an' only pusson that made me see the true way into God's blessed sunshine out o' the pitch-black darkness that was over me. All of you, especially them livin' nigh me, knowed how I acted when my daughter Mary died. We'd lived together sence she was born, an' after her pa passed away she was all I had. Then God up an' tuck 'er. I tell you it made a devil out'n me. I liter'ly cussed my Maker an' swore revenge agin 'Im. I quit meetin' an' closed my door agin my neighbors. They all tried to show me whar I was wrong, but I wouldn't listen. Some nights I set up from dark till daylight without candle or fire, bemeanin' my God fer the way He'd done me. You remember, brother Dole, that you come a time or two an' prayed an' read, but I didn't budge out'n my cheer an' wouldn't bend a knee. Then that other little preacher, that was learnin' to preach, an' tuck yore place when you went off to bury yore mother—he come an' made a set at me, but every word he said made me wuss. I ordered him off the hill, an' told 'im ef he appeared agin I'd set my dog on 'im. I don't know why everybody made me so mad, but they did. The devil had me by the leg, an' was a-drag-gin' me as fast to his hole as a dog kin trot. But one mornin' Abner Daniel come over with that thar devilish twinkle in his eyes that ud make a cow laugh, an' begun to banter me to sell 'im the hay off'n my little neck o' land betwixt the creek an' the road. I kept tellin' 'im I didn't want to sell, but he kept a-com-in' an' a comin', with no end o' fool talk about this un an' that un, tell somehow I got to watchin' fer 'im, but still I wouldn't let nobody else in. Then one day, after I'd refused to sell an' told 'im I'd give 'im the hay, he growed serious an' said, ses he: 'Sister Pellham, I don't want the hay on that patch. I've been deliberately lyin'. I've been comin' over heer as a friend, to try to make you feel better.' Then he set in, an', as God is my highest judge, ef thar 'll be any more speritual talk on t'other shore it 'll be after Abner Daniel gits thar. He jest rolled me about in his hands like a piece o' wheat dough. He showed me what aileded me as plain as I could p'int out the top o' old Bald Mountain to you on a cleer day. He told me, I remember, that in grievin' like I was, I was sinnin' agin the Holy Ghost, an' jest as long as I did it I'd suffer wuss an' wuss as a penalty. He said it was a fight betwixt me an' my Maker an' that I was bound to be worsted. He said that when my Mary come into the world I couldn't tell whar she was from, nur why the Lord had fetched 'er, but I was jest pleased beca'se it suited me to be pleased, but, ses he, when she went back into the great mystery o' God's beautiful plan I wasn't satisfied beca'se it didn't suit me to be. He said it was downright selfishness, that had no part nur parcel in the kingdom o' heaven. He said to me, ses he, 'Sister, ef you 'll jest fer one minute make up yore mind that Mary is in better hands 'an she was in yor'n '—an' you kin bet yore bottom dollar she is—'you 'll feel as light as a feather. 'I had a tussle, but it come, God bless him! it come. It was jest like a great light had bu'sted over me. I fell down on my knees before 'im an' shouted an' shouted till I was as limp as a wet rag. I had always thought I was converted away back in the sixties when I was a gal, but I wasn't. I got my redemption that day under Abner Daniel's talk, an' I shall bless 'im an' sing his name on my dyin' bed. I don't want to entertain no spiteful feelin' s, but ef he goes out I 'll have to. I wouldn't feel right in no church too puore to fellowship with Abner Daniel.”

“Good! Good woman!” shouted Pole Baker, as if he were at a political speaking. She sat down. The house seemed profoundly moved. People were thinking of the good things they had heard about Abner Daniel. However, the turn of affairs did not suit Dole, who showed decided anger. His eyes flashed as they rested on Pole Baker, who had offended him again.

“I shall have to ax that law-breaker back thar to leave the church,” he said. “I think it's come to a purty pass ef strong, able-bodied church-members will set still an' allow the'r own house o' worship to be insulted by such a rascal as that one.”

Pole rose; many thought he was going to leave, but to the surprise of all he walked deliberately up to the altar and laid his hand upon the railing.

“Looky' heer,” he said, “they call you the fightin' preacher. They say you believe in hittin' back when yo' re hit. I'm heer to show you that ef I am a outlaw I ain't afeerd o' you, an' I ain't a-goin' to be abused by you when you are under the cloak o' this meetin'. When you say some 'n' you think is purty good you wink at some brother in the amen-corner an' he yells 'Amen 'loud enough to be heerd to the cross-roads. Then you go on as if nothin' had happened. What I said back thar was jest my way o' sayin' amen. Little Jas' Marmaduke hit you in a weak spot; so did what Mis' Pellham said, an' yo' re tryin' to take yore spite out on me. That won't work. I come heer to see fair play, an' I'm a-goin' to do it. Uncle Ab's a good man an' I'm heer to testify to it. He's come nigher—him an' Alan Bishop, that's a chip off'n 'im—to turn me into the right way than all the shoutin'-bees I ever attended, an' I've been to as many as thar are hairs on my head. I ain't bald, nuther. Now ef you want to have it out with me jest wait an' meet me outside, whar we 'll both have fair play.”

Dole was quivering with rage. “I kin whip a dozen dirty scoundrels like you,” he panted. “Men like you insult ministers, thinking they won't fight, but after meetin' I 'll simply wipe up the ground with you.”

“All right, 'nough said!” and Pole sat down. There was silence for a moment. Dole's furious panting could be heard all over the room. Then Abner Daniel rose. A vast change had come over him. The light of quizzical merriment had faded from his face; nothing lay there except the shadows of deepest regret. “I've been wrong—wrong—wrong!” he said, loudly. “I'm dead wrong, ur Pole Baker never would 'a' wanted to fight, an' brother Dole wouldn't 'a' been driv' to lose his temper in the pulpit. I'm at the bottom o' all this rumpus that has kept you all from listenin' to a good sermon. You've not found me hard to git along with when I see my error, an' I promise that I 'll try from this day on to keep from shovin' my notions on folks that ain't ready fer 'em. I want to stay in the church. I think every sane man an' woman kin do good in a church, an' I want to stay in this un.”

The confession was so unexpected, and furnished Dole with such an easy loop-hole for gracefully retiring from a most unpleasant predicament, that he actually beamed on the speaker.

“I don't think any more need be said,” he smiled. “Brother Daniel has shown himself willing to do the right thing, an' I propose that the charges be dropped.” Thereupon a vote was taken, and it went overwhelmingly in Abner's favor. After the benediction, which followed immediately, Pole Baker hurried across to Daniel. “I declare, you make me sick, Uncle Ab,” he grumbled. “What on earth did you mean by takin' back-water? You had 'im whar the wool was short; he was white at the gills. You could 'a' mauled the life out'n 'im. Ef I'd—”

But Abner, smiling indulgently, had a watchful eye on Dole, and was moving forward to shake the preacher's outstretched hand.

“Well, I 'll be damned!” Pole grunted, half aloud and in high disgust, as he pushed his way through the crowd to the door.

Abner found him waiting for him near the hitch-ing-post, where he had been to untie Bishop's horse.

“I reckon,” he said, “bein' as you got so mighty good yorese'f, 'at you think I acted wrong.”

“Not any wuss'n I did, Pole,” replied the old man, seriously. “My advice to you is to go to Dole an' tell 'im you are sorry.”

“Sorry hell!”

“It ud be better fer you,” half smiled Abner. “Ef you don't, some o' them hill-Billies 'll make a case at court agin you fer disturbin' public worship. Before a grand jury o' mossbacks a man with yore record ud not stand any better chance o' comin' cleer 'n a old bird-nest ud o' makin' good soup. When you was a-runnin' of yore still it made you powerful mad to have revenue men after you, didn't it? Well, this heer shebang is Dole's still, my boy, whar he claims to make good sperits out'n bad material, an' he's got a license, which is more 'n you could 'a' said.”

“I reckon yo' re right,” said Pole. “I 'll wait fer 'im.”