"Don't talk rot, Tommy," said Barney angrily, for the chance of his being forced to take his brother's place, which all along had seemed to be extremely remote, had come appreciably nearer. With the energy of desperation he spent the hours of the afternoon visiting, explaining, urging, cajoling, threatening anyone of the members or adherents of the congregation at Bull Crossing in whom might be supposed to dwell the faintest echo of the spirit of the preacher. One after another, however, those upon whom he had built his hopes failed him. One was out of town, another he found sick in bed, and a third refused point blank to consider the request, so that within a few minutes of the hour of service he found himself without a preacher and wholly desperate, and for the first time he seriously faced the possibility of having to take the service himself. He returned to the shack of one of his brother's parishioners, where Margaret was staying, and abruptly announced to her his failure.
"Can't get a soul, and of course I can't do it, Margaret. You know, I can't," he repeated, in answer to the look upon her face.
"Why, it was only last week I fleeced 'Mexico' out of a couple of hundred. He would give a good deal more to get even. The crowd would hoot me out of the building. Not that I care for that"--the long jaws came hard together--"but it's just too ghastly to think of."
"It isn't so very terrible, Barney," said Margaret, her voice and eyes uniting in earnest persuasion. "You are not the man you were last week. You know you are not. You are quite different, and you will be different all your life. A great change has come to you.
What made the change? You know it was God's great mercy that took the bitterness out of your heart and that changed everything.
Can't you tell them this?"
"Tell them that, Margaret? Great Heavens! Could I tell them that?
What would they say?"
"Barney," asked Margaret, "you are not afraid of them? You are not ashamed to tell what you owe to God?"
Afraid? It was an ugly word for Barney to swallow. No, he was not afraid, but his native diffidence, intensified by these recent years of self-repression and self-absorption, had made all speech difficult to him, but more especially speech that revealed the deeper movements of his soul.
"No, Margaret, I'm not afraid," he said slowly. "But I'd rather have them take the flesh off that arm bit by bit than get up and speak to them. I'd have to tell them the truth, don't you see, Margaret? How can I do that?"
"All that you say must be the truth, Barney, of course," she replied. "But you will tell them just what you will."
With these words she turned away, leaving him silent and fighting a desperate fight. His word passed to his brother must be kept. But soon a deeper issue began to emerge. His honour was involved. His sense of loyalty was touched. He knew himself to be a different man from the man who, last week, in "Mexico's" saloon, had beaten his old antagonist at the old game. His consciousness of himself, of his life purposes, of his outlook, of his deepest emotions, was altogether a different consciousness. And more than all, that haunting, pursuing restlessness was gone and, in its place, a deep peace possessed him. The process by which this had been achieved he could not explain, but the result was undeniable, and it was due, he knew, to an influence the source of which he frankly acknowledged to be external to himself. The words of the beaten and confounded pagan magic-workers came to him, "This is the finger of God." He could not deny it. Why should he wish to hide it? It became clear to him, in these few minutes of intense soul activity, that there was a demand being made upon him as a man of truth and honour, and as the struggle deepened in his soul and the possibility of his refusing the demand presented itself to his mind, there flashed in upon him the picture of a man standing in the midst of enemies, the flickering firelight showing his face vacillating, terror-stricken, hunted. From the trembling lips of the man he heard the words of base denial, "I know not the man," and in his heart there rose a cry, "O Christ! shall I do this?" "No," came the answer, strong and clear, from his lips, "I will not do this thing, so help me God."
Margaret turned quickly around and looked at him in dismay. "You won't?" she said faintly.
"I'll take the service," he replied, setting the long jaws firmly together. And with that they went forth to the hall.
They found the place crowded far beyond its capacity, for through Tommy Tate it had been noised abroad that Dr. Bailey was to preach.
There were wild rumors, too, that the doctor had "got religion," although "Mexico" and his friends scouted the idea as utterly impossible.
"He ain't the kind. He's got too much nerve," was "Mexico's" verdict, given with a full accompaniment of finished profanity.
Tommy's evidence, however, was strong enough to create a profound impression and to awaken an expectation that rose to fever pitch when Barney and Margaret made their way through the crowds and took their places, Margaret at the organ, which Dick usually played himself, and Barney at the table upon which were the Bible and the Hymn-book. His face wore the impenetrable, death-like mark which had so often baffled "Mexico" and his gang over the poker table.
It fascinated "Mexico" now. All the years of his wicked manhood "Mexico" had, on principle, avoided anything in the shape of a religious meeting, but to-day the attraction of a poker player preaching proved irresistible. It was with no small surprise that the crowd saw "Mexico," with two or three of his gang, make their way toward the front to the only seats left vacant.
When it became evident beyond dispute that his old-time enemy was to take the preacher's place, "Mexico" leaned over to his pal, "Peachy" Bud, who sat between him and Tommy Tate, and muttered in an undertone audible to those in his immediate neighbourhood, "It's his old game. He's runnin' a blank bluff. He ain't got the cards."
