Before I had finished the first verse and chorus, the passengers had
crowded down around me, and the blasphemer had turned round and looked
at me with a face resembling a thunder cloud. As I finished the
chorus, he said:
"What are you doing?"
"I am singing," I replied.
"Well," said he, "any fool can understand that."
"I am glad you understand it."
"What are you singing?"
"I am singing the religion of the Lord Jesus."
"Well, you quit."
"Quit what?"
"Quit singing your religion on the cars."
"I guess not," I replied, "I don't belong to the Quit family; my name
is Mead. For the last half hour you have been standing by your master;
now for the next half hour I am going to stand up for my Master."
"Who is my master?"
"The devil is your master--while Christ is mine. I am as proud of my
Master as you are of yours. Now I am going to have my turn, if the
passengers don't object."
A chorus of voices cried out: "Sing on, stranger, we like that."
I sung on, and as the next verse was finished, the blasphemer turned
his face away, and I saw nothing of him after that but the back of his
head, and that was the handsomest part of him.
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