ELMER GANTRY

BY

SINCLAIR LEWIS

NEW YORK

HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY

HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.

Fourteenth printing, September, 1928

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY

QUINN & BODEN COMPANY, INC,

RAHWAY, N. J.

To

H. L. MENCKEN

with profound admiration

No character in this book

is the portrait of any actual

person.

S. L.

E L M E R G A N T R Y

CHAPTER I

I

elmer gantry was drunk. He was eloquently drunk, lovingly and pugnaciously drunk. He leaned against the bar of the Old Home Sample Room, the most gilded and urbane saloon in Cato, Missouri, and requested the bartender to join him in “The Good Old Summer Time,” the waltz of the day.

Blowing on a glass, polishing it and glancing at Elmer through its flashing rotundity, the bartender remarked that he wasn’t much of a hand at this here singing business. But he smiled. No bartender could have done other than smile on Elmer, so inspired and full of gallantry and hell-raising was he, and so dominating was his beefy grin.

“All right, old socks,” agreed Elmer. “Me and my roommate’ll show you some singing as is singing! Meet roommate. Jim Lefferts. Bes’ roommate in world. Wouldn’t live with him if wasn’t! Bes’ quarterback in Milwest. Meet roommate.”

The bartender again met Mr. Lefferts, with protestations of distinguished pleasure.

Elmer and Jim Lefferts retired to a table to nourish the long, rich, chocolate strains suitable to drunken melody. Actually, they sang very well. Jim had a resolute tenor, and as to Elmer Gantry, even more than his bulk, his thick black hair, his venturesome black eyes, you remembered that arousing barytone. He was born to be a senator. He never said anything important, and he always said it sonorously. He could make “Good morning” seem profound as Kant, welcoming as a brass band, and uplifting as a cathedral organ. It was a ’cello, his voice, and in the enchantment of it you did not hear his slang, his boasting, his smut, and the dreadful violence which (at this period) he performed on singulars and plurals.

Luxuriously as a wayfarer drinking cool beer they caressed the phrases in linked sweetness long drawn out:

Strolling through the shaaaaady lanes, with your baby-mine,

You hold her hand and she holds yours, and that’s a very good sign

That she’s your tootsey-wootsey in the good old summer time.

Elmer wept a little, and blubbered, “Lez go out and start a scrap. You’re lil squirt, Jim. You get somebody to pick on you, and I’ll come along and knock his block off. I’ll show ’em!” His voice flared up. He was furious at the wrong about to be suffered. He arched his paws with longing to grasp the non-existent scoundrel. “By God, I’ll knock the tar out of um! Nobody can touch my roommate! Know who I am? Elmer Gantry! Thash me! I’ll show um!”

The bartender was shuffling toward them, amiably ready for homicide.

“Shut up, Hell-cat. What you need is ’nother drink. I’ll get ’nother drink,” soothed Jim, and Elmer slid into tears, weeping over the ancient tragic sorrows of one whom he remembered as Jim Lefferts.

Instantly, by some tricky sort of magic, there were two glasses in front of him. He tasted one, and murmured foolishly, “ ’Scuse me.” It was the chaser, the water. But they couldn’t fool him! The whisky would certainly be in that other lil sawed-off glass. And it was. He was right, as always. With a smirk of self-admiration he sucked in the raw Bourbon. It tickled his throat and made him feel powerful, and at peace with every one save that fellow—he could not recall who, but it was some one whom he would shortly chastise, and after that float into an Elysium of benevolence.

The barroom was deliriously calming. The sour invigorating stench of beer made him feel healthy. The bar was one long shimmer of beauty—glowing mahogany, exquisite marble rail, dazzling glasses, curiously shaped bottles of unknown liqueurs, piled with a craftiness which made him very happy. The light was dim, completely soothing, coming through fantastic windows such as are found only in churches, saloons, jewelry shops, and other retreats from reality. On the brown plaster walls were sleek naked girls.

He turned from them. He was empty now of desire for women.

“That damn’ Juanita. Jus’ wants to get all she can out of you. That’s all,” he grumbled.

But there was an interesting affair beside him. A piece of newspaper sprang up, apparently by itself, and slid along the floor. That was a very funny incident, and he laughed greatly.

He was conscious of a voice which he had been hearing for centuries, echoing from a distant point of light and flashing through ever-widening corridors of a dream.

“We’ll get kicked out of here, Hell-cat. Come on!”

He floated up. It was exquisite. His legs moved by themselves, without effort. They did a comic thing once—they got twisted and the right leg leaped in front of the left when, so far as he could make out, it should have been behind. He laughed, and rested against some one’s arm, an arm with no body attached to it, which had come out of the Ewigkeit to assist him.

Then unknown invisible blocks, miles of them, his head clearing, and he made grave announcement to a Jim Lefferts who suddenly seemed to be with him:

“I gotta lick that fellow.”

“All right, all right. You might as well go find a nice little fight and get it out of your system!”

Elmer was astonished; he was grieved. His mouth hung open and he drooled with sorrow. But still, he was to be allowed one charming fight, and he revived as he staggered industriously in search of it.

Oh, he exulted, it was a great party. For the first time in weeks he was relieved from the boredom of Terwillinger College.

II

Elmer Gantry, best known to classmates as Hell-cat, had, this autumn of 1902, been football captain and led the best team Terwillinger College had known in ten years. They had won the championship of the East-middle Kansas Conference, which consisted of ten denominational colleges, all of them with buildings and presidents and chapel services and yells and colors and a standard of scholarship equal to the best high-schools. But since the last night of the football season, with the glorious bonfire in which the young gentlemen had burned up nine tar barrels, the sign of the Jew tailor, and the president’s tabby-cat, Elmer had been tortured by boredom.

He regarded basket-ball and gymnasium antics as light-minded for a football gladiator. When he had come to college, he had supposed he would pick up learnings of cash-value to a lawyer or doctor or insurance man—he had not known which he would become, and in his senior year, aged twenty-two this November, he still was doubtful. But this belief he found fallacious. What good would it be in the courtroom, or at the operating table, to understand trigonometry, or to know (as last spring, up to the examination on European History, he remembered having known) the date of Charlemagne? How much cash would it bring in to quote all that stuff—what the dickens was it now?—all that rot about “The world is too much around us, early and soon” from that old fool Wordsworth?

Punk, that’s what it was. Better be out in business. But still, if his mother claimed she was doing so well with her millinery business and wanted him to be a college graduate, he’d stick by it. Lot easier than pitching hay or carrying two-by-fours anyway.

Despite his invaluable voice, Elmer had not gone out for debating, because of the irritating library-grinding, nor had he taken to prayer and moral eloquence in the Y. M. C. A., for with all the force of his simple and valiant nature he detested piety and admired drunkenness and profanity.

Once or twice in the class in Public Speaking, when he had repeated the splendors of other great thinkers, Dan’l Webster and Henry Ward Beecher and Chauncey M. Depew, he had known the intoxication of holding an audience with his voice as with his closed hand, holding it, shaking it, lifting it. The debating set urged him to join them, but they were rabbit-faced and spectacled young men, and he viewed as obscene the notion of digging statistics about immigration and the products of San Domingo out of dusty spotted books in the dusty spotted library.

He kept from flunking only because Jim Lefferts drove him to his books.

Jim was less bored by college. He had a relish for the flavor of scholarship. He liked to know things about people dead these thousand years, and he liked doing canned miracles in chemistry. Elmer was astounded that so capable a drinker, a man so deft at “handing a girl a swell spiel and getting her going” should find entertainment in Roman chariots and the unenterprising amours of sweet-peas. But himself—no. Not on your life. He’d get out and finish law school and never open another book—kid the juries along and hire some old coot to do the briefs.

To keep him from absolutely breaking under the burden of hearing the professors squeak, he did have the joy of loafing with Jim, illegally smoking the while; he did have researches into the lovability of co-eds and the baker’s daughter; he did revere becoming drunk and world-striding. But he could not afford liquor very often and the co-eds were mostly ugly and earnest.

It was lamentable to see this broad young man, who would have been so happy in the prize-ring, the fish-market, or the stock exchange, poking through the cobwebbed corridors of Terwillinger.

III

Terwillinger College, founded and preserved by the more zealous Baptists, is on the outskirts of Gritzmacher Springs, Kansas. (The springs have dried up and the Gritzmachers have gone to Los Angeles, to sell bungalows and delicatessen.) It huddles on the prairie, which is storm-racked in winter, frying and dusty in summer, lovely only in the grass-rustling spring or drowsy autumn.

You would not be likely to mistake Terwillinger College for an Old Folks’ Home, because on the campus is a large rock painted with class numerals.

Most of the faculty are ex-ministers.

There is a men’s dormitory, but Elmer Gantry and Jim Lefferts lived together in the town, in a mansion once the pride of the Gritzmachers themselves: a square brick bulk with a white cupola. Their room was unchanged from the days of the original August Gritzmacher; a room heavy with a vast bed of carved black walnut, thick and perpetually dusty brocade curtains, and black walnut chairs hung with scarves that dangled gilt balls. The windows were hard to open. There was about the place the anxious propriety and all the dead hopes of a secondhand furniture shop.

In this museum, Jim had a surprising and vigorous youthfulness. There was a hint of future flabbiness in Elmer’s bulk, but there would never be anything flabby about Jim Lefferts. He was slim, six inches shorter than Elmer, but hard as ivory and as sleek. Though he came from a prairie village, Jim had fastidiousness, a natural elegance. All the items of his wardrobe, the “ordinary suit,” distinctly glossy at the elbows, and the dark-brown “best suit,” were ready-made, with faltering buttons, and seams that betrayed rough ends of thread, but on him they were graceful. You felt that he would belong to any set in the world which he sufficiently admired. There was a romantic flare to his upturned overcoat collar; the darned bottoms of his trousers did not suggest poverty but a careless and amused ease; and his thoroughly commonplace ties hinted of clubs and regiments.

His thin face was resolute. You saw only its youthful freshness first, then behind the brightness a taut determination, and his brown eyes were amiably scornful.

Jim Lefferts was Elmer’s only friend; the only authentic friend he had ever had.

Though Elmer was the athletic idol of the college, though his occult passion, his heavy good looks, caused the college girls to breathe quickly, though his manly laughter was as fetching as his resonant speech, Elmer was never really liked. He was supposed to be the most popular man in college; every one believed that every one else adored him; and none of them wanted to be with him. They were all a bit afraid, a bit uncomfortable, and more than a bit resentful.

It was not merely that he was a shouter, a pounder on backs, an overwhelming force, so that there was never any refuge of intimacy with him. It was because he was always demanding. Except with his widow mother, whom he vaguely worshiped, and with Jim Lefferts, Elmer assumed that he was the center of the universe and that the rest of the system was valuable only as it afforded him help and pleasure.

He wanted everything.

His first year, as the only Freshman who was playing on the college football team, as a large and smiling man who was expected to become a favorite, he was elected president. In that office, he was not much beloved. At class-meetings he cut speakers short, gave the floor only to pretty girls and lads who toadied to him, and roared in the midst of the weightiest debates, “Aw, come on, cut out this chewing the rag and let’s get down to business!” He collected the class-fund by demanding subscriptions as arbitrarily as a Catholic priest assessing his parishioners for a new church.

“He’ll never hold any office again, not if I can help it!” muttered one Eddie Fislinger, who, though he was a meager and rusty-haired youth with protruding teeth and an uneasy titter, had attained power in the class by always being present at everything, and by the piety and impressive intimacy of his prayers in the Y. M. C. A.

There was a custom that the manager of the Athletic Association should not be a member of any team. Elmer forced himself into the managership in Junior year by threatening not to play football if he were not elected. He appointed Jim Lefferts chairman of the ticket committee, and between them, by only the very slightest doctoring of the books, they turned forty dollars to the best of all possible uses.

At the beginning of Senior year, Elmer announced that he desired to be president again. To elect any one as class-president twice was taboo. The ardent Eddie Fislinger, now president of the Y. M. C. A. and ready to bring his rare talents to the Baptist ministry, asserted after an enjoyable private prayer-meeting in his room that he was going to face Elmer and forbid him to run.

“Gwan! You don’t dare!” observed a Judas who three minutes before had been wrestling with God under Eddie’s coaching.

“I don’t, eh? Watch me! Why, everybody hates him, the darn’ hog!” squeaked Eddie.

By scurrying behind trees he managed to come face to face with Elmer on the campus. He halted, and spoke of football, quantitative chemistry, and the Arkansas spinster who taught German.

Elmer grunted.

Desperately, his voice shrill with desire to change the world, Eddie stammered:

“Say—say, Hell-cat, you hadn’t ought to run for president again. Nobody’s ever president twice!”

“Somebody’s going to be.”

“Ah, gee, Elmer, don’t run for it. Ah, come on. Course all the fellows are crazy about you but— Nobody’s ever been president twice. They’ll vote against you.”

“Let me catch ’em at it!”

“How can you stop it? Honest, Elm—Hell-cat—I’m just speaking for your own good. The voting’s secret. You can’t tell—”

“Huh! The nominations ain’t secret! Now you go roll your hoop, Fissy, and let all the yellow coyotes know that anybody that nominates anybody except Uncle Hell-cat will catch it right where the chicken caught the ax. See? And if they tell me they didn’t know about this, you’ll get merry Hail Columbia for not telling ’em. Get me? If there’s anything but an unanimous vote, you won’t do any praying the rest of this year!”

Eddie remembered how Elmer and Jim had shown a Freshman his place in society by removing all his clothes and leaving him five miles in the country.

Elmer was elected president of the senior class—unanimously.

He did not know that he was unpopular. He reasoned that men who seemed chilly to him were envious and afraid, and that gave him a feeling of greatness.

Thus it happened that he had no friend save Jim Lefferts.

Only Jim had enough will to bully him into obedient admiration. Elmer swallowed ideas whole; he was a maelstrom of prejudices; but Jim accurately examined every notion that came to him. Jim was selfish enough, but it was with the selfishness of a man who thinks and who is coldly unafraid of any destination to which his thoughts may lead him. The little man treated Elmer like a large damp dog, and Elmer licked his shoes and followed.

He also knew that Jim, as quarter, was far more the soul of the team than himself as tackle and captain.

A huge young man, Elmer Gantry; six foot one, thick, broad, big handed; a large face, handsome as a Great Dane is handsome, and a swirl of black hair, worn rather long. His eyes were friendly, his smile was friendly—oh, he was always friendly enough; he was merely astonished when he found that you did not understand his importance and did not want to hand over anything he might desire. He was a barytone solo turned into portly flesh; he was a gladiator laughing at the comic distortion of his wounded opponent.

He could not understand men who shrank from blood, who liked poetry or roses, who did not casually endeavor to seduce every possibly seducible girl. In sonorous arguments with Jim he asserted that “these fellows that study all the time are just letting on like they’re so doggone high and mighty, to show off to these doggone profs that haven’t got anything but lemonade in their veins.”

IV

Chief adornment of their room was the escritoire of the first Gritzmacher, which held their library. Elmer owned two volumes of Conan Doyle, one of E. P. Roe, and a priceless copy of “Only a Boy.” Jim had invested in an encyclopedia which explained any known subject in ten lines, in a “Pickwick Papers,” and from some unknown source he had obtained a complete Swinburne, into which he was never known to have looked.

But his pride was in the possession of Ingersoll’s “Some Mistakes of Moses,” and Paine’s “The Age of Reason.” For Jim Lefferts was the college freethinker, the only man in Terwillinger who doubted that Lot’s wife had been changed into salt for once looking back at the town where, among the young married set, she had had so good a time; who doubted that Methuselah lived to nine hundred and sixty-nine.

They whispered of Jim all through the pious dens of Terwillinger. Elmer himself was frightened, for after giving minutes and minutes to theological profundities Elmer had concluded that “there must be something to all this religious guff if all these wise old birds believe it, and some time a fellow had ought to settle down and cut out the hell-raising.” Probably Jim would have been kicked out of college by the ministerial professors if he had not had so reverent a way of asking questions when they wrestled with his infidelity that they let go of him in nervous confusion.

Even the President, the Rev. Dr. Willoughby Quarles, formerly pastor of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church of Moline, Ill., than whom no man had written more about the necessity of baptism by immersion, in fact in every way a thoroughly than-whom figure—even when Dr. Quarles tackled Jim and demanded, “Are you getting the best out of our instruction, young man? Do you believe with us not only in the plenary inspiration of the Bible but also in its verbal inspiration, and that it is the only divine rule of faith and practise?” then Jim looked docile and said mildly:

“Oh, yes, Doctor. There’s just one or two little things that have been worrying me, Doctor. I’ve taken them to the Lord in prayer, but he doesn’t seem to help me much. I’m sure you can. Now why did Joshua need to have the sun stand still? Of course it happened—it says so right in Scripture. But why did he need to, when the Lord always helped those Jews, anyway, and when Joshua could knock down big walls just by having his people yell and blow trumpets? And if devils cause a lot of the diseases, and they had to cast ’em out, why is it that good Baptist doctors today don’t go on diagnosing devil-possession instead of T. B. and things like that? Do people have devils?”

“Young man, I will give you an infallible rule. Never question the ways of the Lord!”

“But why don’t the doctors talk about having devils now?”

“I have no time for vain arguments that lead nowhere! If you would think a little less of your wonderful powers of reasoning, if you’d go humbly to God in prayer and give him a chance, you’d understand the true spiritual significances of all these things.”

“But how about where Cain got his wife—”

Most respectfully Jim said it, but Dr. Quarles (he had a chin-whisker and a boiled shirt) turned from him and snapped, “I have no further time to give you, young man! I’ve told you what to do. Good morning!”

That evening Mrs. Quarles breathed, “Oh, Willoughby, did you ’tend to that awful senior—that Lefferts—that’s trying to spread doubt? Did you fire him?”

“No,” blossomed President Quarles. “Certainly not. There was no need. I showed him how to look for spiritual guidance and— Did that freshman come and mow the lawn? The idea of him wanting fifteen cents an hour!”

Jim was hair-hung and breeze-shaken over the abyss of hell, and apparently enjoying it very much indeed, while his wickedness fascinated Elmer Gantry and terrified him.

V

That November day of 1902, November of their Senior year, was greasy of sky, and slush blotted the wooden sidewalks of Gritzmacher Springs. There was nothing to do in town, and their room was dizzying with the stench of the stove, first lighted now since spring.

Jim was studying German, tilted back in an elegant position of ease, with his legs cocked up on the desk tablet of the escritoire. Elmer lay across the bed, ascertaining whether the blood would run to his head if he lowered it over the side. It did, always.

“Oh, God, let’s get out and do something!” he groaned.

“Nothing to do, Useless,” said Jim.

“Let’s go over to Cato and see the girls and get drunk.”

As Kansas was dry, by state prohibition, the nearest haven was at Cato, Missouri, seventeen miles away.

Jim scratched his head with a corner of his book, and approved:

“Well, that’s a worthy idea. Got any money?”

“On the twenty-eighth? Where the hell would I get any money before the first?”

“Hell-cat, you’ve got one of the deepest intellects I know. You’ll be a knock-out at the law. Aside from neither of us having any money, and me with a Dutch quiz tomorrow, it’s a great project.”

“Oh, well—” sighed the ponderous Elmer, feebly as a sick kitten, and lay revolving the tremendous inquiry.

It was Jim who saved them from the lard-like weariness into which they were slipping. He had gone back to his book, but he placed it, precisely and evenly, on the desk, and rose.

“I would like to see Nellie,” he sighed. “Oh, man, I could give her a good time! Little devil! Damn these co-eds here. The few that’ll let you love ’em up, they hang around trying to catch you on the campus and make you propose to ’em.”

“Oh, gee! And I got to see Juanita,” groaned Elmer. “Hey, cut out talking about ’em, will you! I’ve got a palpitating heart right now, just thinking about Juanny!”

“Hell-cat! I’ve got it. Go and borrow ten off this new instructor in chemistry and physics. I’ve got a dollar sixty-four left, and that’ll make it.”

“But I don’t know him.”

“Sure, you poor fish. That’s why I suggested him! Do the check-failed-to-come. I’ll get another hour of this Dutch while you’re stealing the ten from him—”

“Now,” lugubriously, “you oughtn’t to talk like that!”

“If you’re as good a thief as I think you are, we’ll catch the five-sixteen to Cato.”

They were on the five-sixteen for Cato.

The train consisted of a day-coach, a combined smoker and baggage car, and a rusty old engine and tender. The train swayed so on the rough tracks as it bumped through the drooping light that Elmer and Jim were thrown against each other and gripped the arm of their seat. The car staggered like a freighter in a gale. And tall raw farmers, perpetually shuffling forward for a drink at the water-cooler, stumbled against them or seized Jim’s shoulder to steady themselves.

To every surface of the old smoking-car, to streaked windows and rusty ironwork and mud-smeared cocoanut matting, clung a sickening bitterness of cheap tobacco fumes, and whenever they touched the red plush of the seat, dust whisked up and the prints of their hands remained on the plush. The car was jammed. Passengers came to sit on the arm of their seat to shout at friends across the aisle.

But Elmer and Jim were unconscious of filth and smell and crowding. They sat silent, nervously intent, panting a little, their lips open, their eyes veiled, as they thought of Juanita and Nellie.

The two girls, Juanita Klauzel and Nellie Benton, were by no means professional daughters of joy. Juanita was cashier of the Cato Lunch—Quick Eats; Nellie was assistant to a dressmaker. They were good girls but excitable, and they found a little extra money useful for red slippers and nut-center chocolates.

“Juanita—what a lil darling—she understands a fellow’s troubles,” said Elmer, as they balanced down the slushy steps at the grimy stone station of Cato.

When Elmer, as a Freshman just arrived from the pool-halls and frame high school of Paris, Kansas, had begun to learn the decorum of amour, he had been a boisterous lout who looked shamefaced in the presence of gay ladies, who blundered against tables, who shouted and desired to let the world know how valiantly vicious he was being. He was still rather noisy and proud of wickedness when he was in a state of liquor, but in three and a quarter years of college he had learned how to approach girls. He was confident, he was easy, he was almost quiet; he could look them in the eye with fondness and amusement.

Juanita and Nellie lived with Nellie’s widow aunt—she was a moral lady, but she knew how to keep out of the way—in three rooms over a corner grocery. They had just returned from work when Elmer and Jim stamped up the rickety outside wooden steps. Juanita was lounging on a divan which even a noble Oriental red and yellow cover (displaying a bearded Wazir, three dancing ladies in chiffon trousers, a narghile, and a mosque slightly larger than the narghile) could never cause to look like anything except a disguised bed. She was curled up, pinching her ankle with one tired and nervous hand, and reading a stimulating chapter of Laura Jean Libbey. Her shirt-waist was open at the throat, and down her slim stocking was a grievous run. She was so un-Juanita-like—an ash-blonde, pale and lovely, with an ill-restrained passion in her blue eyes.

Nellie, a buxom jolly child, dark as a Jewess, was wearing a frowsy dressing-gown. She was making coffee and narrating her grievances against her employer, the pious dressmaker, while Juanita paid no attention whatever.

The young men crept into the room without knocking.

“You devils—sneaking in like this, and us not dressed!” yelped Nellie.

Jim sidled up to her, dragged her plump hand away from the handle of the granite-ware coffee-pot, and giggled, “But aren’t you glad to see us?”

“I don’t know whether I am or not! Now you quit! You behave, will you?”

Rarely did Elmer seem more deft than Jim Lefferts. But now he was feeling his command over women—certain sorts of women. Silent, yearning at Juanita, commanding her with hot eyes, he sank on the temporarily Oriental couch, touched her pale hand with his broad finger-tips, and murmured, “Why, you poor kid, you look so tired!”

“I am and— You hadn’t ought to of come here this afternoon. Nell’s aunt threw a conniption fit the last time you were here.”

“Hurray for aunty! But you’re glad to see me?”

She would not answer.

“Aren’t you?”

Bold eyes on hers that turned uneasily away, looked back, and sought the safety of the blank wall.

“Aren’t you?”

She would not answer.

“Juanita! And I’ve longed for you something fierce, ever since I saw you!” His fingers touched her throat, but softly. “Aren’t you a little glad?”

As she turned her head, for a second she looked at him with embarrassed confession. She sharply whispered, “No—don’t!” as he caught her hand, but she moved nearer to him, leaned against his shoulder.

“You’re so big and strong,” she sighed.

“But, golly, you don’t know how I need you! The president, old Quarles—quarrels is right, by golly, ha, ha, ha!—’member I was telling you about him?—he’s laying for me because he thinks it was me and Jim that let the bats loose in chapel. And I get so sick of that gosh-awful Weekly Bible Study—all about these holy old gazebos. And then I think about you, and gosh, if you were just sitting on the other side of the stove from me in my room there, with your cute lil red slippers cocked up on the nickel rail—gee, how happy I’d be! You don’t think I’m just a bonehead, do you?”

Jim and Nellie were at the stage now of nudging each other and bawling, “Hey, quit, will yuh!” as they stood over the coffee.

“Say, you girls change your shirts and come on out and we’ll blow you to dinner, and maybe we’ll dance a little,” proclaimed Jim.

“We can’t,” said Nellie. “Aunty’s sore as a pup because we was up late at a dance night before last. We got to stay home, and you boys got to beat it before she comes in.”

“Aw, come on!”

“No, we can’t!”

“Yuh, fat chance you girls staying home and knitting! You got some fellows coming in and you want to get rid of us, that’s what’s the trouble.”

“It is not, Mr. James Lefferts, and it wouldn’t be any of your business if it was!”

While Jim and Nellie squabbled, Elmer slipped his hand about Juanita’s shoulder, slowly pressed her against him. He believed with terrible conviction that she was beautiful, that she was glorious, that she was life. There was heaven in the softness of her curving shoulder, and her pale flesh was living silk.

“Come on in the other room,” he pleaded.

“Oh—no—not now.”

He gripped her arm.

“Well—don’t come in for a minute,” she fluttered. Aloud, to the others, “I’m going to do my hair. Looks just ter-ble!”

She slipped into the room beyond. A certain mature self-reliance dropped from Elmer’s face, and he was like a round-faced big baby, somewhat frightened. With efforts to appear careless, he fumbled about the room and dusted a pink and gilt vase with his large crumpled handkerchief. He was near the inner door.

He peeped at Jim and Nellie. They were holding hands, while the coffee-pot was cheerfully boiling over. Elmer’s heart thumped. He slipped through the door and closed it, whimpering, as in terror:

“Oh—Juanita—”

VI

They were gone, Elmer and Jim, before the return of Nellie’s aunt. As they were not entertaining the girls, they dined on pork chops, coffee, and apple pie at the Maginnis Lunch.

It has already been narrated that afterward, in the Old Home Sample Room, Elmer became philosophical and misogynistic as he reflected that Juanita was unworthy of his generous attention; it has been admitted that he became drunk and pugnacious.

As he wavered through the sidewalk slush, on Jim’s arm, as his head cleared, his rage increased against the bully who was about to be encouraged to insult his goo’ frien’ and roommate. His shoulders straightened, his fists clenched, and he began to look for the scoundrel among the evening crowd of mechanics and coal-miners.

They came to the chief corner of the town. A little way down the street, beside the red brick wall of the Congress Hotel, some one was talking from the elevation of a box, surrounded by a jeering gang.

“What they picking on that fella that’s talking for? They better let him alone!” rejoiced Elmer, throwing off Jim’s restraining hand, dashing down the side street and into the crowd. He was in that most blissful condition to which a powerful young man can attain—unrighteous violence in a righteous cause. He pushed through the audience, jabbed his elbow into the belly of a small weak man, and guffawed at the cluck of distress. Then he came to a halt, unhappy and doubting.

The heckled speaker was his chief detestation, Eddie Fislinger, president of the Terwillinger College Y. M. C. A., that rusty-haired gopher who had obscenely opposed his election as president.

With two other seniors who were also in training for the Baptist ministry, Eddie had come over to Cato to save a few souls. At least, if they saved no souls (and they never had saved any, in seventeen street meetings) they would have handy training for their future jobs.

Eddie was a rasping and insistent speaker who got results by hanging to a subject and worrying it, but he had no great boldness, and now he was obviously afraid of his chief heckler, a large, blond, pompadoured young baker, who bulked in front of Eddie’s rostrum and asked questions. While Elmer stood listening, the baker demanded:

“What makes you think you know all about religion?”

“I don’t pretend to know all about religion, my friend, but I do know what a powerful influence it is for clean and noble living, and if you’ll only be fair now, my friend, and give me a chance to tell these other gentlemen what my experience of answers to prayer has been—”

“Yuh, swell lot of experience you’ve had, by your looks!”

“See here, there are others who may want to hear—”

Though Elmer detested Eddie’s sappiness, though he might have liked to share drinks with the lively young baker-heckler, there was no really good unctuous violence to be had except by turning champion of religion. The packed crowd excited him, and the pressure of rough bodies, the smell of wet overcoats, the rumble of mob voices. It was like a football line-up.

“Here, you!” he roared at the baker. “Let the fellow speak! Give him a chance. Whyn’t you pick on somebody your own size, you big stiff!”

At his elbow, Jim Lefferts begged, “Let’s get out of this, Hell-cat. Good Lord! You ain’t going to help a gospel-peddler!”

Elmer pushed him away and thrust his chest out toward the baker, who was cackling, “Heh! I suppose you’re a Christer, too!”

“I would be, if I was worthy!” Elmer fully believed it, for that delightful moment. “These boys are classmates of mine, and they’re going to have a chance to speak!”

Eddie Fislinger bleated to his mates, “Oh, fellows, Elm Gantry! Saved!”

Even this alarming interpretation of his motives could not keep Elmer now from the holy zeal of fighting. He thrust aside the one aged man who stood between him and the baker—bashing in the aged one’s derby and making him telescope like a turtle’s neck—and stood with his fist working like a connecting-rod by his side.

“If you’re looking for trouble—” the baker suggested, clumsily wobbling his huge bleached fists.

“Not me,” observed Elmer and struck, once, very judiciously, just at the point of the jaw.

The baker shook like a skyscraper in an earthquake and caved to the earth.

One of the baker’s pals roared, “Come on, we’ll kill them guys and—”

Elmer caught him on the left ear. It was a very cold ear, and the pal staggered, extremely sick. Elmer looked pleased. But he did not feel pleased. He was almost sober, and he realized that half a dozen rejoicing young workmen were about to rush him. Though he had an excellent opinion of himself, he had seen too much football, as played by denominational colleges with the Christian accompaniments of kneeing and gouging, to imagine that he could beat half a dozen workmen at once.

It is doubtful whether he would ever have been led to further association with the Lord and Eddie Fislinger had not Providence intervened in its characteristically mysterious way. The foremost of the attackers was just reaching for Elmer when the mob shouted, “Look out! The cops!”

The police force of Cato, all three of them, were wedging into the crowd. They were lanky, mustached men with cold eyes.

“What’s all this row about?” demanded the chief.

He was looking at Elmer, who was three inches taller than any one else in the assembly.

“Some of these fellows tried to stop a peaceable religious assembly—why, they tried to rough-house the Reverend here—and I was protecting him,” Elmer said.

“That’s right, Chief. Reg’lar outrage,” complained Jim.

“That’s true, Chief,” whistled Eddie Fislinger from his box.

“Well, you fellows cut it out now. What the hell! Ought to be ashamed yourselves, bullyragging a Reverend! Go ahead, Reverend!”

The baker had come to, and had been lifted to his feet. His expression indicated that he had been wronged and that he wanted to do something about it, if he could only find out what had happened. His eyes were wild, his hair was a muddy chaos, and his flat floury cheek was cut. He was too dizzy to realize that the chief of police was before him, and his fuming mind stuck to the belief that he was destroying all religion.

“Yah, so you’re one of them wishy-washy preachers, too!” he screamed at Elmer—just as one of the lanky policemen reached out an arm of incredible length and nipped him.

The attention of the crowd warmed Elmer, and he expanded in it, rubbed his mental hands in its blaze.

“Maybe I ain’t a preacher! Maybe I’m not even a good Christian!” he cried. “Maybe I’ve done a whole lot of things I hadn’t ought to of done. But let me tell you, I respect religion—”

“Oh, amen, praise the Lord, brother,” from Eddie Fislinger.

“—and I don’t propose to let anybody interfere with it. What else have we got except religion to give us hope—”

“Praise the Lord, oh, bless his name!”

“—of ever leading decent lives, tell me that, will you, just tell me that!”

Elmer was addressing the chief of police, who admitted:

“Yuh, I guess that’s right. Well now, we’ll let the meeting go on, and if any more of you fellows interrupt—” This completed the chief’s present ideas on religion and mob-violence. He looked sternly at everybody within reach, and stalked through the crowd, to return to the police station and resume his game of seven-up.

Eddie was soaring into enchanted eloquence:

“Oh, my brethren, now you see the power of the spirit of Christ to stir up all that is noblest and best in us! You have heard the testimony of our brother here, Brother Gantry, to the one and only way to righteousness! When you get home I want each and every one of you to dig out the Old Book and turn to the Song of Solomon, where it tells about the love of the Savior for the Church—turn to the Song of Solomon, the fourth chapter and the tenth verse, where it says—where Christ is talking about the church, and he says—Song of Solomon, the fourth chapter and the tenth verse—‘How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! how much better is thy love than wine!’

“Oh, the unspeakable joy of finding the joys of salvation! You have heard our brother’s testimony. We know of him as a man of power, as a brother to all them that are oppressed, and now that he has had his eyes opened and his ears unstopped, and he sees the need of confession and of humble surrender before the throne— Oh, this is a historic moment in the life of Hell-c—— of Elmer Gantry! Oh, Brother, be not afraid! Come! Step up here beside me, and give testimony—”

“God! We better get outa here quick!” panted Jim.

“Gee, yes!” Elmer groaned, and they edged back through the crowd, while Eddie Fislinger’s piping pursued them like icy and penetrating rain:

“Don’t be afraid to acknowledge the leading of Jesus! Are you boys going to show yourselves too cowardly to risk the sneers of the ungodly?”

They were safely out of the crowd, walking with severe countenances and great rapidity back to the Old Home Sample Room.

“That was a dirty trick of Eddie’s!” said Jim.

“God, it certainly was! Trying to convert me! Right before those muckers! If I ever hear another yip out of Eddie, I’ll knock his block off! Nerve of him, trying to lead me up to any mourners’ bench! Fat chance! I’ll fix him! Come on, show a little speed!” asserted the brother to all them that were oppressed.

By the time for their late evening train, the sound conversation of the bartender and the sound qualities of his Bourbon had caused Elmer and Jim to forget Eddie Fislinger and the horrors of undressing religion in public. They were the more shocked, then, swaying in their seat in the smoker, to see Eddie standing by them, Bible in hand, backed by his two beaming partners in evangelism.

Eddie bared his teeth, smiled all over his watery eyes, and caroled:

“Oh, fellows, you don’t know how wonderful you were tonight! But, oh, boys, now you’ve taken the first step, why do you put it off—why do you hesitate—why do you keep the Savior suffering as he waits for you, longs for you? He needs you boys, with your splendid powers and intellects that we admire so—”

“This air,” observed Jim Lefferts, “is getting too thick for me. I seem to smell a peculiar and a fishlike smell.” He slipped out of the seat and marched toward the forward car.

Elmer sought to follow him, but Eddie had flopped into Jim’s place and was blithely squeaking on, while the other two hung over them with tender Y. M. C. A. smiles very discomforting to Elmer’s queasy stomach as the train bumped on.

For all his brave words, Elmer had none of Jim’s resolute contempt for the church. He was afraid of it. It connoted his boyhood. . . . His mother, drained by early widowhood and drudgery, finding her only emotion in hymns and the Bible, and weeping when he failed to study his Sunday School lesson. The church, full thirty dizzy feet up to its curiously carven rafters, and the preachers, so overwhelming in their wallowing voices, so terrifying in their pictures of little boys who stole watermelons or indulged in biological experiments behind barns. The awe-oppressed moment of his second conversion, at the age of eleven, when, weeping with embarrassment and the prospect of losing so much fun, surrounded by solemn and whiskered adult faces, he had signed a pledge binding him to give up, forever, the joys of profanity, alcohol, cards, dancing, and the theater.

These clouds hung behind and over him, for all his boldness.

Eddie Fislinger, the human being, he despised. He considered him a grasshopper, and with satisfaction considered stepping on him. But Eddie Fislinger, the gospeler, fortified with just such a pebble-leather Bible (bookmarks of fringed silk and celluloid smirking from the pages) as his Sunday School teachers had wielded when they assured him that God was always creeping about to catch small boys in their secret thoughts—this armored Eddie was an official, and Elmer listened to him uneasily, never quite certain that he might not yet find himself a dreadful person leading a pure and boresome life in a clean frock coat.

“—and remember,” Eddie was wailing, “how terribly dangerous it is to put off the hour of salvation! ‘Watch therefore for you know not what hour your Lord doth come,’ it says. Suppose this train were wrecked! Tonight!”

The train ungraciously took that second to lurch on a curve.

“You see? Where would you spend Eternity, Hell-cat? Do you think that any sportin’ round is fun enough to burn in hell for?”

“Oh, cut it out. I know all that stuff. There’s a lot of arguments— You wait’ll I get Jim to tell you what Bob Ingersoll said about hell!”

“Yes! Sure! And you remember that on his death-bed Ingersoll called his son to him and repented and begged his son to hurry and be saved and burn all his wicked writings!”

“Well— Thunder— I don’t feel like talking religion tonight. Cut it out.”

But Eddie did feel like talking religion, very much so. He waved his Bible enthusiastically and found ever so many uncomfortable texts. Elmer listened as little as possible, but he was too feeble to make threats.

It was a golden relief when the train bumped to a stop at Gritzmacher Springs. The station was a greasy wooden box, the platform was thick with slush, under the kerosene lights. But Jim was awaiting him, a refuge from confusing theological questions, and with a furious “G’night!” to Eddie he staggered off.

“Why didn’t you make him shut his trap?” demanded Jim.

“I did! Whadja take a sneak for? I told him to shut up and he shut up and I snoozed all the way back and— Ow! My head! Don’t walk so fast!”

CHAPTER II

I

for years the state of sin in which dwelt Elmer Gantry and Jim Lefferts had produced fascinated despair in the Christian hearts of Terwillinger College. No revival but had flung its sulphur-soaked arrows at them—usually in their absence. No prayer at the Y. M. C. A. meetings but had worried over their staggering folly.

Elmer had been known to wince when President the Rev. Dr. Willoughby Quarles was especially gifted with messages at morning chapel, but Jim had held him firm in the faith of unfaith.

Now, Eddie Fislinger, like a prairie seraph, sped from room to room of the elect with the astounding news that Elmer had publicly professed religion, and that he had endured thirty-nine minutes of private adjuration on the train. Instantly started a holy plotting against the miserable sacrificial lamb, and all over Gritzmacher Springs, in the studies of ministerial professors, in the rooms of students, in the small prayer-meeting room behind the chapel auditorium, joyous souls conspired with the Lord against Elmer’s serene and zealous sinning. Everywhere, through the snowstorm, you could hear murmurs of “There is more rejoicing over one sinner who repenteth—”

Even collegians not particularly esteemed for their piety, suspected of playing cards and secret smoking, were stirred to ecstasy—or it may have been snickering. The football center, in unregenerate days a companion of Elmer and Jim but now engaged to marry a large and sanctified Swedish co-ed from Chanute, rose voluntarily in Y. M. C. A. and promised God to help him win Elmer’s favor.

The spirit waxed most fervent in the abode of Eddie Fislinger, who was now recognized as a future prophet, likely, some day, to have under his inspiration one of the larger Baptist churches in Wichita or even Kansas City.

He organized an all-day and all-night prayer-meeting on Elmer’s behalf, and it was attended by the more ardent, even at the risk of receiving cuts and uncivil remarks from instructors. On the bare floor of Eddie’s room, over Knute Halvorsted’s paint-shop, from three to sixteen young men knelt at a time, and no 1800 revival saw more successful wrestling with the harassed Satan. In fact one man, suspected of Holy Roller sympathies, managed to have the jerks, and while they felt that this was carrying things farther than the Lord and the Baptist association would care to see, it added excitement to praying at three o’clock in the morning, particularly as they were all of them extraordinarily drunk on coffee and eloquence.

By morning they felt sure that they had persuaded God to attend to Elmer, and though it is true that Elmer himself had slept quite soundly all night, unaware of the prayer-meeting or of divine influences, it was but an example of the patience of the heavenly powers. And immediately after those powers began to move.

To Elmer’s misery and Jim’s stilled fury, their sacred room was invaded by hordes of men with uncombed locks on their foreheads, ecstasy in their eyes, and Bibles under their arms. Elmer was safe nowhere. No sooner had he disposed of one disciple, by the use of spirited and blasphemous arguments patiently taught to him by Jim, than another would pop out from behind a tree and fall on him.

At his boarding-house—Mother Metzger’s, over on Beech Street—a Y. M. C. A. dervish crowed as he passed the bread to Elmer, “Jever study a kernel of wheat? Swonnerful! Think a wonnerful intricate thing like that created itself? Somebody must have created it. Who? God! Anybody that don’t reconize God in Nature—and acknowledge him in repentance—is dumm. That’s what he is!”

Instructors who had watched Elmer’s entrance to classrooms with nervous fury now smirked on him and with tenderness heard the statement that he wasn’t quite prepared to recite. The president himself stopped Elmer on the street and called him My Boy, and shook his hand with an affection which, Elmer anxiously assured himself, he certainly had done nothing to merit.

He kept assuring Jim that he was in no danger, but Jim was alarmed, and Elmer himself more alarmed with each hour, each new greeting of: “We need you with us, old boy—the world needs you!”

Jim did well to dread. Elmer had always been in danger of giving up his favorite diversions—not exactly giving them up, perhaps, but of sweating in agony after enjoying them. But for Jim and his remarks about co-eds who prayed in public and drew their hair back rebukingly from egg-like foreheads, one of these sirens of morality might have snared the easy-going pangynistic Elmer by proximity.

A dreadful young woman from Mexico, Missouri, used to coax Jim to “tell his funny ideas about religion,” and go off in neighs of pious laughter, while she choked, “Oh, you’re just too cute! You don’t mean a word you say. You simply want to show off!” She had a deceptive sidelong look which actually promised nothing whatever this side of the altar, and she might, but for Jim’s struggles, have led Elmer into an engagement.

The church and Sunday School at Elmer’s village, Paris, Kansas, a settlement of nine hundred evangelical Germans and Vermonters, had nurtured in him a fear of religious machinery which he could never lose, which restrained him from such reasonable acts as butchering Eddie Fislinger. That small pasty-white Baptist church had been the center of all his emotions, aside from hell-raising, hunger, sleepiness, and love. And even these emotions were represented in the House of the Lord, in the way of tacks in pew-cushions, Missionary Suppers with chicken pie and angel’s-food cake, soporific sermons, and the proximity of flexible little girls in thin muslin. But the arts and the sentiments and the sentimentalities—they were for Elmer perpetually associated only with the church.

Except for circus bands, Fourth of July parades, and the singing of “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean” and “Jingle Bells” in school, all the music which the boy Elmer had ever heard was in church.

The church provided his only oratory, except for campaign speeches by politicians ardent about Jefferson and the price of binding-twine; it provided all his painting and sculpture, except for the portraits of Lincoln, Longfellow, and Emerson in the school-building, and the two china statuettes of pink ladies with gilt flower-baskets which stood on his mother’s bureau. From the church came all his profounder philosophy, except the teachers’ admonitions that little boys who let garter-snakes loose in school were certain to be licked now and hanged later, and his mother’s stream of opinions on hanging up his overcoat, wiping his feet, eating fried potatoes with his fingers, and taking the name of the Lord in vain.

If he had sources of literary inspiration outside the church—in McGuffey’s Reader he encountered the boy who stood on the burning deck, and he had a very pretty knowledge of the Nick Carter Series and the exploits of Cole Younger and the James Boys—yet here too the church had guided him. In Bible stories, in the words of the great hymns, in the anecdotes which the various preachers quoted, he had his only knowledge of literature—

The story of Little Lame Tom who shamed the wicked rich man that owned the handsome team of grays and the pot hat and led him to Jesus. The ship’s captain who in the storm took counsel with the orphaned but righteous child of missionaries in Zomballa. The Faithful Dog who saved his master during a terrific conflagration (only sometimes it was a snowstorm, or an attack by Indians) and roused him to give up horse-racing, rum, and playing the harmonica.

How familiar they were, how thrilling, how explanatory to Elmer of the purposes of life, how preparatory for his future usefulness and charm.

The church, the Sunday School, the evangelistic orgy, choir-practise, raising the mortgage, the delights of funerals, the snickers in back pews or in the other room at weddings—they were as natural, as inescapable a mold of manners to Elmer as Catholic processionals to a street gamin in Naples.

The Baptist Church of Paris, Kansas! A thousand blurred but indestructible pictures.

Hymns! Elmer’s voice was made for hymns. He rolled them out like a negro. The organ-thunder of “Nicæa”:

Holy, holy, holy! all the saints adore thee,

Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea.

The splendid rumble of the Doxology. “Throw Out the Lifeline,” with its picture of a wreck pounded in the darkness by surf which the prairie child imagined as a hundred feet high. “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” to which you could without rebuke stamp your feet.

Sunday School picnics! Lemonade and four-legged races and the ride on the hay-rack, singing “Seeing Nelly Home.”

Sunday School text cards! True, they were chiefly a medium of gambling, but as Elmer usually won the game (he was the first boy in Paris to own a genuine pair of loaded dice) he had plenty of them in his gallery, and they gave him a taste for gaudy robes, for marble columns and the purple-broidered palaces of kings, which was later to be of value in quickly habituating himself to the more decorative homes of vice. The three kings bearing caskets of ruby and sardonyx. King Zedekiah in gold and scarlet, kneeling on a carpet of sapphire-blue, while his men-at-arms came fleeing and blood-stained, red blood on glancing steel, with tidings of the bannered host of Nebuchadnezzar, great king of Babylon. And all his life Elmer remembered, in moments of ardor, during oratorios in huge churches, during sunset at sea, a black-bearded David standing against raw red cliffs—a figure heroic and summoning to ambition, to power, to domination.

Sunday School Christmas Eve! The exhilaration of staying up, and publicly, till nine-thirty. The tree, incredibly tall, also incredibly inflammable, flashing with silver cords, with silver stars, with cotton-batting snow. The two round stoves red-hot. Lights and lights and lights. Pails of candy, and for every child in the school a present—usually a book, very pleasant, with colored pictures of lambs and volcanoes. The Santa Claus—he couldn’t possibly be Lorenzo Nickerson, the house-painter, so bearded was he, and red-cheeked, and so witty in his comment on each child as it marched up for its present. The enchantment, sheer magic, of the Ladies’ Quartette singing of shepherds who watched their flocks by nights . . . brown secret hilltops under one vast star.

And the devastating morning when the preacher himself, the Rev. Wilson Hinckley Skaggs, caught Elmer matching for Sunday School contribution pennies on the front steps, and led him up the aisle for all to giggle at, with a sharp and not very clean ministerial thumb-nail gouging his ear-lobe.

And the other passing preachers: Brother Organdy, who got you to saw his wood free; Brother Blunt, who sneaked behind barns to catch you on Halloween; Brother Ingle, who was zealous but young and actually human, and who made whistles from willow branches for you.

And the morning when Elmer concealed an alarm clock behind the organ and it went off, magnificently, just as the superintendent (Dr. Prouty, the dentist) was whimpering, “Now let us all be particularly quiet as Sister Holbrick leads us in prayer.”

And always the three chairs that stood behind the pulpit, the intimidating stiff chairs of yellow plush and carved oak borders, which, he was uneasily sure, were waiting for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

He had, in fact, got everything from the church and Sunday School, except, perhaps, any longing whatever for decency and kindness and reason.

II

Even had Elmer not known the church by habit, he would have been led to it by his mother. Aside from his friendship for Jim Lefferts, Elmer’s only authentic affection was for his mother, and she was owned by the church.

She was a small woman, energetic, nagging but kindly, once given to passionate caresses and now to passionate prayer, and she had unusual courage. Early left a widow by Logan Gantry, dealer in feed, flour, lumber, and agricultural implements, a large and agreeable man given to debts and whisky, she had supported herself and Elmer by sewing, trimming hats, baking bread, and selling milk. She had her own millinery and dressmaking shop now, narrow and dim but proudly set right on Main Street, and she was able to give Elmer the three hundred dollars a year which, with his summer earnings in harvest field and lumber-yard, was enough to support him—in Terwillinger, in 1902.

She had always wanted Elmer to be a preacher. She was jolly enough, and no fool about pennies in making change, but for a preacher standing up on a platform in a long-tailed coat she had gaping awe.

Elmer had since the age of sixteen been a member in good standing of the Baptist Church—he had been most satisfactorily immersed in the Kayooska River. Large though Elmer was, the evangelist had been a powerful man and had not only ducked him but, in sacred enthusiasm, held him under, so that he came up sputtering, in a state of grace and muddiness. He had also been saved several times, and once, when he had pneumonia, he had been esteemed by the pastor and all visiting ladies as rapidly growing in grace.

But he had resisted his mother’s desire that he become a preacher. He would have to give up his entertaining vices, and with wide-eyed and panting happiness he was discovering more of them every year. Equally he felt lumbering and shamed whenever he tried to stand up before his tittering gang in Paris and appear pious.

It was hard even in college days to withstand his mother. Though she came only to his shoulder, such was her bustling vigor, her swift shrewdness of tongue, such the gallantry of her long care for him, that he was afraid of her as he was afraid of Jim Lefferts’ scorn. He never dared honestly to confess his infidelity, but he grumbled, “Oh, gee, Ma, I don’t know. Trouble is, fellow don’t make much money preaching. Gee, there’s no hurry. Don’t have to decide yet.”

And she knew now that he was likely to become a lawyer. Well, that wasn’t so bad, she felt; some day he might go to Congress and reform the whole nation into a pleasing likeness of Kansas. But if he could only have become part of the mysteries that hovered about the communion table—

She had talked him over with Eddie Fislinger. Eddie came from a town twelve miles from Paris. Though it might be years before he was finally ordained as a minister, Eddie had by his home congregation been given a License to Preach as early as his Sophomore year in Terwillinger, and for a month, one summer (while Elmer was out in the harvest fields or the swimming hole or robbing orchards), Eddie had earnestly supplied the Baptist pulpit in Paris.

Mrs. Gantry consulted him, and Eddie instructed her with the dignity of nineteen.

Oh, yes, Brother Elmer was a fine young man—so strong—they all admired him—a little too much tempted by the vain gauds of This World, but that was because he was young. Oh, yes, some day Elmer would settle down and be a fine Christian husband and father and business man. But as to the ministry—no. Mrs. Gantry must not too greatly meddle with these mysteries. It was up to God. A fellow had to have a Call before he felt his vocation for the ministry; a real overwhelming mysterious knock-down Call, such as Eddie himself had ecstatically experienced, one evening in a cabbage patch. No, not think of that. Their task now was to get Elmer into a real state of grace and that, Eddie assured her, looked to him like a good deal of a job.

Undoubtedly, Eddie explained, when Elmer had been baptized, at sixteen, he had felt conviction, he had felt the invitation, and the burden of his sins had been lifted. But he had not, Eddie doubted, entirely experienced salvation. He was not really in a state of grace. He might almost be called unconverted.

Eddie diagnosed the case completely, with all the proper pathological terms. Whatever difficulties he may have had with philosophy, Latin, and calculus, there had never been a time since the age of twelve when Eddie Fislinger had had difficulty in understanding what the Lord God Almighty wanted, and why, all through history, he had acted thus or thus.

“I should be the last to condemn athaletics,” said Eddie. “We must have strong bodies to endure the burden and the sweat of carrying the Gospel to the world. But at the same time, it seems to me that football tends to detract from religion. I’m a little afraid that just at present Elmer is not in a state of grace. But, oh, Sister, don’t let us worry and travail! Let us trust the Lord. I’ll go to Elmer myself, and see what I can do.”

That must have been the time—it certainly was during that vacation between their Sophomore and Junior years—when Eddie walked out to the farm where Elmer was working, and looked at Elmer, bulky and hayseedy in a sleeveless undershirt, and spoke reasonably of the weather, and walked back again. . . .

Whenever Elmer was at home, though he tried affectionately to live out his mother’s plan of life for him, though without very much grumbling he went to bed at nine-thirty, whitewashed the henhouse, and accompanied her to church, yet Mrs. Gantry suspected that sometimes he drank beer and doubted about Jonah, and uneasily Elmer heard her sobbing as she knelt by her high-swelling, white-counterpaned, old-fashioned bed.

III

With alarmed evangelistic zeal, Jim Lefferts struggled to keep Elmer true to the faith, after his exposure to religion in defending Eddie at Cato.

He was, on the whole, rather more zealous and fatiguing than Eddie.

Nights, when Elmer longed to go to sleep, Jim argued; mornings, when Elmer should have been preparing his history, Jim read aloud from Ingersoll and Thomas Paine.

“How you going to explain a thing like this—how you going to explain it?” begged Jim. “It says here in Deuteronomy that God chased these Yids around in the desert for forty years and their shoes didn’t even wear out. That’s what it says, right in the Bible. You believe a thing like that? And do you believe that Samson lost all his strength just because his gal cut off his hair? Do you, eh? Think hair had anything to do with his strength?”

Jim raced up and down the stuffy room, kicking at chairs, his normally bland eyes feverish, his forefinger shaken in wrath, while Elmer sat humped on the edge of the bed, his forehead in his hands, rather enjoying having his soul fought for.

To prove that he was still a sound and freethinking stalwart, Elmer went out with Jim one evening and at considerable effort they carried off a small outhouse and placed it on the steps of the Administration Building.

Elmer almost forgot to worry after the affair of Eddie and Dr. Lefferts.

Jim’s father was a medical practitioner in an adjoining village. He was a plump, bearded, bookish, merry man, very proud of his atheism. It was he who had trained Jim in the faith and in his choice of liquor; he had sent Jim to this denominational college partly because it was cheap and partly because it tickled his humor to watch his son stir up the fretful complacency of the saints. He dropped in and found Elmer and Jim agitatedly awaiting the arrival of Eddie.

“Eddie said,” wailed Elmer, “he said he was coming up to see me, and he’ll haul out some more of these proofs that I’m going straight to hell. Gosh, Doctor, I don’t know what’s got into me. You better examine me. I must have anemics or something. Why, one time, if Eddie Fislinger had smiled at me, damn him, think of him daring to smile at me!—if he’d said he was coming to my room, I’d of told him, ‘Like hell you will!’ and I’d of kicked him in the shins.”

Dr. Lefferts purred in his beard. His eyes were bright.

“I’ll give your friend Fislinger a run for his money. And for the inconsequential sake of the non-existent Heaven, Jim, try not to look surprised when you find your respectable father being pious.”

When Eddie arrived, he was introduced to a silkily cordial Dr. Lefferts, who shook his hand with that lengthiness and painfulness common to politicians, salesmen, and the godly. The doctor rejoiced:

“Brother Fislinger, my boy here and Elmer tell me that you’ve been trying to help them see the true Bible religion.”

“I’ve been seeking to.”

“It warms my soul to hear you say that, Brother Fislinger! You can’t know what a grief it is to an old man tottering to the grave, to one whose only solace now is prayer and Bible-reading”—Dr. Lefferts had sat up till four a. m., three nights ago, playing poker and discussing biology with his cronies, the probate judge and the English stock-breeder—“what a grief it is to him that his only son, James Blaine Lefferts, is not a believer. But perhaps you can do more than I can, Brother Fislinger. They think I’m a fanatical old fogy. Now let me see—You’re a real Bible believer?”

“Oh, yes!” Eddie looked triumphantly at Jim, who was leaning against the table, his hands in his pockets, as expressionless as wood. Elmer was curiously hunched up in the Morris chair, his hands over his mouth.

The doctor said approvingly:

“That’s splendid. You believe every word of it, I hope, from cover to cover?”

“Oh, yes. What I always say is, ‘It’s better to have the whole Bible than a Bible full of holes.’ ”

“Why, that’s a real thought, Brother Fislinger. I must remember that, to tell any of these alleged higher critics, if I ever meet any! ‘Bible whole—not Bible full of holes.’ Oh, that’s a fine thought, and cleverly expressed. You made it up?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“I see, I see. Well, that’s splendid. Now of course you believe in the premillennial coming—I mean the real, authentic, genuwine, immediate, bodily, premillennial coming of Jesus Christ?”

“Oh, yes, sure.”

“And the virgin birth?”

“Oh, you bet.”

“That’s splendid! Of course there are doctors who question whether the virgin birth is quite in accordance with their experience of obstetrics, but I tell those fellows, ‘Look here! How do I know it’s true? Because it says so in the Bible, and if it weren’t true, do you suppose it would say so in the Bible?’ That certainly shuts them up! They have precious little to say after that!”

By this time a really beautiful, bounteous fellowship was flowing between Eddie and the doctor, and they were looking with pity on the embarrassed faces of the two heretics left out in the cold. Dr. Lefferts tickled his beard and crooned:

“And of course, Brother Fislinger, you believe in infant damnation.”

Eddie explained, “No; that’s not a Baptist doctrine.”

“You—you—” The good doctor choked, tugged at his collar, panted, and wailed:

“It’s not a Baptist doctrine? You don’t believe in infant damnation?”

“W-why, no—”

“Then God help the Baptist church and the Baptist doctrine! God help us all, in these unregenerate days, that we should be contaminated by such infidelity!” Eddie sweat, while the doctor patted his plump hands and agonized: “Look you here, my brother! It’s very simple. Are we not saved by being washed in the blood of the Lamb, and by that alone, by his blessed sacrifice alone?”

“W-why, yes, but—”

“Then either we are washed white, and saved, or else we are not washed, and we are not saved! That’s the simple truth, and all weakenings and explanations and hemming and hawing about this clear and beautiful truth are simply of the devil, brother! And at what moment does a human being, in all his inevitable sinfulness, become subject to baptism and salvation? At two months? At nine years? At sixteen? At forty-seven? At ninety-nine? No! The moment he is born! And so if he be not baptized, then he must burn in hell forever. What does it say in the Good Book? ‘For there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.’ It may seem a little hard of God to fry beautiful little babies, but then think of the beautiful women whom he loves to roast there for the edification of the saints! Oh, brother, brother, now I understand why Jimmy here, and poor Elmer, are lost to the faith! It’s because professed Christians like you give them this emasculated religion! Why, it’s fellows like you who break down the dike of true belief, and open a channel for higher criticism and sabellianism and nymphomania and agnosticism and heresy and Catholicism and Seventh-day Adventism and all those horrible German inventions! Once you begin to doubt, the wicked work is done! Oh, Jim, Elmer, I told you to listen to our friend here, but now that I find him practically a freethinker—”

The doctor staggered to a chair. Eddie stood gaping.

It was the first time in his life that any one had accused him of feebleness in the faith, of under-strictness. He was smirkingly accustomed to being denounced as over-strict. He had almost as much satisfaction out of denouncing liquor as other collegians had out of drinking it. He had, partly from his teachers and partly right out of his own brain, any number of good answers to classmates who protested that he was old-fashioned in belaboring domino-playing, open communion, listening to waltz music, wearing a gown in the pulpit, taking a walk on Sunday, reading novels, transubstantiation, and these new devices of the devil called moving-pictures. He could frighten almost any Laodicean. But to be called shaky himself, to be called heretic and slacker—for that inconceivable attack he had no retort.

He looked at the agonized doctor, he looked at Jim and Elmer, who were obviously distressed at his fall from spiritual leadership, and he fled to secret prayer.

He took his grief presently to President Quarles, who explained everything perfectly.

“But this doctor quoted Scripture to prove his point!” bleated Eddie.

“Don’t forget, Brother Fislinger, that ‘the devil can quote Scripture to his purpose.’ ”

Eddie thought that was a very nice thought and very nicely expressed, and though he was not altogether sure that it was from the Bible, he put it away for future use in sermons. But before he was sufficiently restored to go after Elmer again, Christmas vacation had arrived.

When Eddie had gone, Elmer laughed far more heartily than Jim or his father. It is true that he hadn’t quite understood what it was all about. Why, sure; Eddie had said it right; infant damnation wasn’t a Baptist doctrine; it belonged to some of the Presbyterians, and everybody knew the Presbyterians had a lot of funny beliefs. But the doctor certainly had done something to squelch Eddie, and Elmer felt safer than for many days.

He continued to feel safe up till Christmas vacation. Then—

Some one, presumably Eddie, had informed Elmer’s mother of his new and promising Christian status. He himself had been careful to keep such compromising rumors out of his weekly letters home. Through all the vacation he was conscious that his mother was hovering closer to him than usual, that she was waiting to snatch at his soul if he showed weakening. Their home pastor, the Reverend Mr. Aker—known in Paris as Reverend Aker—shook hands with him at the church door with approval as incriminating as the affection of his instructors at Terwillinger.

Unsupported by Jim, aware that at any moment Eddie might pop in from his neighboring town and be accepted as an ally by Mrs. Gantry, Elmer spent a vacation in which there was but little peace. To keep his morale up, he gave particularly earnest attention to bottle-pool and to the daughter of a near-by farmer. But he was in dread lest these be the last sad ashen days of his naturalness.

It seemed menacing that Eddie should be on the same train back to college. Eddie was with another exponent of piety, and he said nothing to Elmer about the delights of hell, but he and his companion secretly giggled with a confidence more than dismaying.

Jim Lefferts did not find in Elmer’s face the conscious probity and steadfastness which he had expected.

CHAPTER III

I

early in January was the Annual College Y. M. C. A. Week of Prayer. It was a countrywide event, but in Terwillinger College it was of especial power that year because they were privileged to have with them for three days none other than Judson Roberts, State Secretary of the Y. M. C. A., and a man great personally as well as officially.

He was young, Mr. Roberts, only thirty-four, but already known throughout the land. He had always been known. He had been a member of a star University of Chicago football team, he had played varsity baseball, he had been captain of the debating team, and at the same time he had commanded the Y. M. C. A. He had been known as the Praying Fullback. He still kept up his exercise—he was said to have boxed privily with Jim Jeffries—and he had mightily increased his praying. A very friendly leader he was, and helpful; hundreds of college men throughout Kansas called him “Old Jud.”

Between prayer-meetings at Terwillinger, Judson Roberts sat in the Bible History seminar-room, at a long table, under a bilious map of the Holy Land, and had private conferences with the men students. A surprising number of them came edging in, trembling, with averted eyes, to ask advice about a secret practice, and Old Jud seemed amazingly able to guess their trouble before they got going.

He was very manly and jolly:

“Well, now, old boy, I’ll tell you. Terrible thing, all right, but I’ve met quite a few cases, and you just want to buck up and take it to the Lord in prayer. Remember that he is able to help unto the uttermost. Now the first thing you want to do is to get rid of—I’m afraid that you have some pretty nasty pictures and maybe a juicy book hidden away, now haven’t you, old boy?”

How could Old Jud have guessed? What a corker!

“That’s right. I’ve got a swell plan, old boy. Make a study of missions, and think how clean and pure and manly you’d want to be if you were going to carry the joys of Christianity to a lot of poor gazebos that are under the evil spell of Buddhism and a lot of these heathen religions. Wouldn’t you want to be able to look ’em in the eye, and shame ’em? Next thing to do is to get a lot of exercise. Get out and run like hell! And then cold baths. Darn’ cold. There now!” Rising, with ever so manly a handshake: “Now skip along and remember”—with a tremendous and fetching and virile laugh—“just run like hell!”

Jim and Elmer heard Old Jud in chapel. He was tremendous. He told them a jolly joke about a man who kissed a girl, yet he rose to feathered heights when he described the beatitude of real ungrudging prayer, in which a man was big enough to be as a child. He made them tearful over the gentleness with which he described the Christchild, wandering lost by his parents, yet the next moment he had them stretching with admiration as he arched his big shoulder-muscles and observed that he would knock the block off any sneering, sneaking, lying, beer-bloated bully who should dare to come up to him in a meeting and try to throw a monkey-wrench into the machinery by dragging out a lot of contemptible, quibbling, atheistic, smart-aleck doubts! (He really did, the young men glowed, use the terms “knock the block off,” and “throw a monkey-wrench.” Oh, he was a lulu, a real red-blooded regular fellow!)

Jim was coming down with the grippe. He was unable to pump up even one good sneer. He sat folded up, his chin near his knees, and Elmer was allowed to swell with hero-worship. Golly! He’d thought he had some muscle, but that guy Judson Roberts—zowie, he could put Elmer on the mat seven falls out of five! What a football player he must have been! Wee!

This Homeric worship he tried to explain to Jim, back in their room, but Jim sneezed and went to bed. The rude bard was left without audience and he was practically glad when Eddie Fislinger scratched at the door and edged in.

“Don’t want to bother you fellows, but noticed you were at Old Jud’s meeting this afternoon and, say, you gotta come out and hear him again tomorrow evening. Big evening of the week. Say, honest, Hell-cat, don’t you think Jud’s a real humdinger?”

“Yes, I gotta admit, he’s a dandy fellow.”

“Say, he certainly is, isn’t he! He certainly is a dandy fellow, isn’t he! Isn’t he a peach!”

“Yes, he certainly is a peach—for a religious crank!”

“Aw now, Hell-cat, don’t go calling him names! You’ll admit he looks like some football shark.”

“Yes, I guess he does, at that. I’d liked to of played with him.”

“Wouldn’t you like to meet him?”

“Well—”

At this moment of danger, Jim raised his dizzy head to protest, “He’s a holy strikebreaker! One of these thick-necks that was born husky and tries to make you think he made himself husky by prayer and fasting. I’d hate to take a chance on any poor little orphan nip of Bourbon wandering into Old Jud’s presence! Yeh! Chest-pounder! ‘Why can’t you hundred-pound shrimps be a big manly Christian like me!’ ”

Together they protested against this defilement of the hero, and Eddie admitted that he had ventured to praise Elmer to Old Jud; that Old Jud had seemed enthralled; that Old Jud was more than likely—so friendly a Great Man was he—to run in on Elmer this afternoon.

Before Elmer could decide whether to be pleased or indignant, before the enfeebled Jim could get up strength to decide for him, the door was hit a mighty and heroic wallop, and in strode Judson Roberts, big as a grizzly, jolly as a spaniel pup, radiant as ten suns.

He set upon Elmer immediately. He had six other doubting Thomases or suspected smokers to dispose of before six o’clock.

He was a fair young giant with curly hair and a grin and with a voice like the Bulls of Bashan whenever the strategy called for manliness. But with erring sisters, unless they were too erring, he could be as lulling as woodland violets shaken in the perfumed breeze.

“Hello, Hell-cat!” he boomed. “Shake hands!”

Elmer had a playful custom of squeezing people’s hands till they cracked. For the first time in his life his own paw felt limp and burning. He rubbed it and looked simple.

“Been hearing a lot about you, Hell-cat, and you, Jim. Laid out, Jim? Want me to trot out and get a doc?” Old Jud was sitting easily on the edge of Jim’s bed, and in the light of that grin, even Jim Lefferts could not be very sour as he tried to sneer, “No, thanks.”

Roberts turned to Elmer again, and gloated:

“Well, old son, I’ve been hearing a lot about you. Gee whillikins, that must have been a great game you played against Thorvilsen College! They tell me when you hit that line, it gave like a sponge, and when you tackled that big long Swede, he went down like he’d been hit by lightning.”

“Well, it was—it was a good game.”

“Course I read about it at the time—”

“Did you, honest?”

“—and course I wanted to hear more about it, and meet you, Hell-cat, so I been asking the boys about you, and say, they certainly do give you a great hand! Wish I could’ve had you with me on my team at U of Chi—we needed a tackle like you.”

Elmer basked.

“Yes, sir, the boys all been telling me what a dandy fine fellow you are, and what a corking athlete, and what an A-1 gentleman. They all say there’s just one trouble with you, Elmer lad.”

“Eh?”

“They say you’re a coward.”

“Heh? Who says I’m a coward?”

Judson Roberts swaggered across from the bed, stood with his hand on Elmer’s shoulder. “They all say it, Hell-cat! You see it takes a sure-enough dyed-in-the-wool brave man to be big enough to give Jesus a shot at him, and admit he’s licked when he tries to fight God! It takes a man with guts to kneel down and admit his worthlessness when all the world is jeering at him! And you haven’t got that kind of courage, Elmer. Oh, you think you’re such a big cuss—”

Old Jud swung him around; Old Jud’s hand was crushing his shoulder. “You think you’re too husky, too good, to associate with the poor little sniveling gospel-mongers, don’t you! You could knock out any of ’em, couldn’t you! Well, I’m one of ’em. Want to knock me out?”

With one swift jerk Roberts had his coat off, stood with a striped silk shirt revealing his hogshead torso.

“You bet, Hell-cat! I’m willing to fight you for the glory of God! God needs you! Can you think of anything finer for a big husky like you than to spend his life bringing poor, weak, sick, scared folks to happiness? Can’t you see how the poor little skinny guys and all the kiddies would follow you, and praise you and admire you, you old son of a gun? Am I a little sneaking Christian? Can you lick me? Want to fight it out?”

“No, gee, Mr. Roberts—”

“Judson, you big hunk of cheese, Old Jud!”

“No, gee, Judson, I guess you got me trimmed! I pack a pretty good wallop, but I’m not going to take any chance on you!”

“All right, old son. Still think that all religious folks are crabs?”

“No.”

“And weaklings and pikers?”

“No.”

“And liars?”

“Oh, no.”

“All right, old boy. Going to allow me to be a friend of yours, if I don’t butt in on your business?”

“Oh, gee, sure.”

“Then there’s just one favor I want to ask. Will you come to our big meeting tomorrow night? You don’t have to do a thing. If you think we’re four-flushers—all right; that’s your privilege. Only will you come and not decide we’re all wrong beforehand, but really use that big fine incisive brain of yours and study us as we are? Will you come?”

“Oh, yes, sure, you bet.”

“Fine, old boy. Mighty proud to have you let me come butting in here in this informal way. Remember: if you honestly feel I’m using any undue influence on the boys, you come right after me and say so, and I’ll be mighty proud of your trusting me to stand the gaff. So long, old Elm! So long, Jim. God bless you!”

“So long, Jud.”

He was gone, a whirlwind that whisked the inconspicuous herb Eddie Fislinger out after it.

And then Jim Lefferts spoke.

For a time after Judson Roberts’ curtain, Elmer stood glowing, tasting praise. He was conscious of Jim’s eyes on his back, and he turned toward the bed, defiantly.

They stared, in a tug of war. Elmer gave in with a furious:

“Well, then, why didn’t you say something while he was here?”

“To him? Talk to a curly wolf when he smells meat? Besides, he’s intelligent, that fellow.”

“Well, say, I’m glad to hear you say that, because—well, you see—I’ll explain how I feel.”

“Oh, no, you won’t, sweetheart! You haven’t got to the miracle-pulling stage yet. Sure he’s intelligent. I never heard a better exhibition of bunco-steering in my life. Sure! He’s just crazy to have you come up and kick him in the ear and tell him you’ve decided you can’t give your imprimatur—”

“My what?”

“—to his show, and he’s to quit and go back to hod-carrying. Sure. He read all about your great game with Thorvilsen. Sent off to New York to get the Review of Reviews and read more about it. Eddie Fislinger never told him a word. He read about your tackling in the London Times. You bet. Didn’t he say so? And he’s a saved soul—he couldn’t lie. And he just couldn’t stand it if he didn’t become a friend of yours. He can’t know more than a couple of thousand collidge boys to spring that stuff on! . . . You bet I believe in the old bearded Jew God! Nobody but him could have made all the idiots there are in the world!”

“Gee, Jim, honest, you don’t understand Jud.”

“No. I don’t. When he could be a decent prize-fighter, and not have to go around with angleworms like Eddie Fislinger day after day!”

And thus till midnight, for all Jim’s fevers.

But Elmer was at Judson Roberts’ meeting next evening, unprotected by Jim, who remained at home in so vile a temper that Elmer had sent in a doctor and sneaked away from the room for the afternoon.

II

It was undoubtedly Eddie who wrote or telegraphed to Mrs. Gantry that she would do well to be present at the meeting. Paris was only forty miles from Gritzmacher Springs.

Elmer crept into his room at six, still wistfully hoping to have Jim’s sanction, still ready to insist that if he went to the meeting he would be in no danger of conversion. He had walked miles through the slush, worrying. He was ready now to give up the meeting, to give up Judson’s friendship, if Jim should insist.

As he wavered in, Mrs. Gantry stood by Jim’s lightning-shot bed.

“Why, Ma! What you doing here? What’s gone wrong?” Elmer panted.

It was impossible to think of her taking a journey for anything less than a funeral.

Cozily, “Can’t I run up and see my two boys if I want to, Elmy? I declare, I believe you’d of killed Jim, with all this nasty tobacco air, if I hadn’t come in and aired the place out. I thought, Elmer Gantry, you weren’t supposed to smoke in Terwillinger! By the rules of the college! I thought, young man, that you lived up to ’em! But never mind.”

Uneasily—for Jim had never before seen him demoted to childhood, as he always was in his mother’s presence—Elmer grumbled, “But honest, Ma, what did you come up for?”

“Well, I read about what a nice week of prayer you were going to have, and I thought I’d just like to hear a real big bug preach. I’ve got a vacation coming, too! Now don’t you worry one mite about me. I guess I can take care of myself after all these years! The first traveling I ever done with you, young man—the time I went to Cousin Adeline’s wedding—I just tucked you under one arm—and how you squalled, the whole way!—mercy, you liked to hear the sound of your own voice then just like you do now!—and I tucked my old valise under the other, and off I went! Don’t you worry one mite about me. I’m only going to stay over the night—got a sale on remnants starting—going back on Number Seven tomorrow. I left my valise at that boarding-house right across from the depot. But there’s one thing you might do if ’tain’t too much trouble, Elmy. You know I’ve only been up here at the college once before. I’d feel kind of funny, country bumpkin like me, going alone to that big meeting, with all those smart professors and everybody there, and I’d be glad if you could come along.”

“Of course he’ll go, Mrs. Gantry,” said Jim.

But before Elmer was carried away, Jim had the chance to whisper, “God, do be careful! Remember I won’t be there to protect you! Don’t let ’em pick on you! Don’t do one single doggone thing they want you to do, and then maybe you’ll be safe!”

As he went out, Elmer looked back at Jim. He was shakily sitting up in bed, his eyes imploring.

III

The climactic meeting of the Annual Prayer Week, to be addressed by President Quarles, four ministers, and a rich trustee who was in the pearl-button business, with Judson Roberts as star soloist, was not held at the Y. M. C. A. but at the largest auditorium in town, the Baptist Church, with hundreds of town-people joining the collegians.

The church was a welter of brownstone, with Moorish arches and an immense star-shaped window not yet filled with stained glass.

Elmer hoped to be late enough to creep in inconspicuously, but as his mother and he straggled up to the Romanesque portico, students were still outside, chattering. He was certain they were whispering, “There he is—Hell-cat Gantry. Say, is it really true he’s under conviction of sin? I thought he cussed out the church more’n anybody in college.”

Meek though Elmer had been under instruction by Jim and threats by Eddie and yearning by his mother, he was not normally given to humility, and he looked at his critics defiantly. “I’ll show ’em! If they think I’m going to sneak in—”

He swaggered down almost to the front pews, to the joy of his mother, who had been afraid that as usual he would hide in the rear, handy to the door if the preacher should become personal.

There was a great deal of decoration in the church, which had been endowed by a zealous alumnus after making his strike in Alaskan boarding-houses during the gold-rush. There were Egyptian pillars with gilded capitals, on the ceiling were gilt stars and clouds more woolen than woolly, and the walls were painted cheerily in three strata—green, watery blue, and khaki. It was an echoing and gaping church, and presently it was packed, the aisles full. Professors with string mustaches and dog-eared Bibles, men students in sweaters or flannel shirts, earnest young women students in homemade muslin with modest ribbons, over-smiling old maids of the town, venerable saints from the back-country with beards which partly hid the fact that they wore collars without ties, old women with billowing shoulders, irritated young married couples with broods of babies who crawled, slid, bellowed, and stared with embarrassing wonder at bachelors.

Five minutes later Elmer would not have had a seat down front. Now he could not escape. He was packed in between his mother and a wheezing fat man, and in the aisle beside his pew stood evangelical tailors and ardent school-teachers.

The congregation swung into “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder” and Elmer gave up his frenzied but impractical plans for escape. His mother nestled happily beside him, her hand proudly touching his sleeve, and he was stirred by the march and battle of the hymn:

When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more,

And the morning breaks eternal, bright and fair. . . .

They stood for the singing of “Shall We Gather at the River?” Elmer inarticulately began to feel his community with these humble, aspiring people—his own prairie tribe: this gaunt carpenter, a good fellow, full of friendly greetings; this farm-wife, so courageous, channeled by pioneer labor; this classmate, an admirable basket-ball player, yet now chanting beatifically, his head back, his eyes closed, his voice ringing. Elmer’s own people. Could he be a traitor to them, could he resist the current of their united belief and longing?

Yes, we’ll gather at the river,

The beautiful, the beautiful river,

Gather with the saints at the river

That flows by the throne of God.

Could he endure it to be away from them, in the chill void of Jim Lefferts’ rationalizing, on that day when they should be rejoicing in the warm morning sunshine by the river rolling to the imperishable Throne?

And his voice—he had merely muttered the words of the first hymn—boomed out ungrudgingly:

Soon our pilgrimage will cease;

Soon our happy hearts will quiver

With the melody of peace.

His mother stroked his sleeve. He remembered that she had maintained he was the best singer she had ever heard; that Jim Lefferts had admitted, “You certainly can make that hymn dope sound as if it meant something.” He noted that people near by looked about with pleasure when they heard his Big Ben dominate the cracked jangling.

The preliminaries merely warmed up the audience for Judson Roberts. Old Jud was in form. He laughed, he shouted, he knelt and wept with real tears, he loved everybody, he raced down into the audience and patted shoulders, and for the moment everybody felt that he was closer to them than their closest friends.

“Rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race,” was his text.

Roberts was really a competent athlete, and he really had skill in evoking pictures. He described the Chicago-Michigan game, and Elmer was lost in him, with him lived the moments of the scrimmage, the long run with the ball, the bleachers rising to him.

Roberts’ voice softened. He was pleading. He was not talking, he said, to weak men who needed coddling into the Kingdom, but to strong men, to rejoicing men, to men brave in armor. There was another sort of race more exhilarating than any game, and it led not merely to a score on a big board but to the making of a new world—it led not to newspaper paragraphs but to glory eternal. Dangerous—calling for strong men! Ecstatic—brimming with thrills! The team captained by Christ! No timid Jesus did he preach, but the adventurer who had joyed to associate with common men, with reckless fishermen, with captains and rulers, who had dared to face the soldiers in the garden, who had dared the myrmidons of Rome and death itself! Come! Who was gallant? Who had nerve? Who longed to live abundantly? Let them come!

They must confess their sins, they must repent, they must know their own weakness save as they were reborn in Christ. But they must confess not in heaven-pilfering weakness, but in training for the battle under the wind-torn banners of the Mighty Captain. Who would come? Who would come? Who was for vision and the great adventure?

He was among them, Judson Roberts, with his arms held out, his voice a bugle. Young men sobbed and knelt; a woman shrieked; people were elbowing the standers in the aisles and pushing forward to kneel in agonized happiness, and suddenly they were setting relentlessly on a bewildered Elmer Gantry, who had been betrayed into forgetting himself, into longing to be one with Judson Roberts.

His mother was wringing his hand, begging, “Oh, won’t you come? Won’t you make your old mother happy? Let yourself know the joy of surrender to Jesus!” She was weeping, old eyes puckered, and in her weeping was his every recollection of winter dawns when she had let him stay in bed and brought porridge to him across the icy floor; winter evenings when he had awakened to find her still stitching; and that confusing intimidating hour, in the abyss of his first memories, when he had seen her shaken beside a coffin that contained a cold monster in the shape of his father.

The basket-ball player was patting his other arm, begging, “Dear old Hell-cat, you’ve never let yourself be happy! You’ve been lonely! Let yourself be happy with us! You know I’m no mollycoddle. Won’t you know the happiness of salvation with us?”

A thread-thin old man, very dignified, a man with secret eyes that had known battles and mountain-valleys, was holding out his hands to Elmer, imploring with a humility utterly disconcerting, “Oh, come, come with us—don’t stand there making Jesus beg and beg—don’t leave the Christ that died for us standing out in the cold, begging!”

And, somehow, flashing through the crowd, Judson Roberts was with Elmer, honoring him beyond all the multitude, appealing for his friendship—Judson Roberts the gorgeous, beseeching:

“Are you going to hurt me, Elmer? Are you going to let me go away miserable and beaten, old man? Are you going to betray me like Judas, when I’ve offered you my Jesus as the most precious gift I can bring you? Are you going to slap me and defile me and hurt me? Come! Think of the joy of being rid of all those nasty little sins that you’ve felt so ashamed of! Won’t you come kneel with me, won’t you?”

His mother shrieked, “Won’t you, Elmer? With him and me? Won’t you make us happy? Won’t you be big enough to not be afraid? See how we’re all longing for you, praying for you!”

“Yes!” from around him, from strangers; and “Help me to follow you, Brother—I’ll go if you will!” Voices woven, thick, dove-white and terrifying black of mourning and lightning-colored, flung around him, binding him— His mother’s pleading, Judson Roberts’ tribute—

An instant he saw Jim Lefferts, and heard him insist: “Why, sure, course they believe it. They hypnotize themselves. But don’t let ’em hypnotize you!”

He saw Jim’s eyes, that for him alone veiled their bright harshness and became lonely, asking for comradeship. He struggled; with all the blubbering confusion of a small boy set on by his elders, frightened and overwhelmed, he longed to be honest, to be true to Jim—to be true to himself and his own good honest sins and whatsoever penalties they might carry. Then the visions were driven away by voices that closed over him like surf above an exhausted swimmer. Volitionless, marveling at the sight of himself as a pinioned giant, he was being urged forward, forced forward, his mother on one arm and Judson on the other, a rhapsodic mob following.

Bewildered. Miserable. . . . False to Jim.

But as he came to the row kneeling in front of the first pew, he had a thought that made everything all right. Yes! He could have both! He could keep Judson and his mother, yet retain Jim’s respect. He had only to bring Jim also to Jesus, then all of them would be together in beatitude!

Freed from misery by that revelation, he knelt, and suddenly his voice was noisy in confession, while the shouts of the audience, the ejaculations of Judson and his mother, exalted him to hot self-approval and made it seem splendidly right to yield to the mystic fervor.

He had but little to do with what he said. The willing was not his but the mob’s; the phrases were not his but those of the emotional preachers and hysterical worshipers whom he had heard since babyhood:

“O God, oh, I have sinned! My sins are heavy on me! I am unworthy of compassion! O Jesus, intercede for me! Oh, let thy blood that was shed for me be my salvation! O God, I do truly repent of my great sinning and I do long for the everlasting peace of thy bosom!”

“Oh, praise God,” from the multitude, and “Praise his holy name! Thank God, thank God, thank God! Oh, hallelujah, Brother, thank the dear loving God!”

He was certain that he would never again want to guzzle, to follow loose women, to blaspheme; he knew the rapture of salvation—yes, and of being the center of interest in the crowd.

Others about him were beating their foreheads, others were shrieking, “Lord, be merciful,” and one woman—he remembered her as a strange, repressed, mad-eyed special student who was not known to have any friends—was stretched out, oblivious of the crowd, jerking, her limbs twitching, her hands clenched, panting rhythmically.

But it was Elmer, tallest of the converts, tall as Judson Roberts, whom all the students and most of the townpeople found important, who found himself important.

His mother was crying, “Oh, this is the happiest hour of my life, dear! This makes up for everything!”

To be able to give her such delight!

Judson was clawing Elmer’s hand, whooping, “Liked to had you on the team at Chicago, but I’m a lot gladder to have you with me on Christ’s team! If you knew how proud I am!”

To be thus linked forever with Judson!

Elmer’s embarrassment was gliding into a robust self-satisfaction.

Then the others were crowding on him, shaking his hand, congratulating him: the football center, the Latin professor, the town grocer. President Quarles, his chin whisker vibrant and his shaven upper lip wiggling from side to side, was insisting, “Come, Brother Elmer, stand up on the platform and say a few words to us—you must—we all need it—we’re thrilled by your splendid example!’ ”

Elmer was not quite sure how he got through the converts, up the steps to the platform. He suspected afterward that Judson Roberts had done a good deal of trained pushing.

He looked down, something of his panic returning. But they were sobbing with affection for him. The Elmer Gantry who had for years pretended that he relished defying the whole college had for those same years desired popularity. He had it now—popularity, almost love, almost reverence, and he felt overpoweringly his rôle as leading man.

He was stirred to more flamboyant confession:

“Oh, for the first time I know the peace of God! Nothing I have ever done has been right, because it didn’t lead to the way and the truth! Here I thought I was a good church-member, but all the time I hadn’t seen the real light. I’d never been willing to kneel down and confess myself a miserable sinner. But I’m kneeling now, and, oh, the blessedness of humility!”

He wasn’t, to be quite accurate, kneeling at all; he was standing up, very tall and broad, waving his hands; and though what he was experiencing may have been the blessedness of humility, it sounded like his announcements of an ability to lick anybody in any given saloon. But he was greeted with flaming hallelujahs, and he shouted on till he was rapturous and very sweaty:

“Come! Come to him now! Oh, it’s funny that I who’ve been so great a sinner could dare to give you his invitation, but he’s almighty and shall prevail, and he giveth his sweet tidings through the mouths of babes and sucklings and the most unworthy, and, lo, the strong shall be confounded and the weak exalted in his sight!”

It was all, the Mithraic phrasing, as familiar as “Good morning” or “How are you?” to the audience, yet he must have put new violence into it, for instead of smiling at the recency of his ardor they looked at him gravely, and suddenly a miracle was beheld.

Ten minutes after his own experience, Elmer made his first conversion.

A pimply youth, long known as a pool-room tout, leaped up, his greasy face working, shrieked, “O God, forgive me!” butted in frenzy through the crowd, ran to the mourners’ bench, lay with his mouth frothing in convulsion.

Then the hallelujahs rose till they drowned Elmer’s accelerated pleading, then Judson Roberts stood with his arm about Elmer’s shoulder, then Elmer’s mother knelt with a light of paradise on her face, and they closed the meeting in a maniac pealing of

Draw me nearer, blessed Lord,

To thy precious bleeding side.

Elmer felt himself victorious over life and king of righteousness.

But it had been only the devoted, the people who had come early and taken front seats, of whom he had been conscious in his transports. The students who had remained at the back of the church now loitered outside the door in murmurous knots, and as Elmer and his mother passed them, they stared, they even chuckled, and he was suddenly cold. . . .

It was hard to give heed to his mother’s wails of joy all the way to her boarding-house.

“Now don’t you dare think of getting up early to see me off on the train,” she insisted. “All I have to do is just to carry my little valise across the street. You’ll need your sleep, after all this stirrin’ up you’ve had tonight—I was so proud—I’ve never known anybody to really wrestle with the Lord like you did. Oh, Elmy, you’ll stay true? You’ve made your old mother so happy! All my life I’ve sorrowed, I’ve waited, I’ve prayed, and now I shan’t ever sorrow again! Oh, you will stay true?”

He threw the last of his emotional reserve into a ringing, “You bet I will, Ma!” and kissed her good-night.

He had no emotion left with which to face walking alone, in a cold and realistic night, down a street not of shining columns but of cottages dumpy amid the bleak snow and unfriendly under the bitter stars.

His plan of saving Jim Lefferts, his vision of Jim with reverent and beatific eyes, turned into a vision of Jim with extremely irate eyes and a lot to say. With that vanishment his own glory vanished.

“Was I,” he wondered, “just a plain damn’ fool?

“Jim warned me they’d nab me if I lost my head.

“Now I suppose I can’t ever even smoke again without going to hell.”

But he wanted a smoke. Right now!

He had a smoke.

It comforted him but little as he fretted on:

“There wasn’t any fake about it! I really did repent all these darn’ fool sins. Even smoking—I’m going to cut it out. I did feel the—the peace of God.

“But can I keep up this speed? Christ! I can’t do it! Never take a drink or anything—

“I wonder if the Holy Ghost really was there and getting after me? I did feel different! I did! Or was it just because Judson and Ma and all those Christers were there whooping it up—

“Jud Roberts kidded me into it. With all his Big Brother stuff. Prob’ly pulls it everywhere he goes. Jim’ll claim I—Oh, damn Jim, too! I got some rights! None of his business if I come out and do the fair square thing! And they did look up to me when I gave them the invitation! It went off fine and dandy! And that kid coming right up and getting saved. Mighty few fellows ever’ve pulled off a conversion as soon after their own conversion as I did! Moody or none of ’em! I’ll bet it busts the records! Yes, sir, maybe they’re right. Maybe the Lord has got some great use for me, even if I ain’t always been all I might of been . . . some ways . . . but I was never mean or tough or anything like that . . . just had a good time.

“Jim—what right’s he got telling me where I head in? Trouble with him is, he thinks he knows it all. I guess these wise old coots that’ve written all these books about the Bible, I guess they know more’n one smart-aleck Kansas agnostic!

“Yes, sir! The whole crowd! Turned to me like I was an All-American preacher!

“Wouldn’t be so bad to be a preacher if you had a big church and— Lot easier than digging out law-cases and having to put it over a jury and another lawyer maybe smarter’n you are.

“The crowd have to swallow what you tell ’em in a pulpit, and no back-talk or cross-examination allowed!”

For a second he snickered, but:

“Not nice to talk that way. Even if a fellow don’t do what’s right himself, no excuse for his sneering at fellows that do, like preachers. . . . There’s where Jim makes his mistake.

“Not worthy to be a preacher. But if Jim Lefferts thinks for one single solitary second that I’m afraid to be a preacher because he pulls a lot of guff—I guess I know how I felt when I stood up and had all them folks hollering and rejoicing— I guess I know whether I experienced salvation or not! And I don’t require any James Blaine Lefferts to tell me, neither!”

Thus for an hour of dizzy tramping; now colder with doubt than with the prairie wind, now winning back some of the exaltation of his spiritual adventure, but always knowing that he had to confess to an inexorable Jim.

IV

It was after one. Surely Jim would be asleep, and by next day there might be a miracle. Morning always promises miracles.

He eased the door open, holding it with a restraining hand. There was a light on the washstand beside Jim’s bed, but it was a small kerosene lamp turned low. He tiptoed in, his tremendous feet squeaking.

Jim suddenly sat up, turned up the wick. He was red-nosed, red-eyed, and coughing. He stared, and unmoving, by the table, Elmer stared back.

Jim spoke abruptly:

“You son of a sea-cook! You’ve gone and done it! You’ve been saved! You’ve let them hornswoggle you into being a Baptist witch-doctor! I’m through! You can go—to heaven!”

“Aw, say now, Jim, lissen!”

“I’ve listened enough. I’ve got nothing more to say. And now you listen to me!” said Jim, and he spoke with tongues for three minutes straight.

Most of the night they struggled for the freedom of Elmer’s soul, with Jim not quite losing yet never winning. As Jim’s face had hovered at the gospel meeting between him and the evangelist, blotting out the vision of the cross, so now the faces of his mother and Judson hung sorrowful and misty before him, a veil across Jim’s pleading.

Elmer slept four hours and went out, staggering with weariness, to bring cinnamon buns, a wienie sandwich, and a tin pail of coffee for Jim’s breakfast. They were laboring windily into new arguments, Jim a little more stubborn, Elmer ever more irritable, when no less a dignitary than President the Rev. Dr. Willoughby Quarles, chin whisker, glacial shirt, bulbous waistcoat and all, plunged in under the fat soft wing of the landlady.

The president shook hands a number of times with everybody, he eyebrowed the landlady out of the room, and boomed in his throaty pulpit voice, with belly-rumblings and long-drawn R’s and L’s, a voice very deep and owlish, most holy and fitting to the temple which he created merely by his presence, rebuking to flippancy and chuckles and the puerile cynicisms of the Jim Leffertses—a noise somewhere between the evening bells and the morning jackass:

“Oh, Brother Elmer, that was a brave thing you did! I have never seen a braver! For a great strong man of your gladiatorial powers to not be afraid to humble himself! And your example will do a great deal of good, a grrrrrreat deal of good! And we must catch and hold it. You are to speak at the Y. M. C. A. tonight—special meeting to reënforce the results of our wonderful Prayer Week.”

“Oh, gee, President, I can’t!” Elmer groaned.

“Oh, yes, Brother, you must. You must! It’s already announced. If you’ll go out within the next hour, you’ll be gratified to see posters announcing it all over town!”

“But I can’t make a speech!”

“The Lord will give the words if you give the good will! I myself shall call for you at a quarter to seven. God bless you!”

He was gone.

Elmer was completely frightened, completely unwilling, and swollen with delight that after long dark hours when Jim, an undergraduate, had used him dirtily and thrown clods at his intellect, the president of Terwillinger College should have welcomed him to that starched bosom as a fellow-apostle.

While Elmer was making up his mind to do what he had made up his mind to do, Jim crawled into bed and addressed the Lord in a low poisonous tone.

Elmer went out to see the posters. His name was in lovely large letters.

For an hour, late that afternoon, after various classes in which every one looked at him respectfully, Elmer tried to prepare his address for the Y. M. C. A. and affiliated lady worshipers. Jim was sleeping, with a snore like the snarl of a leopard.

In his class in Public Speaking, a course designed to create congressmen, bishops, and sales-managers, Elmer had had to produce discourses on Taxation, the Purpose of God in History, Our Friend the Dog, and the Glory of the American Constitution. But his monthly orations had not been too arduous; no one had grieved if he stole all his ideas and most of his phrasing from the encyclopedia. The most important part of preparation had been the lubrication of his polished-mahogany voice with throat-lozenges after rather steady and totally forbidden smoking. He had learned nothing except the placing of his voice. It had never seemed momentous to impress the nineteen students of oratory and the instructor, an unordained licensed preacher who had formerly been a tax-assessor in Oklahoma. He had, in Public Speaking, never been a failure nor ever for one second interesting.

Now, sweating very much, he perceived that he was expected to think, to articulate the curious desires whereby Elmer Gantry was slightly different from any other human being, and to rivet together opinions which would not be floated on any tide of hallelujahs.

He tried to remember the sermons he had heard. But the preachers had been so easily convinced of their authority as prelates, so freighted with ponderous messages, while himself, he was not at the moment certain whether he was a missionary who had to pass his surprising new light on to the multitude, or just a sinner who—

Just a sinner! For keeps! Nothing else! Damned if he’d welsh on old Jim! No, sir! Or welsh on Juanita, who’d stood for him and merely kidded him, no matter how soused and rough and mouthy he might be! . . . Her hug. The way she’d get rid of that buttinsky aunt of Nell’s; just wink at him and give Aunty some song and dance or other and send her out for chow—

God! If Juanita were only here! She’d give him the real dope. She’d advise him whether he ought to tell Prexy and the Y. M. to go to hell or grab this chance to show Eddie Fislinger and all those Y. M. highbrows that he wasn’t such a bonehead—

No! Here Prexy had said he was the whole cheese; gotten up a big meeting for him. Prexy Quarles and Juanita! Aber nit! Never get them two together! And Prexy had called on him—

Suppose it got into the newspapers! How he’d saved a tough kid, just as good as Judson Roberts could do. Juanita—find skirts like her any place, but where could they find a guy that could start in and save souls right off the bat?

Chuck all these fool thoughts, now that Jim was asleep, and figure out his spiel. What was that about sweating in the vineyard? Something like that, anyway. In the Bible. . . . However much they might rub it in—and no gink’d ever had a worse time, with that sneaking Eddie poking him on one side and Jim lambasting him on the other—whatever happened, he had to show those yahoos he could do just as good—

Hell! This wasn’t buying the baby any shoes; this wasn’t getting his spiel done. But—

What was the doggone thing to be about?

Let’s see now. Gee, there was a bully thought! Tell ’em about how a strong husky guy, the huskier he was the more he could afford to admit that the power of the Holy Ghost had just laid him out cold—

No. Hell! That was what Old Jud had said. Must have something new—kinda new, anyway.

He shouldn’t say “hell.” Cut it out. Stay converted, no matter how hard it was. He wasn’t afraid of— Him and Old Jud, they were husky enough to—

No, sir! It wasn’t Old Jud; it was his mother. What’d she think if she ever saw him with Juanita? Juanita! That sloppy brat! No modesty!

Had to get down to brass tacks. Now!

Elmer grasped the edge of his work-table. The top cracked. His strength pleased him. He pulled up his dingy red sweater, smoothed his huge biceps, and again tackled his apostolic labors:

Let’s see now: The fellows at the Y. would expect him to say—

He had it! Nobody ever amounted to a darn except as the—what was it?—as the inscrutable designs of Providence intended him to be.

Elmer was very busy making vast and unformed scrawls in a ten-cent note-book hitherto devoted to German. He darted up, looking scholarly, and gathered his library about him: his Bible, given to him by his mother; his New Testament, given by a Sunday School teacher; his text-books in Weekly Bible and Church History; and one-fourteenth of a fourteen-volume set of Great Orations of the World which, in a rare and alcoholic moment of bibliomania, he had purchased in Cato for seventeen cents. He piled them and repiled them and tapped them with his fountain-pen.

His original stimulus had run out entirely.

Well, he’d get help from the Bible. It was all inspired, every word, no matter what scoffers like Jim said. He’d take the first text he turned to and talk on that.

He opened on: “Now therefore, Tatnai, governor beyond the river, Shethar-boznai, and your companions the Apharsachites, which are beyond the river, be ye far from thence,” an injunction spirited but not at present helpful.

He returned to pulling his luxuriant hair and scratching.

Golly. Must be something.

The only way of putting it all over life was to understand these Forces that the scientists, with their laboratories and everything, couldn’t savvy, but to a real Christian they were just as easy as rolling off a log—

No. He hadn’t taken any lab courses except Chemistry I, so he couldn’t show where all these physicists and biologists were boobs.

Elmer forlornly began to cross out the lovely scrawls he had made in his note-book.

He was irritably conscious that Jim was awake, and scoffing:

“Having quite a time being holy and informative, Hell-cat? Why don’t you pinch your first sermon from the heathen? You won’t be the first up-and-coming young messiah to do it!”

Jim shied a thin book at him, and sank again into infidel sleep. Elmer picked up the book. It was a selection from the writings of Robert G. Ingersoll.

Elmer was indignant.

Take his speech from Ingersoll, that rotten old atheist that said—well, anyway, he criticized the Bible and everything! Fellow that couldn’t believe the Bible, least he could do was not to disturb the faith of others. Darn’ rotten thing to do! Fat nerve of Jim to suggest his pinching anything from Ingersoll! He’d throw the book in the fire!

But— Anything was better than going on straining his brains. He forgot his woes by drugging himself with heedless reading. He drowsed through page on page of Ingersoll’s rhetoric and jesting. Suddenly he sat up, looked suspiciously over at the silenced Jim, looked suspiciously at Heaven. He grunted, hesitated, and began rapidly to copy into the German note-book, from Ingersoll:

Love is the only bow on life’s dark cloud. It is the Morning and the Evening Star. It shines upon the cradle of the babe, and sheds its radiance upon the quiet tomb. It is the mother of Art, inspirer of poet, patriot and philosopher. It is the air and light of every heart, builder of every home, kindler of every fire on every hearth. It was the first to dream of immortality. It fills the world with melody, for Music is the voice of Love. Love is the magician, the enchanter, that changes worthless things to joy, and makes right royal kings and queens of common clay. It is the perfume of the wondrous flower—the heart—and without that sacred passion, that divine swoon, we are less than beasts; but with it, earth is heaven and we are gods.

Only for a moment, while he was copying, did he look doubtful; then:

“Rats! Chances are nobody there tonight has ever read Ingersoll. Agin him. Besides I’ll kind of change it around.”

V

When President Quarles called for him, Elmer’s exhortation was outlined, and he had changed to his Sunday-best blue serge double-breasted suit and sleeked his hair.

As they departed, Jim called Elmer back from the hall to whisper, “Say, Hell-cat, you won’t forget to give credit to Ingersoll, and to me for tipping you off, will you?”

“You go to hell!” said Elmer.

VI

There was a sizable and extremely curious gathering at the Y. M. C. A. All day the campus had debated, “Did Hell-cat really sure-enough get saved? Is he going to cut out his hell-raising?”

Every man he knew was present, their gaping mouths dripping question-marks, grinning or doubtful. Their leers confused him, and he was angry at being introduced by Eddie Fislinger, president of the Y. M. C. A.

He started coldly, stammering. But Ingersoll had provided the beginning of his discourse, and he warmed to the splendor of his own voice. He saw the audience in the curving Y. M. C. A. auditorium as a radiant cloud, and he began to boom confidently, he began to add to his outline impressive ideas which were altogether his own—except, perhaps, as he had heard them thirty or forty times in sermons.

It sounded very well, considering. Certainly it compared well with the average mystical rhapsody of the pulpit.

For all his slang, his cursing, his mauled plurals and singulars, Elmer had been compelled in college to read certain books, to hear certain lectures, all filled with flushed, florid polysyllables, with juicy sentiments about God, sunsets, the moral improvement inherent in a daily view of mountain scenery, angels, fishing for souls, fishing for fish, ideals, patriotism, democracy, purity, the error of Providence in creating the female leg, courage, humility, justice, the agricultural methods of Palestine circ. 4 a. d., the beauty of domesticity, and preachers’ salaries. These blossoming words, these organ-like phrases, these profound notions, had been rammed home till they stuck in his brain, ready for use.

But even to the schoolboy-wearied faculty who had done the ramming, who ought to have seen the sources, it was still astonishing that after four years of grunting, Elmer Gantry should come out with these flourishes, which they took perfectly seriously, for they themselves had been nurtured in minute Baptist and Campbellite colleges.

Not one of them considered that there could be anything comic in the spectacle of a large young man, divinely fitted for coal-heaving, standing up and wallowing in thick slippery words about Love and the Soul. They sat—young instructors not long from the farm, professors pale from years of napping in unaired pastoral studies—and looked at Elmer respectfully as he throbbed:

“It’s awful’ hard for a fellow that’s more used to bucking the line than to talking publicly to express how he means, but sometimes I guess maybe you think about a lot of things even if you don’t always express how you mean, and I want to—what I want to talk about is how if a fellow looks down deep into things and is really square with God, and lets God fill his heart with higher aspirations, he sees that—he sees that Love is the one thing that can really sure-enough lighten all of life’s dark clouds.

“Yes, sir, just Love! It’s the morning and evening star. It’s—even in the quiet tomb, I mean those that are around the quiet tomb, you find it even there. What is it that inspires all great men, all poets and patriots and philosophers? It’s Love, isn’t it? What gave the world its first evidences of immortality? Love! It fills the world with melody, for what is music? What is music? Why! Music is the voice of Love!”

The great President Quarles leaned back and put on his spectacles, which gave a slight appearance of learning to his chin-whiskered countenance, otherwise that of a small-town banker in 1850. He was the center of a row of a dozen initiates on the platform of the Y. M. C. A. auditorium, a shallow platform under a plaster half-dome. The wall behind them was thick with diagrams, rather like anatomical charts, showing the winning of souls in Egypt, the amount spent on whisky versus the amount spent on hymn books, and the illustrated progress of a pilgrim from Unclean Speech through Cigarette Smoking and Beer Saloons to a lively situation in which he beat his wife, who seemed to dislike it. Above was a large and enlightening motto: “Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.”

The whole place had that damp-straw odor characteristic of places of worship, but President Quarles did not, seemingly, suffer in it. All his life he had lived in tabernacles and in rooms devoted to thin church periodicals and thick volumes of sermons. He had a slight constant snuffle, but his organism was apparently adapted now to existing without air. He beamed and rubbed his hands, and looked with devout joy on Elmer’s long broad back as Elmer snapped into it, ever surer of himself; as he bellowed at the audience—beating them, breaking through their interference, making a touchdown:

“What is it makes us different from the animals? The passion of Love! Without it, we are—in fact we are nothing; with it, earth is heaven, and we are, I mean to some extent, like God himself! Now that’s what I wanted to explain about Love, and here’s how it applies. Prob’ly there’s a whole lot of you like myself—oh, I been doing it, I’m not going to spare myself—I been going along thinking I was too good, too big, too smart, for the divine love of the Savior! Say! Any of you ever stop and think how much you’re handing yourself when you figure you can get along without divine intercession? Say! I suppose prob’ly you’re bigger than Moses, bigger than St. Paul, bigger than Pastewer, that great scientist—”

President Quarles was exulting, “It was a genuine conversion! But more than that! Here’s a true discovery—my discovery! Elmer is a born preacher, once he lets himself go, and I can make him do it! O Lord, how mysterious are thy ways! Thou hast chosen to train our young brother not so much in prayer as in the mighty struggles of the Olympic field! I—thou, Lord, hast produced a born preacher. Some day he’ll be one of our leading prophets!”

The audience clapped when Elmer hammered out his conclusion: “—and you Freshmen will save a lot of the time that I wasted if you see right now that until you know God you know—just nothing!”

They clapped, they made their faces to shine upon him. Eddie Fislinger won him by sighing, “Old fellow, you got me beat at my own game like you have at your game!” There was much hand-shaking. None of it was more ardent than that of his recent enemy, the Latin professor, who breathed:

“Where did you get all those fine ideas and metaphors about the Divine Love, Gantry?”

“Oh,” modestly, “I can’t hardly call them mine, Professor. I guess I just got them by praying.”

VII

Judson Roberts, ex-football-star, state secretary of the Y. M. C. A., was on the train to Concordia, Kansas. In the vestibule he had three puffs of an illegal cigarette and crushed it out.

“No, really, it wasn’t so bad for him, that Elmer what’s-his-name, to get converted. Suppose there isn’t anything to it. Won’t hurt him to cut out some of his bad habits for a while, anyway. And how do we know? Maybe the Holy Ghost does come down. No more improbable than electricity. I do wish I could get over this doubting! I forget it when I’ve got ’em going in an evangelistic meeting, but when I watch a big butcher like him, with that damn’ silly smirk on his jowls—I believe I’ll go into the real estate business. I don’t think I’m hurting these young fellows any, but I do wish I could be honest. Oh, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, I wish I had a good job selling real estate!”

VIII

Elmer walked home firmly. “Just what right has Mr. James B. Lefferts got to tell me I mustn’t use my ability to get a crowd going? And I certainly had ’em going! Never knew I could spiel like that. Easy as feetball! And Prexy saying I was a born preacher! Huh!”

Firmly and resentfully he came into their room, and slammed down his hat.

It awoke Jim. “How’d it go over? Hand ’em out the gospel guff?”

“I did!” Elmer trumpeted. “It went over, as you put it, corking. Got any objections?”

He lighted the largest lamp and turned it up full, his back to Jim.

No answer. When he looked about, Jim seemed asleep.

At seven next morning he said forgivingly, rather patronizingly, “I’ll be gone till ten—bring you back some breakfast?”

Jim answered, “No, thanks,” and those were his only words that morning.

When Elmer came in at ten-thirty, Jim was gone, his possessions gone. (It was no great moving: three suit-cases of clothes, an armful of books.) There was a note on the table:

I shall live at the College Inn the rest of this year. You can probably get Eddie Fislinger to live with you. You would enjoy it. It has been stimulating to watch you try to be an honest roughneck, but I think it would be almost too stimulating to watch you become a spiritual leader.

J. B. L.

All of Elmer’s raging did not make the room seem less lonely.

CHAPTER IV

I

president quarles urged him.

Elmer would, perhaps, affect the whole world if he became a minister. What glory for Old Terwillinger and all the shrines of Gritzmacher Springs!

Eddie Fislinger urged him.

“Jiminy! You’d go way beyond me! I can see you president of the Baptist convention!” Elmer still did not like Eddie, but he was making much now of ignoring Jim Lefferts (they met on the street and bowed ferociously), and he had to have some one to play valet to his virtues.

The ex-minister dean of the college urged him.

Where could Elmer find a profession with a better social position than the ministry—thousands listening to him—invited to banquets and everything. So much easier than— Well, not exactly easier; all ministers worked arduously—great sacrifices—constant demands on their sympathy—heroic struggle against vice—but same time, elegant and superior work, surrounded by books, high thoughts, and the finest ladies in the city or country as the case might be. And cheaper professional training than law. With scholarships and outside preaching, Elmer could get through the three years of Mizpah Theological Seminary on almost nothing a year. What other plans had he for a career? Nothing definite? Why, looked like divine intervention; certainly did; let’s call it settled. Perhaps he could get Elmer a scholarship the very first year—

His mother urged him.

She wrote, daily, that she was longing, praying, sobbing—

Elmer urged himself.

He had no prospects except the chance of reading law in the dingy office of a cousin in Toluca, Kansas. The only things he had against the ministry, now that he was delivered from Jim, were the low salaries and the fact that if ministers were caught drinking or flirting, it was often very hard on them. The salaries weren’t so bad—he’d go to the top, of course, and maybe make eight or ten thousand. But the diversions— He thought about it so much that he made a hasty trip to Cato, and came back temporarily cured forever of any desire for wickedness.

The greatest urge was his memory of holding his audience, playing on them. To move people— Golly! He wanted to be addressing somebody on something right now, and being applauded!

By this time he was so rehearsed in his rôle of candidate for righteousness that it didn’t bother him (so long as no snickering Jim was present) to use the most embarrassing theological and moral terms in the presence of Eddie or the president; and without one grin he rolled out dramatic speeches about “the duty of every man to lead every other man to Christ,” and “the historic position of the Baptists as the one true Scriptural Church, practising immersion, as taught by Christ himself.”

He was persuaded. He saw himself as a white-browed and star-eyed young evangel, wearing a new frock coat, standing up in a pulpit and causing hundreds of beautiful women to weep with conviction and rush down to clasp his hand.

But there was one barrier, extremely serious. They all informed him that select though he was as sacred material, before he decided he must have a mystic experience known as a Call. God himself must appear and call him to service, and conscious though Elmer was now of his own powers and the excellence of the church, he saw no more of God about the place than in his worst days of unregeneracy.

He asked the president and the dean if they had had a Call. Oh, yes, certainly; but they were vague about practical tips as to how to invite a Call and recognize it when it came. He was reluctant to ask Eddie—Eddie would be only too profuse with tips, and want to kneel down and pray with him, and generally be rather damp and excitable and messy.

The Call did not come, not for weeks, with Easter past and no decision as to what he was going to do next year.

II

Spring on the prairie, high spring. Lilacs masked the speckled brick and stucco of the college buildings, spiræa made a flashing wall, and from the Kansas fields came soft airs and the whistle of meadow larks.

Students loafed at their windows, calling down to friends; they played catch on the campus; they went bareheaded and wrote a great deal of poetry; and the Terwillinger baseball team defeated Fogelquist College.

Still Elmer did not receive his divine Call.

By day, playing catch, kicking up his heels, belaboring his acquaintances, singing “The happiest days that ever were, we knew at old Terwillinger” on a fence fondly believed to resemble the Yale fence, or tramping by himself through the minute forest of cottonwood and willow by Tunker Creek, he expanded with the expanding year and knew happiness.

The nights were unadulterated hell.

He felt guilty that he had no Call, and he went to the president about it in mid-May.

Dr. Quarles was thoughtful, and announced:

“Brother Elmer, the last thing I’d ever want to do, in fairness to the spirit of the ministry, would be to create an illusion of a Call when there was none present. That would be like the pagan hallucinations worked on the poor suffering followers of Roman Catholicism. Whatever else he may be, a Baptist preacher must be free from illusions; he must found his work on good hard scientific facts—the proven facts of the Bible, and substitutionary atonement, which even pragmatically we know to be true, because it works. No, no! But at the same time I feel sure the voice of God is calling you, if you can but hear it, and I want to help you lift the veil of worldliness which still, no doubt, deafens your inner ear. Will you come to my house tomorrow evening? We’ll take the matter to the Lord in prayer.”

It was all rather dreadful.

That kindly spring evening, with a breeze fresh in the branches of the sycamores, President Quarles had shut the windows and drawn the blinds in his living-room, an apartment filled with crayon portraits of Baptist worthies, red-plush chairs, and leaded-glass unit bookcases containing the lay writings of the more poetic clergy. The president had gathered as assistants in prayer the more aged and fundamentalist ex-pastors on the faculty and the more milky and elocutionary of the Y. M. C. A. leaders, headed by Eddie Fislinger.

When Elmer entered, they were on their knees, their arms on the seats of reversed chairs, their heads bowed, all praying aloud and together. They looked up at him like old women surveying the bride. He wanted to bolt. Then the president nabbed him, and had him down on his knees, suffering and embarrassed and wondering what the devil to pray about.

They took turns at telling God what he ought to do in the case of “our so ardently and earnestly seeking brother.”

“Now will you lift your voice in prayer, Brother Elmer? Just let yourself go. Remember we’re all with you, all loving and helping you,” grated the president.

They crowded near him. The president put his stiff old arm about Elmer’s shoulder. It felt like a dry bone, and the president smelled of kerosene. Eddie crowded up on the other side and nuzzled against him. The others crept in, patting him. It was horribly hot in that room, and they were so close—he felt as if he were tied down in a hospital ward. He looked up and saw the long shaven face, the thin tight lips, of a minister . . . whom he was now to emulate.

He prickled with horror, but he tried to pray. He wailed, “O blessed Lord, help me to—help me to—”

He had an enormous idea. He sprang up. He cried, “Say, I think the spirit is beginning to work and maybe if I just went out and took a short walk and kinda prayed by myself, while you stayed here and prayed for me, it might help.”

“I don’t think that would be the way,” began the president, but the most aged faculty-member suggested, “Maybe it’s the Lord’s guidance. We hadn’t ought to interfere with the Lord’s guidance, Brother Quarles.”

“That’s so, that’s so,” the president announced. “You have your walk, Brother Elmer, and pray hard, and we’ll stay here and besiege the throne of grace for you.”

Elmer blundered out into the fresh clean air.

Whatever happened, he was never going back! How he hated their soft, crawly, wet hands!

He had notions of catching the last train to Cato and getting solacingly drunk. No. He’d lose his degree, just a month off now, and be cramped later in appearing as a real, high-class, college-educated lawyer.

Lose it, then! Anything but go back to their crawling creepy hands, their aged breathing by his ear—

He’d get hold of somebody and say he felt sick and send him back to tell Prexy and sneak off to bed. Cinch! He just wouldn’t get his Call, just pass it up, by Jiminy, and not have to go into the ministry.

But to lose the chance to stand before thousands and stir them by telling about divine love and the evening and morning star—If he could just stand it till he got through theological seminary and was on the job— Then, if any Eddie Fislinger tried to come into his study and breathe down his neck—throw him out, by golly!

He was conscious that he was leaning against a tree, tearing down twigs, and that facing him under a street-lamp was Jim Lefferts.

“You look sick, Hell-cat,” said Jim.

Elmer strove for dignity, then broke, with a moaning, “Oh, I am! What did I ever get into this religious fix for?”

“What they doing to you? Never mind; don’t tell me. You need a drink.”

“By God, I do!”

“I’ve got a quart of first-rate corn whisky from a moon-shiner I’ve dug up out here in the country, and my room’s right in this block. Come along.”

Through his first drink, Elmer was quiet, bewildered, vaguely leaning on the Jim who would guide him away from this horror.

But he was out of practice in drinking, and the whisky took hold with speed. By the middle of the second glass he was boasting of his ecclesiastical eloquence, he was permitting Jim to know that never in Terwillinger College had there appeared so promising an orator, that right now they were there praying for him, waiting for him, the president and the whole outfit!

“But,” with a slight return of apology, “I suppose prob’ly you think maybe I hadn’t ought to go back to ’em.”

Jim was standing by the open window, saying slowly, “No. I think now— You’d better go back. I’ve got some peppermints. They’ll fix your breath, more or less. Good-by, Hell-cat.”

He had won even over old Jim!

He was master of the world, and only a very little bit drunk.

He stepped out high and happy. Everything was extremely beautiful. How high the trees were! What a wonderful drug-store window, with all those glossy new magazine covers! That distant piano—magic. What exquisite young women the co-eds! What lovable and sturdy men the students! He was at peace with everything. What a really good fellow he was! He’d lost all his meannesses. How kind he’d been to that poor lonely sinner, Jim Lefferts. Others might despair of Jim’s soul—he never would.

Poor old Jim. His room had looked terrible—that narrow little room with a cot, all in disorder, a pair of shoes and a corncob pipe lying on a pile of books. Poor Jim. He’d forgive him. Go around and clean up the room for him.

(Not that Elmer had ever cleaned up their former room.)

Gee, what a lovely spring night! How corking those old boys were, Prexy and everybody, to give up an evening and pray for him!

Why was it he felt so fine? Of course! The Call had come! God had come to him, though just spiritually, not corporeally, so far as he remembered. It had come! He could go ahead and rule the world!

He dashed into the president’s house; he shouted from the door, erect, while they knelt and looked up at him mousily, “It’s come! I feel it in everything! God just opened my eyes and made me feel what a wonderful ole world it is, and it was just like I could hear his voice saying, ‘Don’t you want to love everybody and help them to be happy? Do you want to just go along being selfish, or have you got a longing to—to help everybody?’ ”

He stopped. They had listened silently, with interested grunts of “Amen, Brother.”

“Honest, it was awful’ impressive. Somehow, something has made me feel so much better than when I went away from here. I’m sure it was a real Call. Don’t you think so, President?”

“Oh, I’m sure of it!” the president ejaculated, getting up hastily and rubbing his knees.

“I feel that all is right with our brother; that he has now, this sacred moment, heard the voice of God, and is entering upon the highest calling in the sight of God,” the president observed to the dean. “Don’t you feel so?”

“God be praised,” said the dean, and looked at his watch.

III

On their way home, they two alone, the oldest faculty-member said to the dean, “Yes, it was a fine gratifying moment. And—herumph!—slightly surprising. I’d hardly thought that young Gantry would go on being content with the mild blisses of salvation. Herumph! Curious smell of peppermint he had about him.”

“I suppose he stopped at the drug-store during his walk and had a soft-drink of some kind. Don’t know, Brother,” said the dean, “that I approve of these soft drinks. Innocent in themselves, but they might lead to carelessness in beverages; A man who drinks ginger ale—how are you going to impress on him the terrible danger of drinking ale?”

“Yes, yes,” said the oldest faculty-member (he was sixty-eight, to the dean’s boyish sixty). “Say, Brother, how do you feel about young Gantry? About his entering the ministry? I know you did well in the pulpit before you came here, as I more or less did myself, but if you were a boy of twenty-one or -two, do you think you’d become a preacher now, way things are?”

“Why, Brother!” grieved the dean. “Certainly I would! What a question! What would become of all our work at Terwillinger, all our ideals in opposition to the heathenish large universities, if the ministry weren’t the highest ideal—”

“I know. I know. I just wonder sometimes— All the new vocations that are coming up. Medicine. Advertising. World just going it! I tell you, Dean, in another forty years, by 1943, men will be up in the air in flying machines, going maybe a hundred miles an hour!”

“My dear fellow, if the Lord had meant men to fly, he’d have given us wings.”

“But there are prophecies in the Book—”

“Those refer purely to spiritual and symbolic flying. No, no! Never does to oppose the clear purpose of the Bible, and I could dig you out a hundred texts that show unquestionably that the Lord intends us to stay right here on earth till that day when we shall be upraised in the body with him.”

“Herumph! Maybe. Well, here’s my corner. Good night, Brother.”

The dean came into his house. It was a small house.

“How’d it go?” asked his wife.

“Splendid. Young Gantry seemed to feel an unmistakable divine call. Something struck him that just uplifted him. He’s got a lot of power. Only—”

The dean irritably sat down in a cane-seated rocker, jerked off his shoes, grunted, drew on his slippers.

“Only, hang it, I simply can’t get myself to like him! Emma, tell me: If I were his age now, do you think I’d go into the ministry, as things are today?”

“Why, Henry! What in the world ever makes you say a thing like that? Of course you would! Why, if that weren’t the case— What would our whole lives mean, all we’ve given up and everything?”

“Oh, I know. I just get to thinking. Sometimes I wonder if we’ve given up so much. Don’t hurt even a preacher to face himself! After all, those two years when I was in the carpet business, before I went to the seminary, I didn’t do very well. Maybe I wouldn’t have made any more than I do now. But if I could— Suppose I could’ve been a great chemist? Wouldn’t that (mind you, I’m just speculating, as a student of psychology)—wouldn’t that conceivably be better than year after year of students with the same confounded problems over and over again—and always so pleased and surprised and important about them!—or year after year again of standing in the pulpit and knowing your congregation don’t remember what you’ve said seven minutes after you’ve said it?”

“Why, Henry, I don’t know what’s gotten into you! I think you better do a little praying yourself instead of picking on this poor young Gantry! Neither you nor I could ever have been happy except in a Baptist church or a real cover-to-cover Baptist college.”

The dean’s wife finished darning the towels and went up to say good-night to her parents.

They had lived with her since her father’s retirement, at seventy-five, from his country pastorate. He had been a missionary in Missouri before the Civil War.

Her lips had been moving, her eyebrows working, as she darned the towels; her eyebrows were still creased as she came into their room and shrieked at her father’s deafness:

“Time to go to bed, Papa. And you, Mama.”

They were nodding on either side of a radiator unheated for months.

“All right, Emmy,” piped the ancient.

“Say, Papa— Tell me: I’ve been thinking: If you were just a young man today, would you go into the ministry?”

“Course I would! What an idea! Most glorious vocation young man could have. Idea! G’night, Emmy!”

But as his ancient wife sighingly removed her corsets, she complained, “Don’t know as you would or not—if I was married to you—which ain’t any too certain, a second time—and if I had anything to say about it!”

“Which is certain! Don’t be foolish. Course I would.”

“I don’t know. Fifty years I had of it, and I never did get so I wa’n’t just mad clear through when the ladies of the church came poking around, criticizing me for every little tidy I put on the chairs, and talking something terrible if I had a bonnet or a shawl that was the least mite tasty. ‘ ’Twa’n’t suitable for a minister’s wife.’ Drat ’em! And I always did like a bonnet with some nice bright colors. Oh, I’ve done a right smart of thinking about it. You always were a powerful preacher, but’s I’ve told you—”

“You have!”

“—I never could make out how, if when you were in the pulpit you really knew so much about all these high and mighty and mysterious things, how it was when you got home you never knew enough, and you never could learn enough, to find the hammer or make a nice piece of corn-bread or add up a column of figures twice alike or find Oberammergau on the map of Austria!”

“Germany, woman! I’m sleepy!”

“And all these years of having to pretend to be so good when we were just common folks all the time! Ain’t you glad you can just be simple folks now?”

“Maybe it is restful. But that’s not saying I wouldn’t do it over again.” The old man ruminated a long while. “I think I would. Anyway, no use discouraging these young people from entering the ministry. Somebody got to preach the gospel truth, ain’t they?”

“I suppose so. Oh, dear. Fifty years since I married a preacher! And if I could still only be sure about the virgin birth! Now don’t you go explaining! Laws, the number of times you’ve explained! I know it’s true—it’s in the Bible. If I could only believe it! But—

“I would of liked to had you try your hand at politics. If I could of been, just once, to a senator’s house, to a banquet or something, just once, in a nice bright red dress with gold slippers, I’d of been willing to go back to alpaca and scrubbing floors and listening to you rehearsing your sermons, out in the stable, to that old mare we had for so many years—oh, laws, how long is it she’s been dead now? Must be—yes, it’s twenty-seven years—

“Why is it that it’s only in religion that the things you got to believe are agin all experience? Now drat it, don’t you go and quote that ‘I believe because it is impossible’ thing at me again! Believe because it’s impossible! Huh! Just like a minister!

“Oh, dear, I hope I don’t live long enough to lose my faith. Seems like the older I get, the less I’m excited over all these preachers that talk about hell only they never saw it.

“Twenty-seven years! And we had that old hoss so long before that. My how she could kick— Busted that buggy—”

They were both asleep.

CHAPTER V

I

in the cottonwood grove by the muddy river, three miles west of Paris, Kansas, the godly were gathered with lunch-baskets, linen dusters, and moist unhappy babies for the all-day celebration. Brothers Elmer Gantry and Edward Fislinger had been licensed to preach before, but now they were to be ordained as full-fledged preachers, as Baptist ministers.

They had come home from distant Mizpah Theological Seminary for ordination by their own council of churches, the Kayooska River Baptist Association. Both of them had another year to go out of the three-year seminary course, but by the more devout and rural brethren it is considered well to ordain the clerics early, so that even before they attain infallible wisdom they may fill backwoods pulpits and during week-ends do good works with divine authority.

His vacation after college Elmer had spent on a farm; during vacation after his first year in seminary he had been supervisor in a boys’ camp; now, after ordination, he was to supply at the smaller churches in his corner of Kansas.

During his second year of seminary, just finished, he had been more voluminously bored than ever at Terwillinger. Constantly he had thought of quitting, but after his journeys to the city of Monarch, where he was in closer relation to fancy ladies and to bartenders than one would have desired in a holy clerk, he got a second wind in his resolve to lead a pure life, and so managed to keep on toward perfection, as symbolized by the degree of Bachelor of Divinity.

But if he had been bored, he had acquired professional training.

He was able now to face any audience and to discourse authoritatively on any subject whatever, for any given time to the second, without trembling and without any errors of speech beyond an infrequent “ain’t” or “he don’t.” He had an elegant vocabulary. He knew eighteen synonyms for sin, half of them very long and impressive, and the others very short and explosive and minatory—minatory being one of his own best words, constantly useful in terrifying the as yet imaginary horde of sinners gathered before him.

He was no longer embarrassed by using the most intimate language about God; without grinning he could ask a seven-year-old boy, “Don’t you want to give up your vices?” and without flinching he could look a tobacco salesman in the eye and demand, “Have you ever knelt before the throne of grace?”

Whatever worldly expressions he might use in sub rosa conversations with the less sanctified theological students, such as Harry Zenz, who was the most confirmed atheist in the school, in public he never so much as said “doggone,” and he had on tap, for immediate and skilled use, a number of such phrases as “Brother, I am willing to help you find religion,” “My whole life is a testimonial to my faith,” “To the inner eye there is no trouble in comprehending the three-fold nature of divinity,” “We don’t want any long-faced Christians in this church—the fellow that’s been washed in the blood of the Lamb is just so happy he goes ’round singing and hollering hallelujah all day long,” and “Come on now, all get together, and let’s make this the biggest collection this church has ever seen.” He could explain foreordination thoroughly, and he used the words “baptizo” and “Athanasian.”

He would, perhaps, be less orchestral, less Palladian, when he had been in practise for a year or two after graduation and discovered that the hearts of men are vile, their habits low, and that they are unwilling to hand the control of all those habits over to the parson. But he would recover again, and he was a promise of what he might be in twenty years, as a ten-thousand-dollar seer.

He had grown broader, his glossy hair, longer than at Terwillinger, was brushed back from his heavy white brow, his nails were oftener clean, and his speech was Jovian. It was more sonorous, more measured and pontifical; he could, and did, reveal his interested knowledge of your secret moral diabetes merely by saying, “How are we today, Brother?”

And though he had almost flunked in Greek, his thesis on “Sixteen Ways of Paying a Church Debt” had won the ten-dollar prize in Practical Theology.

II

He walked among the Kayooska Valley communicants, beside his mother. She was a small-town business woman; she was not unduly wrinkled or shabby; indeed she wore a good little black hat and a new brown silk frock with a long gold chain; but she was inconspicuous beside his bulk and sober magnificence.

He wore for the ceremony a new double-breasted suit of black broadcloth, and new black shoes. So did Eddie Fislinger, along with a funereal tie and a black wide felt hat, like a Texas congressman’s. But Elmer was more daring. Had he not understood that he must show dignity, he would have indulged himself in the gaudiness for which he had a talent. He had compromised by buying a beautiful light gray felt hat in Chicago, on his way home, and he had ventured on a red-bordered gray silk handkerchief, which gave a pleasing touch of color to his sober chest.

But he had left off, for the day, the large opal ring surrounded by almost gold serpents for which he had lusted and to which he had yielded when in liquor, in the city of Monarch.

He walked as an army with banners, he spoke like a trombone, he gestured widely with his large blanched thick hand; and his mother, on his arm, looked up in ecstasy. He wafted her among the crowd, affable as a candidate for probate judgeship, and she was covered with the fringes of his glory.

For the ordination, perhaps two hundred Baptist laymen and laywomen and at least two hundred babies had come in from neighboring congregations by buckboard, democrat wagon, and buggy. (It was 1905; there was as yet no Ford nearer than Fort Scott.) They were honest, kindly, solid folk; farmers and blacksmiths and cobblers; men with tanned deep-lined faces, wearing creased “best suits”; the women, deep bosomed or work-shriveled, in clean gingham. There was one village banker, very chatty and democratic, in a new crash suit. They milled like cattle, in dust up to their shoe laces, and dust veiled them, in the still heat, under the dusty branches of the cottonwoods from which floated shreds to catch and glisten on the rough fabric of their clothes.

Six preachers had combined to assist the Paris parson in his ceremony, and one of them was no less than the Rev. Dr. Ingle, come all the way from St. Joe, where he was said to have a Sunday School of six hundred. As a young man—very thin and eloquent in a frock coat—Dr. Ingle had for six months preached in Paris, and Mrs. Gantry remembered him as her favorite minister. He had been so kind to her when she was ill; had come in to read “Ben Hur” aloud, and tell stories to a chunky little Elmer given to hiding behind furniture and heaving vegetables at visitors.

“Well, well, Brother, so this is the little tad I used to know as a shaver! Well, you always were a good little mannie, and they tell me that now you’re a consecrated young man—that you’re destined to do a great work for the Lord,” Dr. Ingle greeted Elmer.

“Thank you, Doctor. Pray for me. It’s an honor to have you come from your great church,” said Elmer.

“Not a bit of trouble. On my way to Colorado—I’ve taken a cabin way up in the mountains there—glorious view—sunsets—painted by the Lord himself. My congregation have been so good as to give me two months’ vacation. Wish you could pop up there for a while, Brother Elmer.”

“I wish I could, Doctor, but I have to try in my humble way to keep the fires burning around here.”

Mrs. Gantry was panting. To have her little boy discoursing with Dr. Ingle as though they were equals! To hear him talking like a preacher—just as natural! And some day—Elmer with a famous church; with a cottage in Colorado for the summer; married to a dear pious little woman, with half a dozen children; and herself invited to join them for the summer; all of them kneeling in family prayers, led by Elmer . . . though it was true Elmer declined to hold family prayers just now; said he’d had too much of it in seminary all year . . . too bad, but she’d keep on coaxing . . . and if he just would stop smoking, as she’d begged and besought him to do . . . well, perhaps if he didn’t have a few naughtinesses left, he wouldn’t hardly be her little boy any more. . . . How she’d had to scold once upon a time to get him to wash his hands and put on the nice red woolen wristlets she’d knitted for him!

No less satisfying to her was the way in which Elmer impressed all their neighbors. Charley Watley, the house-painter, commander of the Ezra P. Nickerson Post of the G. A. R. of Paris, who had always pulled his white mustache and grunted when she had tried to explain Elmer’s hidden powers of holiness, took her aside to admit: “You were right, Sister; he makes a fine upstanding young man of God.”

They encountered that town problem, Hank McVittle, the druggist. Elmer and he had been mates; together they had stolen sugar-corn, drunk hard cider, and indulged in haymow venery. Hank was a small red man, with a lascivious and knowing eye. It was certain that he had come today only to laugh at Elmer.

They met face on, and Hank observed, “Morning, Mrs. Gantry. Well, Elmy, going to be a preacher, eh?”

“I am, Hank.”

“Like it?” Hank was grinning and scratching his cheek with a freckled hand; other unsanctified Parisians were listening.

Elmer boomed, “I do, Hank. I love it! I love the ways of the Lord, and I don’t ever propose to put my foot into any others! Because I’ve tasted the fruit of evil, Hank—you know that. And there’s nothing to it. What fun we had, Hank, was nothing to the peace and joy I feel now. I’m kind of sorry for you, my boy.” He loomed over Hank, dropped his paw heavily on his shoulder. “Why don’t you try to get right with God? Or maybe you’re smarter than he is!”

“Never claimed to be anything of the sort!” snapped Hank, and in that testiness Elmer triumphed, his mother exulted.

She was sorry to see how few were congratulating Eddie Fislinger, who was also milling, but motherless, inconspicuous, meek to the presiding clergy.

Old Jewkins, humble, gentle old farmer, inched up to murmur, “Like to shake your hand, Brother Elmer. Mighty fine to see you chosen thus and put aside for the work of the Lord. Jiggity! T’ think I remember you as knee-high to a grasshopper! I suppose you study a lot of awful learned books now.”

“They make us work good and hard, Brother Jewkins. They give us pretty deep stuff: hermeneutics, chrestomathy, pericopes, exegesis, homiletics, liturgics, isagogics, Greek and Hebrew and Aramaic, hymnology, apologetics—oh, a good deal.”

“Well! I should say so!” worshiped old Jewkins, while Mrs. Gantry marveled to find Elmer even more profound than she had thought, and Elmer reflected proudly that he really did know what all but a couple of the words meant.

“My!” sighed his mother. “You’re getting so educated, I declare t’ goodness pretty soon I won’t hardly dare to talk to you!”

“Oh, no. There’ll never come a time when you and I won’t be the best of pals, or when I won’t need the inspiration of your prayers!” said Elmer Gantry melodiously, with refined but manly laughter.

III

They were assembling on benches, wagon-seats and boxes for the ceremony of ordination.

The pulpit was a wooden table with a huge Bible and a pitcher of lemonade. Behind it were seven rocking chairs for the clergy, and just in front, two hard wooden chairs for the candidates.

The present local pastor, Brother Dinger, was a meager man, slow of speech and given to long prayers. He rapped on the table. “We will, uh, we will now begin.”

. . . Elmer, looking handsome on a kitchen chair in front of the rows of flushed hot faces. He stopped fretting that his shiny new black shoes were dust-gray. His heart pounded. He was in for it! No escape! He was going to be a pastor! Last chance for Jim Lefferts, and Lord knew where Jim was. He couldn’t— His shoulder muscles were rigid. Then they relaxed wearily, as though he had struggled to satiety, while Brother Dinger went on:

“Well, we’ll start with the usual, uh, examination of our young brothers, and the brethren have, uh, they’ve been good enough, uh, to let me, uh, in whose charge one, uh, one of these fine young brothers has always lived and made his home—to let me, uh, let me ask the questions. Now, Brother Gantry, do you believe fully and whole-heartedly in baptism by immersion?”

Elmer was thinking, “What a rotten pulpit voice the poor duck has,” but aloud he was rumbling:

“I believe, Brother, and I’ve been taught, that possibly a man might be saved if he’d just been baptized by sprinkling or pouring, but only if he were ignorant of the truth. Of course immersion is the only Scriptural way—if we’re really going to be like Christ, we must be buried with him in baptism.”

“That’s fine, Brother Gantry. Praise God! Now, Brother Fislinger, do you believe in the final perseverance of the saints?”

Eddie’s eager but cracked voice explaining—on—on—somniferous as the locusts in the blazing fields across the Kayooska River.

As there is no hierarchy in the Baptist Church, but only a free association of like-minded local churches, so are there no canonical forms of procedure, but only customs. The ceremony of ordination is not a definite rite; it may vary as the local associations will, and ordination is conferred not by any bishop but by the general approval of the churches in an association.

The questions were followed by the “charge to the candidates,” a tremendous discourse by the great Dr. Ingle, in which he commended study, light meals, and helping the sick by going and reading texts to them. Every one joined then in a tremendous basket-lunch on long plank tables by the cool river . . . banana layer cake, doughnuts, fried chicken, chocolate layer cake, scalloped potatoes, hermit cookies, cocoanut layer cake, pickled tomato preserves, on plates which skidded about the table, with coffee poured into saucerless cups from a vast tin pot, inevitably scalding at least one child, who howled. There were hearty shouts of “Pass the lemon pie, Sister Skiff,” and “That was a fine discourse of Brother Ingle’s,” and “Oh, dear, I dropped my spoon and an ant got on it—well, I’ll just wipe it on my apron—that was fine the way Brother Gantry explained how the Baptist Church has existed ever since Bible days.” . . . Boys bathing, shrieking, splashing one another. . . . Boys getting into the poison ivy. . . . Boys becoming so infected with the poison ivy that they would turn spotty and begin to swell within seven hours. . . . Dr. Ingle enthusiastically telling the other clergy of his trip to the Holy Land. . . . Elmer lying about his fondness for the faculty of his theological seminary.

Reassembled after lunch, Brother Tusker, minister of the largest congregation in the association, gave the “charge to the churches.” This was always the juicest and most scandalous and delightful part of the ordination ceremony. In it the clergy had a chance to get back at the parishioners who, as large contributors, as guaranteed saints, had all year been nagging them.

Here were these fine young men going into the ministry, said Brother Tusker. Well, it was up to them to help. Brother Gantry and Brother Fislinger were leaping with the joy of sacrifice and learning. Then let the churches give ’em a chance, and not make ’em spend all the time hot-footing it around, as some older preachers had to do, raising their own salaries! Let folks quit criticizing; let ’em appreciate godly lives and the quickening word once in a while, instead of ham-ham-hammering their preachers all day long!

And certain of the parties who criticized the preachers’ wives for idleness—funny the way some of them seemed to have so much time to gad around and notice things and spread scandal! T’wa’n’t only the menfolks that the Savior was thinking of when he talked about them that were without sin being the only folks that were qualified to heave any rocks!

The other preachers leaned back in their chairs and tried to look casual, and hoped that Brother Tusker was going to bear down even a lee-tle heavier on that matter of raising salaries.

In his sermon and the concluding ordination prayer Brother Knoblaugh (of Barkinsville) summed up, for the benefit of Elmer Gantry, Eddie Fislinger, and God, the history of the Baptists, the importance of missions, and the perils of not reading the Bible before breakfast daily.

Through this long prayer, the visiting pastors stood with their hands on the heads of Elmer and Eddie.

There was a grotesque hitch at first. Most of the ministers were little men who could no more than reach up to Elmer’s head. They stood strained and awkward and unecclesiastical, these shabby good men, before the restless audience. There was a giggle. Elmer had a dramatic flash. He knelt abruptly, and Eddie, peering and awkward, followed him.

In the powdery gray dust Elmer knelt, ignoring it. On his head were the worn hands of three veteran preachers, and suddenly he was humble, for a moment he was veritably being ordained to the priestly service of God.

He had been only impatient till this instant. In the chapels at Mizpah and Terwillinger he had heard too many famous visiting pulpiteers to be impressed by the rustic eloquence of the Kayooska Association. But he felt now their diffident tenderness, their unlettered fervor—these poverty-twisted parsons who believed, patient in their bare and baking tabernacles, that they were saving the world, and who wistfully welcomed the youths that they themselves had been.

For the first time in weeks Elmer prayed not as an exhibition but sincerely, passionately, savoring righteousness:

“Dear God—I’ll get down to it—not show off but just think of thee—do good—God help me!”

Coolness fluttered the heavy dust-caked leaves, and as the sighing crowd creaked up from their benches, Elmer Gantry stood confident . . . ordained minister of the gospel.

CHAPTER VI

I

the state of Winnemac lies between Pittsburgh and Chicago, and in Winnemac, perhaps a hundred miles south of the city of Zenith, is Babylon, a town which suggests New England more than the Middle West. Large elms shade it, there are white pillars beyond lilac bushes, and round about the town is a serenity unknown on the gusty prairies.

Here is Mizpah Theological Seminary, of the Northern Baptists. (There is a Northern and Southern convention of this distinguished denomination, because before the Civil War the Northern Baptists proved by the Bible, unanswerably, that slavery was wrong; and the Southern Baptists proved by the Bible, irrefutably, that slavery was the will of God.)

The three buildings of the seminary are attractive: brick with white cupolas, green blinds at the small-paned wide windows. But within they are bare, with hand-rubbings along the plaster walls, with portraits of missionaries and ragged volumes of sermons.

The large structure is the dormitory, Elizabeth J. Schmutz Hall—known to the less reverent as Smut Hall.

Here lived Elmer Gantry, now ordained but completing the last year of work for his Bachelor of Divinity degree, a commodity of value in bargaining with the larger churches.

There were only sixteen left now of his original class of thirty-five. The others had dropped out, for rural preaching, life insurance, or a melancholy return to plowing. There was no one with whom he wanted to live, and he dwelt sulkily in a single room, with a cot, a Bible, a portrait of his mother, and with a copy of “What a Young Man Ought to Know,” concealed inside his one starched pulpit shirt.

He disliked most of his class. They were too rustic or too pious, too inquisitive about his monthly trips to the city of Monarch or simply too dull. Elmer liked the company of what he regarded as intellectual people. He never understood what they were saying, but to hear them saying it made him feel superior.

The group which he most frequented gathered in the room of Frank Shallard and Don Pickens, the large corner room on the second floor of Smut Hall.

It was not an esthetic room. Though Frank Shallard might have come to admire pictures, great music, civilized furniture, he had been trained to regard them as worldly, and to content himself with art which “presented a message,” to regard “Les Miserables” as superior because the bishop was a kind man, and “The Scarlet Letter” as a poor book because the heroine was sinful and the author didn’t mind.

The walls were of old plaster, cracked and turned deathly gray, marked with the blood of mosquitoes and bed-bugs slain in portentous battles long ago by theologians now gone forth to bestow their thus uplifted visions on a materialistic world. The bed was a skeleton of rusty iron bars, sagging in the center, with a comforter which was not too clean. Trunks were in the corners, and the wardrobe was a row of hooks behind a calico curtain. The grass matting was slowly dividing into separate strands, and under the study table it had been scuffed through to the cheap pine flooring.

The only pictures were Frank’s steel engraving of Roger Williams, his framed and pansy-painted copy of “Pippa Passes,” and Don Pickens’ favorite, a country church by winter moonlight, with tinsel snow, which sparkled delightfully. The only untheological books were Frank’s poets: Wordsworth, Longfellow, Tennyson, Browning, in standard volumes, fine-printed and dismal, and one really dangerous papist document, his “Imitation of Christ,” about which there was argument at least once a week.

In this room, squatting on straight chairs, the trunks, and the bed, on a November evening in 1905, were five young men besides Elmer and Eddie Fislinger. Eddie did not really belong to the group, but he persisted in following Elmer, feeling that not even yet was everything quite right with the brother.

“A preacher has got to be just as husky and pack just as good a wallop as a prize-fighter. He ought to be able to throw out any roughneck that tries to interrupt his meetings, and still more, strength makes such a hit with the women in his congregation—of course I don’t mean it in any wrong way,” said Wallace Umstead.

Wallace was a student-instructor, head of the minute seminary gymnasium and “director of physical culture”; a young man who had a military mustache and who did brisk things on horizontal bars. He was a state university B. A. and graduate of a physical-training school. He was going into Y. M. C. A. work when he should have a divinity degree, and he was fond of saying, “Oh, I’m still one of the Boys, you know, even if I am a prof.”

“That’s right,” agreed Elmer Gantry. “Say, I had—I was holding a meeting at Grauten, Kansas, last summer, and there was a big boob that kept interrupting, so I just jumped down from the platform and went up to him, and he says, ‘Say, Parson,’ he says, ‘can you tell us what the Almighty wants us to do about prohibition, considering he told Paul to take some wine for his stomach’s sake?’ ‘I don’t know as I can,’ I says, ‘but you want to remember he also commanded us to cast out devils!’ and I yanked that yahoo out of his seat and threw him out on his ear, and say, the whole crowd—well, there weren’t so awfully many there, but they certainly did give him the ha-ha! You bet. And to be a husky makes a hit with the whole congregation, men’s well as women. Bet there’s more’n one high-toned preacher that got his pulpit because the deacons felt he could lick ’em. Of course praying and all that is all O. K., but you got to be practical! We’re here to do good, but first you have to cinch a job that you can do good in!”

“You’re commercial!” protested Eddie Fislinger, and Frank Shallard: “Good heavens, Gantry, is that all your religion means to you?”

“Besides,” said Horace Carp, “you have the wrong angle. It isn’t mere brute force that appeals to women—to congregations. It’s a beautiful voice. I don’t envy you your bulk, Elmer—besides, you’re going to get fat—”

“I am like hell!”

“—but what I could do with that voice of yours! I’d have ’em all weeping! I’d read ’em poetry from the pulpit!”

Horace Carp was the one High Churchman in the Seminary. He was a young man who resembled a water spaniel, who concealed saints’ images, incense, and a long piece of scarlet brocade in his room, and who wore a purple velvet smoking-jacket. He was always raging because his father, a wholesale plumber and pious, had threatened to kick him out if he went to an Episcopal seminary instead of a Baptist fortress.

“Yes, you prob’ly would read ’em poetry!” said Elmer. “That’s the trouble with you high-falutin’ guys. You think you can get people by a lot of poetry and junk. What gets ’em and holds ’em and brings ’em to their pews every Sunday is the straight gospel—and it don’t hurt one bit to scare ’em into being righteous with the good old-fashioned Hell!”

“You bet—providing you encourage ’em to keep their bodies in swell shape, too,” condescended Wallace Umstead. “Well, I don’t want to talk as a prof—after all I’m glad I can still remain just one of the Boys—but you aren’t going to develop any very big horse-power in your praying tomorrow morning if you don’t get your sleep. And me to my little downy! G’night!”

At the closing of the door, Harry Zenz, the seminary iconoclast, yawned, “Wallace is probably the finest slice of tripe in my wide clerical experience. Thank God, he’s gone! Now we can be natural and talk dirty!”

“And yet,” complained Frank Shallard, “you encourage him to stay and talk about his pet methods of exercise! Don’t you ever tell the truth, Harry?”

“Never carelessly. Why, you idiot, I want Wallace to run and let the dean know what an earnest worker in the vineyard I am. Frank, you’re a poor innocent. I suspect you actually believe some of the dope they teach us here. And yet you’re a man of some reading. You’re the only person in Mizpah except myself who could appreciate a paragraph of Huxley. Lord, how I pity you when you get into the ministry! Of course, Fislinger here is a grocery clerk, Elmer is a ward politician, Horace is a dancing master—”

He was drowned beneath a surf of protests, not too jocose and friendly.

Harry Zenz was older than the others—thirty-two at least. He was plump, almost completely bald, and fond of sitting still; and he could look profoundly stupid. He was a man of ill-assorted but astonishing knowledge; and in the church ten miles from Mizpah which he had regularly supplied for two years he was considered a man of humorless learning and bloodless piety. He was a complete and cheerful atheist, but he admitted it only to Elmer Gantry and Horace Carp. Elmer regarded him as a sort of Jim Lefferts, but he was as different from Jim as pork fat from a crystal. He hid his giggling atheism—Jim flourished his; he despised women—Jim had a disillusioned pity for the Juanita Klauzels of the world; he had an intellect—Jim had only cynical guesses.

Zenz interrupted their protests:

“So you’re a bunch of Erasmuses! You ought to know. And there’s no hypocrisy in what we teach and preach! We’re a specially selected group of Parsifals—beautiful to the eye and stirring to the ear and overflowing with knowledge of what God said to the Holy Ghost in camera at 9:16 last Wednesday morning. We’re all just rarin’ to go out and preach the precious Baptist doctrine of ‘Get ducked or duck.’ We’re wonders. We admit it. And people actually sit and listen to us, and don’t choke! I suppose they’re overwhelmed by our nerve! And we have to have nerve, or we’d never dare to stand in a pulpit again. We’d quit, and pray God to forgive us for having stood up there and pretended that we represent God, and that we can explain what we ourselves say are the unexplainable mysteries! But I still claim that there are preachers who haven’t our holiness. Why is it that the clergy are so given to sex crimes?”

“That’s not true!” from Eddie Fislinger.

“Don’t talk that way!” Don Pickens begged. Don was Frank’s roommate: a slight youth, so gentle, so affectionate, that even that raging lion of righteousness, Dean Trosper, was moved to spare him.

Harry Zenz patted his arm. “Oh, you, Don—you’ll always be a monk. But if you don’t believe it, Fislinger, look at the statistics of the five thousand odd crimes committed by clergymen—that is those who got caught—since the eighties, and note the percentage of sex offenses—rape, incest, bigamy, enticing young girls—oh, a lovely record!”

Elmer was yawning, “Oh, God, I do get so sick of you fellows yammering and arguing and discussing. All perfectly simple—maybe we preachers aren’t perfect; don’t pretend to be; but we do a lot of good.”

“That’s right,” said Eddie. “But maybe it is true that—The snares of sex are so dreadful that even ministers of the gospel get trapped. And the perfectly simple solution is continence—just take it out in prayer and good hard exercise.”

“Oh, sure, Eddie, you bet; what a help you’re going to be to the young men in your church,” purred Harry Zenz.

Frank Shallard was meditating unhappily. “Just why are we going to be preachers, anyway? Why are you, Harry, if you think we’re all such liars?”

“Oh, not liars, Frank—just practical, as Elmer put it. Me, it’s easy. I’m not ambitious. I don’t want money enough to hustle for it. I like to sit and read. I like intellectual acrobatics and no work. And you can have all that in the ministry—unless you’re one of these chumps that get up big institutional outfits and work themselves to death for publicity.”

“You certainly have a fine high view of the ministry!” growled Elmer.

“Well, all right, what’s your fine high purpose in becoming a Man of God, Brother Gantry?”

“Well, I— Rats, it’s perfectly clear. Preacher can do a lot of good—give help and— And explain religion.”

“I wish you’d explain it to me! Especially I want to know to what extent are Christian symbols descended from indecent barbaric symbols?”

“Oh, you make me tired!”

Horace Carp fluttered, “Of course none of you consecrated windjammers ever think of the one raison d’être of the church, which is to add beauty to the barren lives of the common people!”

“Yeh! It certainly must make the common people feel awfully common to hear Brother Gantry spiel about the errors of supralapsarianism!”

“I never preach about any such a doggone thing!” Elmer protested. “I just give ’em a good helpful sermon, with some jokes sprinkled in to make it interesting and some stuff about the theater or something that’ll startle ’em a little and wake ’em up and help ’em to lead better and fuller daily lives.”

“Oh, do you, dearie!” said Zenz. “My error. I thought you probably gave ’em a lot of helpful hints about the innascibilitas attribute and the res sacramenti. Well, Frank, why did you become a theologue?”

“I can’t tell you when you put it sneeringly. I believe there are mystic experiences which you can follow only if you are truly set apart.”

“Well, I know why I came here,” said Don Pickens. “My dad sent me!”

“So did mine!” complained Horace Carp. “But what I can’t understand is: Why are any of us in an ole Baptist school? Horrible denomination—all these moldly barns of churches, and people coughing illiterate hymns, and long-winded preachers always springing a bright new idea like ‘All the world needs to solve its problems is to get back to the gospel of Jesus Christ.’ The only church is the Episcopal! Music! Vestments! Stately prayers! Lovely architecture! Dignity! Authority! Believe me, as soon as I can make the break, I’m going to switch over to the Episcopalians. And then I’ll have a social position, and be able to marry a nice rich girl.”

“No, you’re wrong,” said Zenz. “The Baptist Church is the only denomination worth while, except possibly the Methodist.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” marveled Eddie.

“Because the Baptists and the Methodists have all the numbskulls—except those that belong to the Catholic Church and the henhouse sects—and so even you, Horace, can get away with being a prophet. There are some intelligent people in the Episcopal and Congregational Churches, and a few of the Campbellite flocks, and they check up on you. Of course all Presbyterians are half-wits, too, but they have a standard doctrine, and they can trap you into a heresy trial. But in the Baptist and Methodist Churches, man! There’s the berth for philosophers like me and hoot-owls like you, Eddie! All you have to do with Baptists and Methodists, as Father Carp suggests—”

“If you agree with me about anything, I withdraw it,” said Horace.

“All you have to do,” said Zenz, “is to get some sound and perfectly meaningless doctrine and keep repeating it. You won’t bore the laymen—in fact the only thing they resent is something that is new, so they have to work their brains. Oh, no, Father Carp—the Episcopal pulpit for actors that aren’t good enough to get on the stage, but the good old Baptist fold for realists!”

“You make me tired, Harry!” complained Eddie. “You just want to show off, that’s all. You’re a lot better Baptist and a lot better Christian than you let on to be, and I can prove it. Folks wouldn’t go on listening to your sermons unless they carried conviction. No, sir! You can fool folks once or twice with a lot of swell-sounding words but in the long run it’s sincerity they look for. And one thing that makes me know you’re on the right side is that you don’t practise open communion. Golly, I feel that everything we Baptists stand for is threatened by those darn’ so-called liberals that are beginning to practise open communion.”

“Rats!” grumbled Harry. “Of all the fool Baptist egotisms, close communion is the worst! Nobody but people we consider saved to be allowed to take communion with us! Nobody can meet God unless we introduce ’em! Self-appointed guardians of the blood and body of Jesus Christ! Whew!”

“Absolutely,” from Horace Carp. “And there is absolutely no Scriptural basis for close communion.”

“There certainly is!” shrieked Eddie. “Frank, where’s your Bible?”

“Gee, I left it in O. T. E. Where’s yours, Don?”

“Well, I’ll be switched! I had the darn’ thing here just this evening,” lamented Don Pickens, after a search.

“Oh, I remember. I was killing a cockroach with it. It’s on top of your wardrobe,” said Elmer.

“Gee, honest, you hadn’t ought to kill cockroaches with a Bible!” mourned Eddie Fislinger. “Now here’s the Bible, good and straight, for close communion, Harry. It says in First Corinthians, 11:27 and 29: ‘Whoever shall eat this bread and drink this cup of the Lord unworthily shall be guilty of the body and the blood of the Lord. For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily eateth and drinketh damnation to himself.’ And how can there be a worthy Christian unless he’s been baptized by immersion?”

“I do wonder sometimes,” mused Frank Shallard, “if we aren’t rather impious, we Baptists, to set ourselves up as the keepers of the gates of God, deciding just who is righteous, who is worthy to commune.”

“But there’s nothing else we can do,” explained Eddie. “The Baptist Church, being the only pure Scriptural church, is the one real church of God, and we’re not setting ourselves up—we’re just following God’s ordinances.”

Horace Carp had also been reveling in the popular Mizpah sport of looking up Biblical texts to prove a preconceived opinion. “I don’t find anything here about Baptists,” he said.

“Nor about your doggoned old Episcopalians, either—darn’ snobs!—and the preachers wearing nightshirts!” from Eddie.

“You bet your life you find something—it talks about bishops, and that means Episcopal bishops—the papes and the Methodists are uncanonical bishops,” rejoiced Horace. “I’ll bet you two dollars and sixty-seven cents I wind up as an Episcopal bishop, and, believe me, I’ll be high-church as hell—all the candles I can get on the altar.”

Harry Zenz was speculating, “I suppose it’s unscientific to believe that because I happen to be a Baptist practitioner myself and see what word-splitting, text-twisting, applause-hungry, job-hunting, medieval-minded second-raters even the biggest Baptist leaders are, therefore the Baptist Church is the worst of the lot. I don’t suppose it’s really any worse than the Presbyterian or the Congregational or Disciples or Lutheran or any other. But— Say, you, Fislinger, ever occur to you how dangerous it is, this Bible-worship? You and I might have to quit preaching and go to work. You tell the muttonheads that the Bible contains absolutely everything necessary for salvation, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then what’s the use of having any preachers? Any church? Let people stay home and read the Bible!”

“Well—well—it says—”

The door was dashed open, and Brother Karkis entered.

Brother Karkis was no youthful student. He was forty-three, heavy-handed and big-footed, and his voice was the voice of a Great Dane. Born to the farm, he had been ordained a Baptist preacher for twenty years now, and up and down through the Dakotas, Nebraska, Arkansas, he had bellowed in up-creek tabernacles.

His only formal education had been in country schools; and of all books save the Bible, revivalistic hymnals, a concordance handy for finding sermon-texts, and a manual of poultry-keeping, he was soundly ignorant. He had never met a woman of the world, never drunk a glass of wine, never heard a bar of great music, and his neck was not free from the dust of cornfields.

But it would have been a waste of pity to sigh over Brother Karkis as a plucky poor student. He had no longing for further knowledge; he was certain that he already had it all. He despised the faculty as book-adulterated wobblers in the faith—he could “out-pray and out-holler and out-save the whole lot of ’em.” He desired a Mizpah degree only because it would get him a better paid job—or, as he put it, with the 1850 vocabulary which he found adequate for 1905, because it would “lead him into a wider field of usefulness.”

“Say, don’t you fellers ever do anything but sit around and argue and discuss and bellyache?” he shouted. “My lands, I can hear your racket way down the hall! Be a lot better for you young fellers if you’d forget your smart-aleck arguin’ and spend the evening on your knees in prayer! Oh, you’re a fine lot of smart educated swells, but you’ll find where that rubbish gets you when you go out and have to wrestle with old Satan for unregenerate souls! What are you gasbags arguing about, anyway?”

“Harry says,” wailed Eddie Fislinger, “that there’s nothing in the Bible that says Christians have to have a church or preachers.”

“Huh! And him that thinks he’s so educated. Where’s a Bible?”

It was now in the hands of Elmer, who had been reading his favorite book, “The Song of Solomon.”

“Well, Brother Gantry, glad see there’s one galoot here that’s got sense enough to stick by the Old Book and get himself right with God, ’stead of shooting off his face like some Pedo-Baptist. Now look here, Brother Zenz: It says here in Hebrews, ‘Forsake not the assembling of yourselves together.’ There, I guess that’ll hold you!”

“My dear brother in the Lord,” said Harry, “the only thing suggested there is an assembly like the Plymouth Brotherhood, with no regular paid preachers. As I was explaining to Brother Fislinger: Personally, I’m so ardent an admirer of the Bible that I’m thinking of starting a sect where we all just sing a hymn together, then sit and read our Bibles all day long, and not have any preachers getting between us and the all-sufficient Word of God. I expect you to join, Brother Karkis, unless you’re one of these dirty higher critics that want to break down the Bible.”

“Oh, you make me tired,” said Eddie.

“You make me tired—always twisting the plain commands of Scripture,” said Brother Karkis, shutting the door—weightily, and from the outside.

“You all make me tired. My God, how you fellows can argue!” said Elmer, chewing his Pittsburgh stogie.

The room was thick now with tobacco fumes. Though in Mizpah Seminary smoking was frowned on, practically forbidden by custom, all of the consecrated company save Eddie Fislinger were at it.

He rasped, “This air is something terrible! Why you fellows touch that vile weed— Worms and men are the only animals who indulge in tobacco! I’m going to get out of here.”

There was strangely little complaint.

Rid of Eddie, the others turned to their invariable topic: what they called “sex.”

Frank Shallard and Don Pickens were virgins, timid and fascinated, respectful and urgent; Horace Carp had had one fumbling little greensick experience; and all three listened with nervous eagerness to the experiences of Elmer and Harry Zenz. Tonight Elmer’s mind reeked with it, and he who had been almost silent during the ecclesiastical wrangling was voluble now. The youngsters panted as he chronicled his meetings with a willing choir-singer, this summer past.

“Tell me—tell me,” fretted Don. “Do girls, oh—nice girls—do they really ever—uh—go with a preacher? And aren’t you ashamed to face them afterwards, in church?”

“Huh!” observed Zenz, and “Ashamed? They worship you!” declared Elmer. “They stand by you the way no wife ever would—as long as they do fall for you. Why, this girl— Oh, well, she sang something elegant.”

He finished vaguely, reminiscently. Suddenly he was bored at treading the mysteries of sex with these mooncalves. He lunged up.

“Going?” said Frank.

Elmer posed at the door, smirking, his hands on his hips, “Oh, no. Not a-tall.” He looked at his watch. (It was a watch which reminded you of Elmer himself: large, thick, shiny, with a near-gold case.) “I merely have a date with a girl, that’s all!”

He was lying, but he had been roused by his own stories, and he would have given a year of life if his boast were true. He returned to his solitary room in a fever. “God, if Juanita were only here, or Agatha, or even that little chambermaid at Solomon Junction—what the dickens was her name now?” he longed.

He sat motionless on the edge of his bed. He clenched his fists. He groaned and gripped his knees. He sprang up, to race about the room, to return and sit dolorously entranced.

“Oh, God, I can’t stand it!” he moaned.

He was inconceivably lonely.

He had no friends. He had never had a friend since Jim Lefferts. Harry Zenz despised his brains, Frank Shallard despised his manners, and the rest of them he himself despised. He was bored by the droning seminary professors all day, the schoolboyish arguing all evening; and in the rash of prayer-meetings and chapel-meetings and special praise-meetings he was bored by hearing the same enthusiasts gambol in the same Scriptural rejoicings.

“Oh, yes, I want to go on and preach. Couldn’t go back to just business or the farm. Miss the hymns, the being boss. But—I can’t do it! God, I am so lonely! If Juanita was just here!”

CHAPTER VII

I

the Reverend Jacob Trosper, D. D., Ph. D., LL. D., dean and chief executive of Mizpah Theological Seminary, and Professor of Practical Theology and Homiletics, was a hard-faced active man with a large active voice. His cheeks were gouged with two deep channels. His eyebrows were heavy. His hair, now gray and bristly, must once have been rusty, like Eddie Fislinger’s. He would have made an excellent top-sergeant. He looked through the students and let them understand that he knew their sins and idlenesses before they confessed them.

Elmer was afraid of Dean Trosper. When he was summoned to the dean’s office, the morning after the spiritual conference in Frank Shallard’s room, he was uneasy.

He found Frank with the dean.

“God! Frank’s been tattling about my doings with women!”

“Brother Gantry,” said the dean.

“Yes, sir!”

“I have an appointment which should give you experience and a little extra money. It’s a country church down at Schoenheim, eleven miles from here, on the spur line of the Ontario, Omaha and Pittsburgh. You will hold regular Sunday morning services and Sunday School; if you are able to work up afternoon or evening services and prayer-meeting, so much the better. The pay will be ten dollars a Sunday. If there’s to be anything extra for extra work—that’s up to you and your flock. I’d suggest that you go down there on a hand-car. I’m sure you can get the section-gang boss here to lend you one, as it’s for the Lord’s work, and the boss’ brother does a lot of gardening here. I’m going to send Brother Shallard with you to conduct the Sunday School and get some experience. He has a particularly earnest spirit—which it wouldn’t entirely hurt you to emulate, Brother Gantry—but he’s somewhat shy in contact with sin-hardened common people.

“Now, boys, this is just a small church, but never forget that it’s priceless souls that I’m entrusting to your keeping; and who knows but that you may kindle there such a fire as may some day illumine all the world . . . providing, Brother Gantry, you eliminate the worldly things I suspect you of indulging in!”

Elmer was delighted. It was his first real appointment. In Kansas, this summer, he had merely filled other people’s pulpits for two or three weeks at a time.

He’d show ’em! Some of these fellows that thought he was just a mouth-artist! Show ’em how he could build up church membership, build up the collections, get ’em all going with his eloquence—and, of course, carry the message of salvation into darkened hearts.

It would be mighty handy to have the extra ten a week—and maybe more if he could kid the Schoenheim deacons properly.

His first church . . . his own . . . and Frank had to take his orders!

II

In the virginal days of 1905 section gangs went out to work on the railway line not by gasoline power but on a hand-car, a platform with two horizontal bars worked up and down like pump-handles.

On a hand-car Elmer and Frank Shallard set out for their first charge. They did not look particularly clerical as they sawed at the handles; it was a chilly November Sunday morning, and they wore shabby greatcoats. Elmer had a moth-eaten plush cap over his ears, Frank exhibited absurd ear-muffs under a more absurd derby, and both had borrowed red flannel mittens from the section gang.

The morning was icily brilliant. Apple orchards glistened in the frost, and among the rattling weed-stalks by the worm-fences quail were whistling.

Elmer felt his lungs free of library dust as he pumped. He broadened his shoulders, rejoiced in sweating, felt that his ministry among real men and living life was begun. He pitied the pale Frank a little, and pumped the harder . . . and made Frank pump the harder . . . up and down, up and down, up and down. It was agony to the small of his back and shoulders, now growing soft, to labor on the up-grade, where the shining rails toiled round the curves through gravel cuts. But down-hill, swooping toward frosty meadows and the sound of cowbells in the morning sun, he whooped with exhilaration, and struck up a boisterous:

There is power, power, wonder-working power

In the blood

Of the Lamb—

The Schoenheim church was a dingy brown box with a toy steeple, in a settlement consisting of the church, the station, a blacksmith shop, two stores, and half a dozen houses. But at least thirty buggies were gathered along the rutty street or in the carriage-sheds behind the church; at least seventy people had come to inspect their new pastor; and they stood in gaping circles, staring between frosty damp mufflers and visored fur caps.

“I’m scared to death!” murmured Frank, as they strode up the one street from the station, but Elmer felt healthy, proud, expansive. His own church, small but somehow—somehow different from these ordinary country meeting-houses—quite a nice-shaped steeple—not one of these shacks with no steeple at all! And his people, waiting for him, their attention flowing into him and swelling him—

He threw open his overcoat, held it back with his hand imperially poised on his left hip, and let them see not only the black broadcloth suit bought this last summer for his ordination but something choice he had added since—elegant white piping at the opening of his vest.

A red-faced mustached man swaggered up to greet them, “Brother Gantry? And Brother Shallard? I’m Barney Bains, one of the deacons. Pleased to meet you. The Lord give power to your message. Some time since we had any preachin’ here, and I guess we’re all pretty hungry for spiritual food and the straight gospel. Bein’ from Mizpah, I guess there’s no danger you boys believe in this open communion!”

Frank had begun to worry, “Well, what I feel is—” when Elmer interrupted him with a very painful bunt in the side, and chanted with holy joy:

“Pleased meet you, Brother Bains. Oh, Brother Shallard and I are absolutely sound both on immersion and close communion. We trust you will pray for us, Brother, that the Holy Ghost may be present in this work today, and that all the brethren may rejoice in a great reawakening and a bountiful harvest!”

Deacon Bains and all who heard him muttered, saint to saint, “He’s pretty young yet, but he’s got the right idee. I’m sure we’re going to have real rousing preaching. Don’t think much of Brother Shallard, though. Kind of a nice-looking young fella, but dumm in the head. Stands there like a bump on a log. Well, he’s good enough to teach the kids in Sunday School.”

Brother Gantry was shaking hands all round. His sanctifying ordination, or it might have been his summer of bouncing from pulpit to pulpit, had so elevated him that he could greet them as impressively and fraternally as a sewing-machine agent. He shook hands with a good grip, he looked at all the more aged sisters as though he were moved to give them a holy kiss, he said the right things about the weather, and by luck or inspiration it was to the most acidly devout man in Boone County that he quoted a homicidal text from Malachi.

As he paraded down the aisle, leading his flock, he panted:

“Got ’em already! I can do something to wake these hicks up, where gas-bags like Frank or Carp would just chew the rag. How could I of felt so down in the mouth and so—uh—so carnal last week? Lemme at that pulpit!”

They faced him in hard straight pews, rugged heads seen against the brown wall and the pine double doors grained to mimic oak; they gratifyingly crowded the building, and at the back stood shuffling young men with unshaven chins and pale blue neckties.

He felt power over them while he trolled out the chorus of “The Church in the Wildwood.”

His text was from Proverbs: “Hatred stirreth up strifes: but love covereth all sins.”

He seized the sides of the pulpit with his powerful hands, glared at the congregation, decided to look benevolent after all, and exploded:

“In the hustle and bustle of daily life I wonder how many of us stop to think that in all that is highest and best we are ruled not by even our most up-and-coming efforts but by Love? What is Love—the divine Love of which the—the great singer teaches us in Proverbs? It is the rainbow that comes after the dark cloud. It is the morning star and it is also the evening star, those being, as you all so well know, the brightest stars we know. It shines upon the cradle of the little one and when life has, alas, departed, to come no more, you find it still around the quiet tomb. What is it inspires all great men—be they preachers or patriots or great business men? What is it, my brethren, but Love? Ah, it fills the world with melody, with such sacred melodies as we have just indulged in together, for what is music? What, my friends, is music? Ah, what indeed is music but the voice of Love!”

He explained that hatred was low.

However, for the benefit of the more leathery and zealous deacons down front, he permitted them to hate all Catholics, all persons who failed to believe in hell and immersion, and all rich mortgage-holders, wantoning in the betraying smiles of scarlet women, each of whom wore silk and in her jeweled hand held a ruby glass of perfidious wine.

He closed by lowering his voice to a maternal whisper and relating a totally imaginary but most improving experience with a sinful old gentleman who on his bed of pain had admitted, to Elmer’s urging, that he ought to repent immediately, but who put it off too long, died amid his virtuous and grief-stricken daughters, and presumably went straight to the devil.

When Elmer had galloped down to the door to shake hands with such as did not remain for Sabbath School, sixteen several auditors said in effect, “Brother, that was a most helpful sermon and elegantly expressed,” and he wrung their hands with a boyish gratitude beautiful to see.

Deacon Bains patted his shoulder. “I’ve never heard so young a preacher hand out such fine doctrine, Brother. Meet my daughter Lulu.”

And she was there, the girl for whom he had been looking ever since he had come to Mizpah.

Lulu Bains was a gray-and-white kitten with a pink ribbon. She had sat at the back of the church, behind the stove, and he had not seen her. He looked down at her thirstily. His excitement at having played his sermon to such applause was nothing beside his excitement over the fact that he would have her near him in his future clerical labors. Life was a promising and glowing thing as he held her hand and tried not to sound too insistently affectionate. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Sister Lulu.”

Lulu was nineteen or twenty. She had a diminutive class of twelve-year-old boys in the Sunday School. Elmer had intended to sneak out during Sunday School, leaving Frank Shallard responsible, and find a place where he could safely smoke a Pittsburgh stogie, but in view of this new spiritual revelation he hung about, beaming with holy approbation of the good work and being manly and fraternal with the little boys in Lulu’s class.

“If you want to grow up and be big fellows, regular sure-enough huskies, you just listen to what Miss Bains has to tell you about how Solomon built that wonderful big ole temple,” he crooned at them; and if they twisted and giggled in shyness, at least Lulu smiled at him . . . gray-and-white kitten with sweet kitten eyes . . . small soft kitten who purred, “Oh, now, Brother Gantry, I’m just so scared I don’t hardly dare teach” . . . big eyes that took him into their depths, till he heard her lisping as the voice of angels, larks, and whole orchestras of flutes.

He could not let her go at the end of Sunday School. He must hold her—

“Oh, Sister Lulu, come see the hand-car Frank and I—Brother Shallard and I—came down on. The fun-niest! Just laugh your head off!”

As the section gang passed through Schoenheim at least ten times a week, hand-cars could have been no astounding novelty to Lulu, but she trotted beside him, and stared prettily, and caroled, “Oh, hon-est! Did you come down on that? Well, I never!”

She shook hands cheerfully with both of them. He thought jealously that she was as cordial to Frank as to himself.

“He better watch out and not go fooling round my girl!” Elmer reflected, as they pumped back toward Babylon.

He did not congratulate Frank on having overcome his dread of stolid country audiences (Frank had always lived in cities) or on having made Solomon’s temple not merely a depressing object composed of a substance called “cubits” but an actual shrine in which dwelt an active and terrifying god.

III

For two Sundays now Elmer had striven to impress Lulu not only as an efficient young prophet but as a desirable man. There were always too many people about. Only once did he have her alone. They walked half a mile then to call on a sick old woman. On their way Lulu had fluttered at him (gray-and-white kitten in a close bonnet of soft fuzzy gray, which he wanted to stroke).

“I suppose you’re just bored to death by my sermons,” he fished.

“Oh, nnnno! I think they’re just wonderful!”

“Do you, honest?”

“Honest, I do!”

He looked down at her childish face till he had caught her eyes, then, jocularly:

“My, but this wind is making the little cheeks and the cute lips awful’ red! Or I guess maybe some fella must of been kissing ’em before church!”

“Oh, no—”

She looked distressed, almost frightened.

“Whoa up!” he counseled himself. “You’ve got the wrong track. Golly, I don’t believe she’s as much of a fusser as I thought she was. Really is kinda innocent. Poor kid, shame to get her all excited. Oh, thunder, won’t hurt her a bit to have a little educated love-making!”

He hastily removed any possible blots on his clerical reputation:

“Oh, I was joking. I just meant—be a shame if as lovely a girl as you weren’t engaged. I suppose you are engaged, of course?”

“No. I liked a boy here awfully, but he went to Cleveland to work, and I guess he’s kind of forgotten me.”

“Oh, that is really too bad!”

Nothing could be stronger, more dependable, more comforting, than the pressure of his fingers on her arm. She looked grateful; and when she came to the sick-room and heard Brother Gantry pray, long, fervently, and with the choicest words about death not really mattering nor really hurting (the old woman had cancer) then Lulu also looked worshipful.

On their way back he made his final probe:

“But even if you aren’t engaged, Sister Lulu, I’ll bet there’s a lot of the young fellows here that’re crazy about you.”

“No, honest there aren’t. Oh, I go round some with a second cousin of mine—Floyd Naylor—but, my! he’s so slow, he’s no fun.”

The Rev. Mr. Gantry planned to provide fun.

IV

Elmer and Frank had gone down on Saturday afternoon to decorate the church for the Thanksgiving service. To save the trip to Babylon and back, they were to spend Saturday night in the broad farmhouse of Deacon Bains, and Lulu Bains and her spinster cousin, Miss Baldwin, were assisting in the decoration—in other words doing it. They were stringing pine boughs across the back of the hall, and arranging a harvest feast of pumpkins, yellow corn, and velvety sumach in front of the pulpit.

While Frank and the spinster cousin of the Bainses discussed the artistic values of the pumpkins, Elmer hinted to Lulu:

“I want your advice, Lulu—Sister Lulu. Don’t you think in my sermon tomorrow it might be helpful to explain—”

(They stood side by side. How sweet were her little shoulders, her soft pussy-cat cheeks! He had to kiss them! He had to! He swayed toward her. Damn Frank and that Baldwin female! Why didn’t they get out?)

“—to explain that all these riches of the harvest, priceless though they are in themselves and necessary for grub—for the festal board, yet they are but symbols and indications of the—Do sit down, Lulu; you look a little tired.—of the deeper spiritual blessings which he also showers on us and not just at harvest time, and this is a very important point—”

(Her hand dropped against his knee; lay, so white, on the drab pew. Her breasts were young and undrained under her plaid blouse. He had to touch her hand. His fingers crept toward it, touched it by accident, surely by accident, while she looked devotion and he intoned sublimity.)

“—a very important point indeed; all the year round we receive those greater inner blessings, and it is for them more than for any material, uh, material gains that we should lift our voices in Thanksgiving. Don’t you think it might be valuable to all of us if I brought that out?”

“Oh, yes! Indeed I do! I think that’s a lovely thought!”

(His arms tingled. He had to slip them about her.)

Frank and Miss Baldwin had sat down, and they were in an intolerably long discussion as to what ought to be done about that terrible little Cutler boy who said that he didn’t believe that the ravens brought any bread and meat to Elijah, not if he knew anything about these ole crows! Frank explained that he did not wish to rebuke honest doubt; but when this boy went and made a regular business of cutting up and asking foolish questions—

“Lulu!” Elmer urged. “Skip back in the other room with me a second. There’s something about the church work I want to ask you, and I don’t want them to hear.”

There were two rooms in the Schoenheim church: the auditorium and a large closet for the storage of hymn books, mops, brooms, folding chairs, communion cups. It was lighted by a dusty window.

“Sister Bains and I are going to look over the Sunday School lesson-charts,” Elmer called largely and brightly.

The fact that she did not deny it bound them together in secrecy. He sat on an upturned bucket; she perched on a step-ladder. It was pleasant to be small in her presence and look up to her.

What the “something about church work” which he was going to ask her was, he had no notion, but Elmer was a very ready talker in the presence of young women. He launched out:

“I need your advice. I’ve never met anybody that combined common sense and spiritual values like what you do.”

“Oh, my, you’re just flattering me, Brother Gantry!”

“No, I’m not. Honest, I ain’t! You don’t appreciate yourself. That’s because you’ve always lived in this little burg, but if you were in Chicago or some place like that, believe me, they’d appreciate your, uh, that wonderful sense of spiritual values and everything.”

“Oh—Chicago! My! I’d be scared to death!”

“Well, I’ll have to take you there some day and show you the town! Guess folks would talk about their bad old preacher then!”

They both laughed heartily.

“But seriously, Lulu, what I want to know is—uh— Oh! What I wanted to ask you: Do you think I ought to come down here and hold Wednesday prayer-meetings?”

“Why, I think that’d be awfully nice.”

“But, you see, I’d have to come down on that ole hand-car.”

“That’s so.”

“And you can’t know how hard I got to study every evening at the Seminary.”

“Oh, yes, I can imagine!”

They both sighed in sympathy, and he laid his hand on hers, and they sighed again, and he removed his hand almost prudishly.

“But of course I wouldn’t want to spare myself in any way. It’s a pastor’s privilege to spend himself for his congregation.”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“But on the other hand, with the roads the way they are here, especially in winter and all, and most of the congregation living way out on farms and all—hard for ’em to get in, eh?”

“That’s so. The roads do get bad. Yes, I think you’re right, Brother Gantry.”

“Oh! Lulu! And here I’ve been calling you by your first name! You’re going to make me feel I been acting terrible if you rebuke me that way and don’t call me Elmer!”

“But then you’re the preacher, and I’m just nobody.”

“Oh, yes, you are!”

“Oh, no, I’m not!”

They laughed very much.

“Listen, Lulu, honey. Remember I’m really still a kid—just twenty-five this month—only ’bout five or six years older’n you are. Now try calling me Elmer, and see how it sounds.”

“Oh, my! I wouldn’t dare!”

“Well, try it!”

“Oh, I couldn’t! Imagine!”

“ ’Fraid cat!”

“I am not so.”

“Yes, you are!”

“No, I’m not!”

“I dare you!”

“Well—Elmer, then! So there now!”

They laughed intimately, and in the stress of their merriment he picked up her hand, squeezed it, rubbed it against his arm. He did not release it, but it was only with the friendliest and least emphatic pressure that he held it while he crooned: