Thus apostrophizing, Mark came to a wayside inn; discovering that he was hungry, he took his seat at a rustic table outside and called for bread and cheese and beer.  While he was eating, a vehicle approached from the direction in which he would soon be travelling.  He took it at first for a caravan of gipsies, but when it grew near he saw that it was painted over with minatory texts and was evidently the vehicle of itinerant gospellers.  Two young men alighted from the caravan when it pulled up before the door of the inn.  They were long-nosed sallow creatures with that expression of complacency which organized morality too often produces, and in this quiet countryside they gave an effect of being overgrown Sunday-school scholars upon their annual outing.  Having cast a censorious glance in the direction of Mark’s jug of ale, they sat down at the farther end of the bench and ordered food.

“The preaching friars of to-day,” Mark thought gloomily.

“Excuse me,” said one of the gospellers.  “I notice you’ve been looking very hard at our van.  Excuse me, but are you saved?”

“No, are you?” Mark countered with an angry blush.

“We are,” the gospeller proclaimed.  “Or I and Mr. Smillie here,” he indicated his companion, “wouldn’t be travelling round trying to save others.  Here, read this tract, my friend.  Don’t hurry over it.  We can wait all day and all night to bring one wandering soul to Jesus.”

Mark looked at the young men curiously; perceiving that they were sincere, he accepted the tract and out of courtesy perused it.  The tale therein enfolded reminded him of a narrative testifying to the efficacy of a patent medicine.  The process of conversation followed a stereotyped formula.

For three and a half years I was unable to keep down any sins for more than five minutes after I had committed the last one.  I had a dizzy feeling in the heart and a sharp pain in the small of the soul.  A friend of mine recommended me to try the good minister in the slum. . . .  After the first text I was able to keep down my sins for six minutes . . . after twenty-two bottles I am as good as I ever was. . . .  I ascribe my salvation entirely to. . . .  Mark handed back the tract with a smile.

“Do you convert many people with this literature?” he asked.

“We don’t often convert a soul right off,” said Mr. Smillie.  “But we sow the good seed, if you follow my meaning; and we leave the rest to Jesus.  Mr. Bullock and I have handed over seven hundred tracts in three weeks, and we know that they won’t all fall on stony ground or be choked by tares and thistles.”

“Do you mind my asking you a question?” Mark said.

The gospel bearers craned their necks like hungry fowls in their eagerness to peck at any problems Mark felt inclined to scatter before them.  A ludicrous fancy passed through his mind that much of the good seed was pecked up by the scatterers.