The small church, the chapel on “the bottoms,” the work of the college students and the increasing circle of converts and friends made the work attractive to me, but I had entered the political field in order to protest against and possibly remedy something civic that savoured of Sodom; and for a minister that was an unpardonable sin.  The “interests” determined to cripple me or destroy my work.  This they did successfully by the medium of a subsidized press and other means, fair and foul.  It was a case of a city against one man—­a rich city against a poor man and the man went down to defeat—­apparent defeat, anyway:  I packed my belongings and left.  As I crossed the bridge which spans the river I looked on the little squatter colony on “the bottoms” and as my career there passed in review, for the second time in my life I was stricken with home-sickness and I was guilty of what my manhood might have been ashamed of—­tears.

CHAPTER XIV

MY FIGHT IN NEW HAVEN

The experiences of 1894, ’5 and ’6 gave me a distaste—­really a disgust—­with public life I felt that I would never enter a large city again.  I sought retirement in a country parish; this was secured for me by my friend, the president of Tabor College, the Rev. Richard Cecil Hughes.

It was in a small town in Iowa—­Avoca in Pottawattomie County; I stayed there a year.

In 1897 I was in Cleveland, Ohio, in charge of an institution called The Friendly Inn; a very good name if the place had been an inn or friendly.  My inability to make it either forced me to leave it before I had been there many months.  It was in Cleveland that I first joined a labour union.  I was a member of what was called a Federal Labour Union and was elected its representative to the central body of the union movement.

Early in 1898 I was in Springfield, Mass., delivering a series of addresses to a Bible school there.  My funds ran out and not being in receipt of any remuneration and, not caring to make my condition known, I was forced for the first time in my life to become a candidate for a church.  There were two vacant pulpits and I went after both of them.  Meantime I boarded with a few students who, like their ancestors, had “plenty of nothing but gospel.”

They lived on seventy-five cents a week.  Living was largely a matter of scripture texts, hope and imagination.  I used to breakfast through my eyes at the beautiful lotus pond in the park.  We lunched usually on soup that was a constant reminder of the soul of Tomlinson of Berkeley Square.  Quantitively speaking, supper was the biggest meal of the day—­it was a respite also for our imaginations.

The day of my candidacy arrived.  I was prepared to play that most despicable of all ecclesiastical tricks—­making an impression.  I almost memorized the Scripture reading and prepared my favourite sermon; my personal appearance never had been so well attended to.  The hour arrived.  The little souls sat back in their seats to take my measure.