“I feel that I am called to go down to the Rectangle tonight, and I will leave it with you to say whether you will go on with this meeting here.  I think perhaps the best plan would be for a few volunteers to go down to the Rectangle with me prepared to help in the after-meeting, if necessary, and the rest to remain here and pray that the Spirit power may go with us.”

So half a dozen of the men went with the pastor, and the rest of the audience stayed in the lecture room.  Maxwell could not escape the thought as he left the room that probably in his entire church membership there might not be found a score of disciples who were capable of doing work that would successfully lead needy, sinful men into the knowledge of Christ.  The thought did not linger in his mind to vex him as he went his way, but it was simply a part of his whole new conception of the meaning of Christian discipleship.

When he and his little company of volunteers reached the Rectangle, the tent was already crowded.  They had difficulty in getting to the platform.  Rachel was there with Virginia and Jasper Chase who had come instead of the Doctor tonight.

When the meeting began with a song in which Rachel sang the solo and the people were asked to join in the chorus, not a foot of standing room was left in the tent.  The night was mild and the sides of the tent were up and a great border of faces stretched around, looking in and forming part of the audience.  After the singing, and a prayer by one of the city pastors who was present, Gray stated the reason for his inability to speak, and in his simple manner turned the service over to “Brother Maxwell of the First Church.”

“Who’s de bloke?” asked a hoarse voice near the outside of the tent.

“De Fust Church parson.  We’ve got de whole high-tone swell outfit tonight.”

“Did you say Fust Church?  I know him.  My landlord’s got a front pew up there,” said another voice, and there was a laugh, for the speaker was a saloon keeper.

“Trow out de life line ’cross de dark wave!” began a drunken man near by, singing in such an unconscious imitation of a local traveling singer’s nasal tone that roars of laughter and jeers of approval rose around him.  The people in the tent turned in the direction of the disturbance.  There were shouts of “Put him out!” “Give the Fust Church a chance!” “Song!  Song!  Give us another song!”

Henry Maxwell stood up, and a great wave of actual terror went over him.  This was not like preaching to the well-dressed, respectable, good-mannered people up on the boulevard.  He began to speak, but the confusion increased.  Gray went down into the crowd, but did not seem able to quiet it.  Maxwell raised his arm and his voice.  The crowd in the tent began to pay some attention, but the noise on the outside increased.  In a few minutes the audience was beyond his control.  He turned to Rachel with a sad smile.

“Sing something, Miss Winslow.  They will listen to you,” he said, and then sat down and covered his face with his hands.