Cassidy jumped clear of the bench as he jerked his head around and stared over the suddenly outstretched arm and pointing finger of the speaker and into his accusing eyes.

“Answer me!  Are you not a sinner?”

Hopalong stood up, confused, bewildered, and then his suspended thoughts stirred and formed.  “Guilty, I reckon, an’ in the first degree.  But they didn’t get no more’n what was coming to ’em, no more’n they earned.  An’ that’s straight!”

“How do you know they didn’t?  How do you know they earned it?  How do you know?” demanded the evangelist, who was delighted with the chance to argue with a sinner.  He had great faith in “personal contact,” and his was the assurance of training, of the man well rehearsed and fully prepared.  And he knew that if he should be pinned into a corner by logic and asked for his proofs, that he could squirm out easily and take the offensive again by appealing to faith, the last word in sophistry, and a greater and more powerful weapon than intelligence. This was his game, and it was fixed; he could not lose if he could arouse enough interest in a man to hold him to the end of the argument.  He continued to drive, to crowd.  “What right have you to think so?  What right have you to judge them?  Have you divine insight?  Are you inspired?  ’Judge not lest ye be judged,’ saith the Lord, and you dare to fly in the face of that great command!”

“You’ve got me picking the pea in this game, all right,” responded Hopalong, dropping back on the bench.  “But lemme tell you one thing; Command or no command, devine or not devine, I know when a man has lived too long, an’ when he’s going to try to get me.  An’ all the gospel sharps south of heaven can’t stop me from handing a thief what he’s earned.  Go on with the show, but count me out.”

While the evangelist warmed to the attack, vaguely realizing that he had made a mistake in not heeding Dave Wilkes’ tip, Hopalong became conscious of a sense of relief stealing over him and he looked around wonderingly for the cause.  The man with the kerchief had “folded his tents” and departed; and Hopalong, heaving a sigh of satisfaction, settled himself more comfortably and gave real attention to the discourse, although he did not reply to the warm and eloquent man on the soap box.  Suddenly he sat up with a start as he remembered that he had a long and hard ride before him if he wished to see Wallace, and arising, strode towards the exit, his chest up and his chin thrust out.  The only reply he made to the excited and personal remarks of the revivalist was to stop at the door and drop his last dollar into the yeast box before passing out.