in all my life. It made the very air blue--women shrank back, while
the heads of men were uplifted to see where the stream of profanity
came from. It went on for some time, until I began talking to myself.
I always did like to talk to a sensible man.

"Henry, that man belongs to the devil."

"There is no doubt about that," I replied.

"He is not ashamed of it."

"Not a bit ashamed."

"Whom do you belong to?"

"I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Are you glad or sorry?"

"I am glad--very glad."

"Who in the car knows that man belongs to the devil?"

"Everybody knows that, for he has not kept it a secret."

"Who in the car knows you belong to the Lord Jesus?"

"Why, no one knows it, for you see I am a stranger around here."

"Are you willing they should know whom you belong to?"

"Yes; I am willing."

"Very well, will you let them know it?"

I thought a moment and then said, "By the help of my Master I will."

Then straightening up and taking a good breath, I began singing in a
voice that could be heard by all in the car:

There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.

Before I had finished the first verse and chorus, the passengers had
crowded down around me, and the blasphemer had turned round and looked
at me with a face resembling a thunder cloud. As I finished the
chorus, he said:

"What are you doing?"

"I am singing," I replied.

"Well," said he, "any fool can understand that."

"I am glad you understand it."

"What are you singing?"

"I am singing the religion of the Lord Jesus."

"Well, you quit."

"Quit what?"

"Quit singing your religion on the cars."

"I guess not," I replied, "I don't belong to the Quit family; my name
is Mead. For the last half hour you have been standing by your master;
now for the next half hour I am going to stand up for my Master."

"Who is my master?"

"The devil is your master--while Christ is mine. I am as proud of my
Master as you are of yours. Now I am going to have my turn, if the
passengers don't object."

A chorus of voices cried out: "Sing on, stranger, we like that."

I sung on, and as the next verse was finished, the blasphemer turned
his face away, and I saw nothing of him after that but the back of his
head, and that was the handsomest part of him. He left the train soon
after, and I am glad to say I've never seen him