I
mention it, because next day in the newspapers there was much fun
made of this imitation man of God riding about town in a half
broken-down express-wagon, hauled by a rickety and spavined old nag.
The company drove to one of the poorer quarters of the city, and
stopped before a workingman's cottage on a street whose name I had
never heard before. I learned that it was the home of James, the
striking carpenter, and on the steps were his wife and a brood of
half a dozen children, and his old father and mother, and several
other people unidentified. There were many who had walked all the
way following the wagon, and others gathered quickly, and besought
the prophet to speak to them, and to heal their sick. Apparently his
whole life was to consist of that kind of thing, for he found it
hard to refuse any request. But finally he told them he must be
quiet, and went inside, and James mounted guard at the door, and I
sat in my car and waited until the crowd had filtered away. There
was no good reason why I should have been admitted, but James
apparently was glad to see me, and let me join the little company
that was gathered in his home.
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