Captain Sears did not reply. He stood still, with his legs far apart and braced, as he always stood when talking, but his eyes shifted a little. I answered my own question.
"You would put me ashore or in irons," I reminded him. "Now, Captain Sears, I intend to put you ashore. I am the master of this ship. I have set my course, and I mean to follow it. If you rebel, either you will get out or I will. But until the board asks for my resignation, I am in command."
As it happened, I had put my ultimatum in the one form the old man could understand. He sat down without a word and stared at me. We sang the Doxology, and I dismissed the meeting. Again we had omitted prayers. The next day Captain Sears sent me a letter recalling his subscription toward the support of the church; and for weeks he remained away from our services, returning under conditions I will mention later. Even at the time, however, his attack helped rather than hurt me. At the regular meeting the following Thursday night no personal criticisms were included in the prayers, and eventually we had peace. But many battles were lost and won before that happy day arrived.
Captain Sears's vacant place among us was promptly taken by another captain in East Dennis, whose name was also Sears. A few days after my encounter with the first captain I met the second on the street. He had never come to church, and I stopped and invited him to do so. He replied with simple candor.
"I ain't comin'," he told me. "There ain't no gal that can teach me nothin'."
"Perhaps you are wrong, Captain Sears," I replied. "I might teach you something."
"What?" demanded the captain, with chilling distrust.
"Oh," I said, cheerfully, "let us say tolerance, for one thing."
"Humph!" muttered the old man. "The Lord don't want none of your tolerance, and neither do I."
I laughed. "He doesn't object to tolerance," I said. "Come to church. You can talk, too; and the Lord will listen to us both."