The Preacher knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again and much louder. There was a moment's silence. Then a heavy voice:
"Who's there?"
"It's me," was the unhelpful reply.
A man moved to the door again demanding:
"Who's there?"
"It's a friend who wants to join you."
There was some discussion, then the door was cautiously opened. The man inside got a glimpse of the tall form of the Preacher, let off a savage snarl and oath, and attempted to slam the door. But he was not quick enough; the Preacher got his foot in and pushed irresistibly. There were curses from within and others came to help. But the Preacher was too much for them; the door went back with a clatter and he stood in the middle of the room. The rude log cabin held five men, three women, and a table on which was a small keg of whiskey and some glasses. The keg had not yet been opened, and the glasses were empty.
"What do you want here?" growled the biggest of the men, advancing threateningly.
"Sure, I am here to spill that accursed stuff on the ground and hold a prayer meeting in the hopes of saving your souls," was the answer.
"Get to h—l out of this and mind your own business," he said, fingering an ugly knife he had snatched from the table.