Rockwell nodded assent, opened the paper again, and pointed to a column. “I expect you haven’t seen that. To my mind, in the present state of things, it’s dynamite.”
Ingolby read the column hastily. It was the report of a sermon delivered the evening before by the Rev. Reuben Tripple, the evangelical minister of Lebanon. It was a paean of the Scriptures accompanied by a crazy charge that the Roman Church forbade the reading of the Bible. It had a tirade also about the Scarlet Woman and Popish idolatry.
Ingolby made a savage gesture. “The insatiable Christian beast!” he growled in anger. “There’s no telling what this may do. You know what those fellows are over in Manitou. The place is full of them going to the woods, besides the toughs at the mills and in the taverns. They’re not psalm-singing, and they don’t keep the Ten Commandments, but they’re savagely fanatical, and—”
“And there’s the funeral of an Orangeman tomorrow. The Orange Lodge attends in regalia.”
Ingolby started and looked at the paper again. “The sneaking, praying liar,” he said, his jaw setting grimly. “This thing’s a call to riot. There’s an element in Lebanon as well that’d rather fight than eat. It’s the kind of lie that—”
“That you can’t overtake,” said the Boss Doctor appositely; “and I don’t know that even you can tell another that’ll neutralize it. Your prescription won’t work here.”
An acknowledging smile played at Ingolby’s mouth. “We’ve got to have a try. We’ve got to draw off the bull with a red rag somehow.”
“I don’t see how myself. That Orange funeral will bring a row on to us. I can just see the toughs at Manitou when they read this stuff, and know about that funeral.”
“It’s announced?”
“Yes, here’s an invitation in the Budget to Orangemen to attend the funeral of a brother sometime of the banks of the Boyne!”