Douglas grinned feebly. "I value my life," he answered.
Mary Spencer, who was listening to the conversation which took place in her kitchen, now made a suggestion.
"Why don't you feed 'em, Doug? Announce a series of fifty-cent dinners up at the chapel and while the folks eat, let Mr. Fowler preach."
Douglas laughed delightedly. "That's a 'gregus' idea! I'll do it. I'll begin this Sunday with a venison dinner!"
Mary nodded. "You get the food together and there are three or four of us women who would be glad to cook it for you."
"You are a real friend, Mother!" exclaimed Douglas. "I believe you've solved my problem!"
And so, in spite of Mr. Fowler's protest, a venison dinner was announced for Sunday and received by the Valley in a spirit of hilarious enthusiasm. The preacher refused to deliver the sermon while the meal was in progress, but it was such a gustatory success that at its close, the guests sat in complete docility through a sermon on future punishment. It was a good sermon, quite as modern in most aspects as Lost Chief. Douglas had seen to that. Mr. Fowler had reached the closing sentence when a bull bellowed outside and the door opened disclosing Elijah Nelson, with his horse close behind him. The preacher paused.
"Excuse me!" exclaimed Nelson. "I thought this was just a dinner!"
He was a big man, perhaps fifty years of age, with a smooth-shaven ruddy face. He wore a sheepskin vest over his corduroy coat, and one of the small boys bleated. Grandma Brown promptly smacked him on the mouth.
"Will you come in and eat?" asked Fowler.