“Well, you know yourself,” said the Evangelist, with a little laugh, “for you were simply done for when I began. You can’t deny it!”
“God’s own words——” began Egholm.
“Of course, my dear good man, of course. But who picked them out? God’s words, you say, but there’s any amount of words; no end of words. The thing is to pick out the right ones—just as you’d pick out the right sort of bait for the right sort of fish. God’s words—huh! The Bible’s like a pack of cards; doesn’t mean anything till it’s been dealt round.”
Egholm spoke up at this. “I wouldn’t like, myself,” he said, “to compare the Bible to a pack of cards. But—as far as I know—I’d say there’s no card to beat the ace of clubs.”
The Evangelist laughed heartily. “If spades are trumps, a bit of a smudgy black knave’s enough to do for your ace of clubs. There’s one coming along this evening—I’ve been working on her for over two years now, and all she cared for was the fear of Hell. You’ve got to deal with them according to their lights, and there’s a power of difference sometimes. Now, you, for instance—you were easy enough. Windows of heaven opening, that was your line. Ho, I remember! Well, well, it’s all the same, as long as....”
Karlsen broke off in distraction every time the door opened.
“As long as the Lord gets your souls. And Father, he’ll see to that.”
Egholm began to feel uncomfortable.
The congregation had broken up into groups, centring more particularly about the neighbourhood of the Angel. Johannes, the postman, glared furiously, with distended greenish eyes, at Fru Laursen wading like a cow among the reeds.