“You haven’t any business to call out a thing like that right in the middle of a sermon,” he said.
“They do it in the Methodist church at Markdale,” protested Felix, somewhat abashed. “I heard them.”
“I know they do. That’s the Methodist way and it is all right for them. I haven’t a word to say against Methodists. My Aunt Jane was one, and I might have been one myself if I hadn’t been so scared of the Judgment Day. But you ain’t a Methodist. You’re a Presbyterian, ain’t you?”
“Yes, of course. I was born that way.”
“Very well then, you’ve got to do things the Presbyterian way. Don’t let me hear any more of your amens or I’ll amen you.”
“Oh, don’t anybody interrupt again,” implored the Story Girl. “It isn’t fair. How can any one preach a good sermon if he is always being interrupted? Nobody interrupted Beverley.”
“Bev didn’t get up there and pitch into us like that,” muttered Dan.
“You mustn’t fight,” resumed Peter undauntedly. “That is, you mustn’t fight for the fun of fighting, nor out of bad temper. You must not say bad words or swear. You mustn’t get drunk—although of course you wouldn’t be likely to do that before you grow up, and the girls never. There’s prob’ly a good many other things you mustn’t do, but these I’ve named are the most important. Of course, I’m not saying you’ll go to the bad place for sure if you do them. I only say you’re running a risk. The devil is looking out for the people who do these things and he’ll be more likely to get after them than to waste time over the people who don’t do them. And that’s all about the first head of my sermon.”
At this point Sara Ray arrived, somewhat out of breath. Peter looked at her reproachfully.
“You’ve missed my whole first head, Sara,” he said, “that isn’t fair, when you’re to be one of the judges. I think I ought to preach it over again for you.”