“Well, it might be a good idea. Yes, we’ll do it. By the way, what is your business? Hold-ups?”
“I’m the crack salesman of the Pequot Farm Implement Company, Sharon, and if you don’t believe it—”
“Oh, I do. [She shouldn’t have.] I’m sure you tell the truth—often. Of course we won’t need to mention the fact that you’re a preacher, unless somebody insists on asking. How would this be as a topic—‘Getting the Goods with a Gideon Bible?’ ”
“Say, that would be elegant! How I was in some hick town, horrible weather, slush and rain and everything—dark skies, seemed like sun never would shine again—feet all soaked from tramping the streets—no sales, plumb discouraged—sat in my room, forgotten to buy one of the worldly magazines I’d been accustomed to read—idly picked up a Gideon Bible and read the parable of the talents—found that same day you were in town—went and got converted—saw now it wasn’t just for money but for the Kingdom of Christ, to heighten my influence as a Christian business man, that I had to increase sales. That bucked up my self-confidence so that I increased sales to beat the band! And how I owe everything to your inspired powers, so it’s a privilege to be able to testify. And about how it isn’t the weak skinny failure that’s the fellow to get saved, but takes a really strong man to not be ashamed to surrender all for Jesus.”
“Why, I think that’s fine, Brother Elmer, I really do. And dwell a lot on being in your hotel room there—you took off your shoes and threw yourself down on the bed, feeling completely beaten, but you were so restless you got up and poked around the room and picked up the Gideon Bible. I’ll feature it big. And you’ll make it strong, Elmer? You won’t let me down? Because I really will headline it in my announcements. I’ve persuaded you to come clear from Omaha—no, that’s not far—clear from Denver for it. And if you do throw yourself into it and tear loose, it’ll add greatly to the glory of God, and the success of the meeting in winning souls. You will?”
“Dear, I’ll slam into ’em so hard you’ll want me in every town you go to. You bet.”
“Um, that’s as may be, Elmer. Here comes Cecil Aylston—you know my assistant? He looks so cross. He is a dear, but he’s so terribly highbrow and refined and everything and he’s always trying to nag me into being refined. But you’ll love him.”
“I will not! Anyway, I’ll struggle against it!”
They laughed.
The Rev. Cecil Aylston, of the flaxen hair and the superior British complexion, glided to their table, looked at Elmer with a blankness more infuriating than a scowl, and sat down, observing: