In the backyard he had enclosed three chickens–two hens and a cock.
“I paid eighteen dollars for them,” said he.
We looked at each other in startled astonishment. The sum appeared a trifle extravagant considering the just-acknowledged impecuniosity of the church. He caught the glance.
“Boys,” he said quaintly, “San Francisco is a very lonesome place for the godly. The hosts of sin are very strong, and the faithful are very few. Mortal flesh is weak; and mortal spirit is prone to black discouragement. When I bought those chickens I bought eighteen dollars’ 421 worth of hope. Somehow Sunday morning seems more like the Sabbath with them clicking around sleepy and lazy and full of sun.”
We liked him so much that we turned to at odd times and helped him with his carpenter work. While thus engaged he confided to us his intention to preach against the gambling the next Sunday in the Plaza. We stopped hammering to consider this.
“I shouldn’t, if I were you,” said I. “The gamblers own the Plaza; they are respected by the bulk of the community; and they won’t stand any nonsense. They none of them think anything of shooting a man in their places. I don’t think they will stand for it. I am afraid you will be roughly handled.”
“More likely shot,” put in Johnny bluntly.
“Well, well, boys, we’ll see,” said Taylor easily.
Nor could we move him, in spite of the fact that, as we came to see his intention was real, we urged very earnestly against it.
“Well, if you will, you will,” Johnny conceded at last, with a sigh. “We’ll see what we can do to get you a fair show.”