The first Sunday I preached in the Court House at Lytton to a mixed crowd of white men and Indians. The latter seemed eager to hear the truth, and right gladly did I tell them of Jesus.
At Cook’s Ferry, near the outlet of Nicola valley, we found the paymaster of the C.P.R. survey, a kind gentleman and an acquaintance of mine from Victoria, who called out and asked me to take dinner with him. After our horses were attended to, I gladly joined my friend. Passing through the bar-room, where crowds of men sat gambling, with whiskey barrels for their tables, I said, “Gentlemen, as soon as I am through dinner I would like to preach to you.”
“All right, parson, we’ll be ready and glad to come,” they replied.
Dinner over, I walked out, when the men cleared away their cards and set an empty barrel at one end of the room for a pulpit, where I preached to them. I was greatly blessed in delivering my message, and as soon as I had finished they came forward and left their collection of bills and silver on top of the barrel.
“The Genuine Article.”
Next morning we rode to what was called Oregon Jack’s, some fourteen miles distant, a wayside inn on the road to Cariboo. We tied our horses to the post outside, and, as we walked in, the man behind his little bar said:
“Good morning, Bishop, you’ll take a glass of, brandy, won’t you?”
“No, thank you; I don’t take anything stronger than milk or tea,” I replied.
“You don’t?” said he, with an oath. “You are the first parson who has come to these regions that didn’t take his bitters.”