Kamloops was then a very small place. I met with a Mr. McKenzie, a local store-keeper, who said I might preach in his kitchen. I then went back to the restaurant to take dinner with my friends. After a good repast I walked to the billiard room and called out:
“Gentlemen, we are going to have preaching in Mr. McKenzie’s kitchen at eight o’clock, and I want you all to come.”
“All right, we’ll be there, parson,” they answered.
A lively chap, with a big overcoat on, followed me out of the door. He was about three sheets in the wind, and was trying to put a bottle of whiskey into his big outside pocket as he staggered along, the whiskey bottle slipping past his pocket every time he tried.
“I know—(hic)—who you are. (hic) You are a Methodist parson. (hic) I can tell by the cut of your jib,” said he, in a maudlin voice.
“You have struck it. Who are you?” I replied.
“My name is Bill H——,” said he.
“You sinner, you ought to be away home with your family. I visited them to-day, and they are expecting you.”
“You’re right, I ought,” he replied.
Having called at other places, we were soon at Mr. McKenzie’s house, and I said to my drunken companion, “This is the place for preaching.”