"Well, you quit."
"Quit what?"
"Quit singing your religion on the cars."
"I guess not," I replied, "I don't belong to the Quit family; my name is Mead. For the last half hour you have been standing by your master; now for the next half hour I am going to stand up for my Master."
"Who is my master?"
"The devil is your master—while Christ is mine. I am as proud of my Master as you are of yours. Now I am going to have my turn, if the passengers don't object."
A chorus of voices cried out: "Sing on, stranger, we like that."
I sung on, and as the next verse was finished, the blasphemer turned his face away, and I saw nothing of him after that but the back of his head, and that was the handsomest part of him. He left the train soon after, and I am glad to say I've never seen him since. Song after song followed, and I soon had other voices to help me. When the song service ended, an old man came to me, put out his hand, and said, "Sir, I owe you thanks and a confession."
"Thanks for what?"
"Thanks for rebuking that blasphemer."