AS Gaston left the Preacher, the Rev. Ephraim Fox approached. He was the pastor of the Negro Baptist church, and had succeeded old Uncle Josh at his death ten years before.

He bowed deferentially, and, hat in hand, stood close to the seat on which Durham was still resting.

“How dis you doan come down ter our chu’ch en preach fur us no mo Brer’ Durham? We been er havin’ powerful times down dar lately, en de folks wants you ter come en preach some mo.”

“I can’t do it, Eph.”

“What de matter, Preacher? We ain’t hu’t yo feelin’s.”

“No, not in a personal way, but you’ve got beyond me.”

“How’s dat?” asked Ephraim rolling his eyes.

“Well, as long as I preach to your folks about heaven and the glory beyond this world, they shout and sweat and sing. And when I jump on the old sinners in the Bible, they are in glee. They like to see the fur fly. But the minute I pounce on them about stealing, and lying, and drinking, and lust,—they don’t want to furnish any of the fur.”

“De Lawd, Preacher, hit’s des de same wid de white folks!” urged Ephraim with a wink.

“That’s so. But the difference is your people talk back at me after the meeting.”

“How’s dat?” Ephraim repeated.

“Why when I preach righteousness and judgment on the thief and accuse them of stealing, I lose my wood, and my corn, and my chickens.”

Ephraim was silent a moment and then he smiled as he said, “Preacher, dey ain’t er nigger in dis town doan lub you.”

“Yes, I know it. That’s why they steal from me so much.”

“Go long wid yo fun!” roared Ephraim. “You know you ain’t gone back on us des cause some nigger tuck er stick er wood—deys sumfin’ else—you cain fool me.”

“Well, you are right, that isn’t the main reason. There are others. You turned a man out of your church for voting the Democratic ticket.”

“Yes, but Preacher,” interrupted Eph impatiently, “dat wuz er low-down mean nigger. He didn’t hab no salvation nohow!”

“Then you keep a deacon in your church who served two terms in the penitentiary.”

“But dat’s de bes’ deacon I got,” pleaded Eph sadly.

“Turn him out I tell you!”

“But dey all does little tings.”

“Turn ’em all out!”

“Den we ain’t got no chu’ch, en de shepherd ain’t got no flock ter tend, er ter shear. You des splain how de Lawd tempers de win’ ter de shorn lam’. Den ef I doan shear ’em, de win’ mought blow too hard on ’em. En ef I doan keep ’em in de pen, how kin I shear ’em? I axes you dat?”

The Preacher smiled and continued, “Then I’ve heard some ugly things about you, Eph,” suddenly darting a piercing look straight into his face.

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you. And I can’t afford to go into the pulp............