hotly. Just as I approached he drew from his pocket a worn,
leather-covered Bible, and said, tapping it with one finger:

"For forty years I have carried this book with me. It contains more
wisdom than any other book in the world. Your friend there can talk
until he is hoarse--it will do no harm--but the world will continue to
follow the wisdom of this book."

A kind of exaltation gleamed in his eye, and he spoke with an
earnestness equal to that of Henry Moore. He, too, was a street speaker,
waiting with his box at his side to begin. He would soon be standing up
there to prove, also with logic and authority, that there was a God. He,
also, would plough that knobby black soil of human heads with the share
of his vehement faith. The two women were with him to sing their belief,
and one had a basket to take up a collection, and the other, singling
me out as I listened with eagerness, gave me a printed tract, a kind of
advertisement of God.

I looked at the title of it. It was called: "God in His World."

"Does this prove that God is really in the world?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Will you read it?"

"Yes," I said, "I am glad to get it. It is wonderful that so great a
truth can he established in so small a pamphlet, and all for nothing."

She looked at me curiously, I thought, and I put the tract by the side
of the pamphlet I had bought from the freethinker, and drifted again in
the eddy.