“Gipsy Smith,” he said, “I don’t know what you will do; the boys in the
billets this week are the Munsters—Irish Roman Catholics. You would have
got on all right last week; we had the York and Lancasters.”

“Do you think they will come to the meetings?”

“I don’t know,” he replied; “they come for everything else! They come for
their smokes, candles, soap, buttons—bachelor’s buttons—postcards, and
everything else they want. But whether they will come for the religious
part, I don’t know.”

“Well,” I said, “we can but try.”

It was about midday when we were talking, and the meeting was to be at
6.30.

“Have you got a boy who could write a bill for me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ve got a boy who could do that all right.”

“Print it on green paper,” said I.

Why not? They were the Munsters. Why shouldn’t we use our heads? People
think mighty hard in business, why shouldn’t we think in the religious
world?

“Just say this and nothing more,” I said.

“’_Gipsy Smith will give a talk in the Hut to-night at_ 6.30.