Mrs. Solomon Black had revealed the state of affairs, that morning.
"You may as well know," said she. "There ain't a cent to pay you, and
I said when you came that if we couldn't pay for gospel privileges we
should all take to our closets and pray like Sam Hill, and no charge;
but they wouldn't listen to me, though I spoke right out in
conference meeting and it's seldom a woman does that, you know. Folks
in this place have been hanging onto the ragged edge of nothing so
long they don't seem to sense it. They thought the money for your
salary was going to be brought down from heaven by a dove or
something, when all the time, those wicked flying things are going
round on the other side of the earth, and there don't seem as if
there could be a dove left. Well, now that the time's come when you
ought to be paid, if there's any decency left in the place, they
comes to me and says, 'Oh, Mrs. Black, what shall we do?' I said,
'Why didn't you listen when I spoke out in meeting about our not
being able to afford luxuries like gospel preaching?' and they said
they thought matters would have improved by this time. Improved! How,
I'd like to know? The whole world is sliding down hill faster and
faster every minute, and folks in Brookville think matters are going
to improve, when they are sliding right along with the Emperor of
Germany and the King of England, and all the rest of the big bugs. I
can't figure it out, but in some queer, outlandish way that war over
there has made it so folks in Brookville can't pay their minister's
salary. They didn't have much before, but such a one got a little for
selling eggs and chickens that has had to eat them, and the street
railway failed, and the chair factory, that was the only industry
left here, failed, and folks that had a little to pay had to eat
their payings. And here you are, and it's got to be the fair. Seems
queer the war in Europe should be the means of getting up a fair in
Brookville, but I guess it'll get up more'n that before they're