The people in Milton thought that the first Sunday Philip appeared in
his pulpit he would naturally denounce the saloon again. But when he
finally recovered sufficiently to preach, he determined that for a while
he would say nothing in the way of sermons against the whiskey evil. He
had a great horror of seeming to ride a hobby, of being a man of one
idea and making people tired of him because he harped on one string. He
had uttered his denunciation, and he would wait a little before he
spoke again. The whiskey power was not the only bad thing in Milton
that needed to be attacked. There were other things which must be said.
And so Philip limped into his pulpit the third Sunday of the month and
preached on a general theme, to the disappointment of a great crowd,
almost as large as the last one he had faced. And yet his very
appearance was a sermon in itself against the institution he had held up
to public condemnation on that occasion. His knee wound proved very
stubborn, and he limped badly. That in itself spoke eloquently of the
dastardly attempt on his life. His face was pale, and he had grown thin.
His shoulder was stiff and the enforced quietness of his delivery
contrasted strangely with his customary fiery appearance on the platform.
Altogether that first Sunday of his reappearance in his pulpit was a
stronger sermon against the saloon than anything he could have spoken or
written.

When the first Sunday in the next month came on, Philip was more like
his old self. He had gathered strength enough to go around two Sunday
afternoons and note for himself the desecration of the day as it went on
recklessly. As he saw it all, it seemed to him that the church in Milton
was practically doing nothing to stop the evil. All the ministers
complained of the difficulty of getting an evening congregation. Yet
hundreds of young people walked past all the churches every Sunday
night, bent on pleasure, going to the theatres or concerts or parties,