All this time, you will understand, Dean Drone kept on with his
special services, and leaflets, calls, and appeals went out from the
Ark of Gideon like rockets from a sinking ship. More and more with
every month the debt of the church lay heavy on his mind. At times he
forgot it. At other times he woke up in the night and thought about
it. Sometimes as he went down the street from the lighted precincts
of the Greater Testimony and passed the Salvation Army, praying
around a naphtha lamp under the open sky, it smote him to the heart
with a stab.

But the congregation were wrong, I think, in imputing fault to the
sermons of Dean Drone. There I do think they were wrong. I can speak
from personal knowledge when I say that the rector's sermons were not
only stimulating in matters of faith, but contained valuable material
in regard to the Greek language, to modern machinery and to a variety
of things that should have proved of the highest advantage to the
congregation.

There was, I say, the Greek language. The Dean always showed the
greatest delicacy of feeling in regard to any translation in or out
of it that he made from the pulpit. He was never willing to accept
even the faintest shade of rendering different from that commonly
given without being assured of the full concurrence of the
congregation. Either the translation must be unanimous and without
contradiction, or he could not pass it. He would pause in his sermon
and would say: "The original Greek is 'Hoson,' but perhaps you will
allow me to translate it as equivalent to 'Hoyon.'" And they did. So
that if there was any fault to be found it was purely on the side of
the congregation for not entering a protest at the time.