Into his mind there came a picture of a burning pit of fire in which great
flames leaped about the heads of the people who writhed in the pit. "Art
Sherman would be there," thought Sam, materialising the picture he saw;
"nothing can save him; he keeps a saloon."

Filled with pity for the man he saw in the picture of the burning pit, his
mind centered on the person of Art Sherman. He liked Art Sherman. More
than once he had felt the touch of human kindness in the man. The roaring,
blustering saloonkeeper had helped the boy sell and collect for
newspapers. "Pay the kid or get out of the place," the red-faced man
roared at drunken men leaning on the bar.

And then, looking into the burning pit, Sam thought of Mike McCarthy, for
whom he had at that moment a kind of passion akin to a young girl's blind
devotion to her lover. With a shudder he realised that Mike also would go
into the pit, for he had heard Mike laughing at churches and declaring
there was no God.

The evangelist ran upon the platform and called to the people demanding
that they stand upon their feet. "Stand up for Jesus," he shouted; "stand
up and be counted among the host of the Lord God."

In the church people began getting to their feet. Jane McPherson stood
with the others. Sam did not stand. He crept behind his mother's dress,
hoping to pass through the storm unnoticed. The call to the faithful to
stand was a thing to be complied with or resisted as the people might
wish; it was something entirely outside of himself. It did not occur to
him to count himself among either the lost or the saved.

Again the choir began singing and a businesslike movement began among the