Two men at last came in and took the seat in front of me. Shortly after, one of them took a bottle from his pocket, pulled the cork, and handed the bottle to his companion. He took a drink, and the smell of liquor filled the car. Then the first one took a drink, and back and forth the bottle passed, until at last it was empty and they were full. Then one of them commenced swearing, and such blasphemy I never heard in all my life. It made the very air blue--women shrank back, while the heads of men were uplifted to see where the stream of profanity came from. It went on for some time, until I began talking to myself. I always did like to talk to a sensible man.
"There is no doubt about that," I replied.
"Who in the car knows that man belongs to the devil?"
"Everybody knows that, for he has not kept it a secret."
"Who in the car knows you belong to the Lord Jesus?"
"Why, no one knows it, for you see I am a stranger around here."
"Are you willing they should know whom you belong to?"
I thought a moment and then said, "By the help of my Master I will."
Then straightening up and taking a good breath, I began singing in a voice that could be heard by all in the car:
There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Immanuel's veins; And sinners plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains.
Before I had finished the first verse and chorus, the passengers had crowded down around me, and the blasphemer had turned round and looked at me with a face resembling a thunder cloud. As I finished the chorus, he said:
"Well," said he, "any fool can understand that."
"I am singing the religion of the Lord Jesus."
"Quit singing your religion on the cars."
"I guess not," I replied, "I don't belong to the Quit family; my name is Mead. For the last half hour you have been standing by your master; now for the next half hour I am going to stand up for my Master."
"The devil is your master--while Christ is mine. I am as proud of my Master as you are of yours. Now I am going to have my turn, if the passengers don't object."
A chorus of voices cried out: "Sing on, stranger, we like that."
I sung on, and as the next verse was finished, the blasphemer turned his face away, and I saw nothing of him after that but the back of his head, and that was the handsomest part of him. He left the train soon after, and I am glad to say I've never seen him since. Song after song followed, and I soon had other voices to help me. When the song service ended, an old man came to me, put out his hand, and said, "Sir, I owe you thanks and a confession."