The treatment I got at the hands of this Mart Strong was told to the mayor and councilmen, and there was great indignation.  The councilmen went to Mart’s place that night.  The door was locked and a number of gamblers were in there.  The mayor forced the door open and told Mart Strong never to open business in the town again.  He left next day; and this closed up one of the worst places in the town.  Then there was Henry Durst, another jointist of long standing who was a German and had accumulated quite a lot of property by this dishonest business.  He was a prominent Catholic.  A Mrs. Elliott, a good Christian woman, came to my home crying bitterly and between sobs told me, that for six weeks her husband had been drinking at Durst’s bar, until he was crazy.  She had been washing to feed her three children and for some days had nothing in the house but cornbread and molasses.  She said that her husband had come in, wild with drink and run his family out and kicked over the table and she said:  “I came to you to ask you what to do.”

I did not speak a word, for I was too full of conflicting feelings; but I put on my bonnet and Sister Elliott asked me what I was going to do.  I told her that I did not know, but for her to come with me.  We walked down to Henry Durst’s place, a distance of half a mile.  I fell down on my knees before the screen and began to call on God.  There were five men in there drinking.  I was indifferent to those passing the street.  It was a strange sight to see women on their knees on the most prominent part of the street.  I told God about this man selling liquor to this woman’s husband, and told Him she had been washing to get bread, and asked God to close up this den and drive this man out.  Mrs. Elliott also prayed.  We then told this man that God would hear and that hell was his portion if he did not change.  In a short time he closed his bar, left his family there, and went to another state.  His property was sold gradually and he never returned, except to move his family away, and I heard afterwards he was reduced to poverty.

Another jointist was named Hank O’Bryan.  In passing his place one night from prayer-meeting, I smelled the horrid drink and went in.  A man by the name of Grogan was there, half drunk, and I said:  “You have a dive here.”  Mr. Grogan replied:  “No, Mother Nation, you are wrong, and I can prove it.”

“Let me see what you have in the back room,” I asked.  “All right, Mother,” he said, and took me through several windings, until I came to a very small room with a table covered with beer bottles, that had been recently emptied, and in one corner sat a man, Mr. Smith, a man from Sharon, who the W. C. T. U. had been talking of handling for selling liquor in that town.  Mr. Grogan introduced me to him, and he, Mr. Smith, looked terrified and astonished.  I took up one of the bottles and asked what it had contained.  His reply:  “Hop Tea.”  I asked:  “What name is