“You say:  The world is evil, and men are base; why should I die for them?  Oh, ye of little faith, how many have died for you, and would you cheat mankind?  If there is to be goodness in the world, some one must begin; who will begin with me?

“My brothers:  I am come to lead you into the way of justice.  I bid you follow; not in passion and blind excitement, but as men firm in heart and bent upon service.  For the way of self-love is easy, while the way of justice is hard.  But some will follow, and their numbers will grow; for the lives of men have grown ill beyond enduring, and there must be a new birth of the spirit.  Think upon my message; I shall speak to you again, and the compulsion of my law will rest upon you.  The powers of this world come to an end, but the power of good will is everlasting, and the body can sooner escape from its own shadow than mankind can escape from brotherhood.”

He ceased, and a strange thing happened.  Half the crowd rose to its feet; and they cried, “Go, on!” Twice he tried to retire to his seat, but they cried, “Go on, go on!” Said he, “My brothers, this is not my meeting, there are other speakers—­” But they cried, “We want to hear you!” He answered, “You have your policies to decide, and your leaders must have their say.  But I will speak to you again to-morrow.  I am told that your city permits street speaking on Western City Street on Sundays.  In the morning I am going to church, to see how they worship my Father in this city of many mobs; but at noon I will hold a meeting on the corner of Fifth and Western City Streets, and if you wish, you may hear me.  Now I ask you to excuse me, for I am weary.”  He stood for a moment, and I saw that, although he had never raised his voice nor made a violent gesture, his eyes were dark and hollow with fatigue, and drops of sweat stood upon his forehead.

He turned and left the platform, and Old Joe and I hurried around to join him.  We found him with Korwsky the little Russian tailor whose son he had healed.  Korwsky claimed him to spend the night at his home; the friend with the delivery wagon was on hand, and they were ready to start.  I asked Carpenter to what church he was going in the morning, and he startled me by the reply, “St. Bartholomew’s.”  I promised that I would surely be on hand, and then Old Joe and I set out to walk home.

“Well?” said I.  “What do you think of him?”

The ex-centre-rush walked for a bit before he answered.  “You know, Billy boy,” said he, “we do lead rotten useless lives.”

“Good Lord!” I thought; it was the first sign of a soul I had ever noted in Old Joe!  “Why,” I argued, “you sell paper, and that’s useful, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know whether it is or not.  Look at what’s printed on it—­mostly advertisements and bunk.”  And again we walked for a bit.  “By the way,” said the ex-centre-rush, “before he got through, I saw that aura, or whatever you call it.  I guess I’m getting nutty, too!”