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had no moral bearing whatever. He was telling the stories in the only moving way a man can tell a story, as having happened to himself. And then, no rational man could ever believe that the minister went about the country sowing death and destruction in his wake. No, he was simply telling moral allegories which pointed to the future and not the past. They were an artistic foreshortening and simplification of life, and the Reverend Blackman stood squarely within his rights as an artist to employ this realistic touch.

Then, right in the midst of these harrowing tales, came a sudden cracking of pistols outside the church. The women, already wrought up by the tragedies, began shrieking. The men leaped up ready to rush out and identify the miscreants. But the preacher held up his hands and shouted, "Brothers, sit quiet and watch the power of God!"

The next moment he picked up the pulpit lamp and strode down the aisle to the church door. He stepped out into the night and help up the lamp so he was in full illumination. At such an unusual outcome the firing ceased.

"Brothers!" cried the preacher, "bring your pistols into the church and use them for the glory of God! Long ago the Lord said unto David, 'Make a great noise for the glory of God!' Maybe our Lord meant pistols? I don't know, but anyway quit using them in the service of the devil and bring 'em to God! Come on in. You're welcome, pistols and all—nobody will report you. We love every one of you out there in the darkness of your sins. Get right, brothers, come on in!"

The Reverend Blackman walked back into the church holding his lamp high and waving his arm for all the world to follow him.

None of the garage gang really followed him, but the sport palled; only one or two more shots were fired; feeble affairs. The preacher had out-dramatized them.

The enthusiasm in the church was immense. The relief from the firing was accounted a miracle. A little old woman