Pat had great times kidding him about the Western mail. Courtland was
supplying a vacant church down in the old factory district in the city,
and Pat often went along. On one of these Sunday afternoons late in the
spring they were walking down a street they did not often take, and
suddenly Courtland stopped with an exclamation of dismay and looked up
at a great blaring sign wired on a big old-fashioned church:
CHURCH OF GOD
FOR SALE
was the startling statement.
Pat looked up at the sign and then at Courtland's face, figuring out, as
he usually could, what was the matter with Court.
"Gosh! That's darned tough luck!" he said, sympathetically.
"It's terrible!" said Courtland.
"H'm!" said Pat, again. "Whose fault do you s'pose it is? Not God's.
Somebody fell down on his job, I reckon! Congregation gone to the devil,
very likely!"
"Wait!" said Courtland, gravely. "I must find out."
He stepped into a little cigar-store and asked some questions. "You were
right, Pat," he said, when he came out. "The congregation has gone to
the devil. They have moved up into the more fashionable part of town,
and the church is for sale. There's only one member of the old church
left down here. I'm going around to see him. Pat, that sign mustn't stay
up there! It's a disgrace to God."
"What could you do about it?" Pat was puzzled.
"Do about it? Why, man, I can buy it if there isn't any other way!"
They went to see the church member, who proved to be a good old soul,
but deaf and old and very poor.
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