I looked about, and finally decided to appeal to a man who resembled a Methodist minister. At least, he wore a black coat, a white tie, and had adorned his face with a pair of “burnsides.” Also, I caught a gesture—a spreading out of the hands—which seemed to say: “Bless you, my children!” So, as an occasional occupant of the pews, I confidently approached the pulpit. “My friend, can I ask you to use the telephone for me?” I learned then how slight a contraction of the facial muscles may change a beneficent smile into a snarl. “Why don’t you do it yourself?” I could see the words and the unpleasant frown. “Are you too lazy?” I tried to explain the situation and show him that I could not hear; but he took no trouble to grasp my predicament. Several women had stopped to listen, and were smiling. I have learned that no man who wears white vest and tie can feel that women are laughing at him and retain his dignity. So my clerical gentleman turned on his heel and walked away. “I have no time to bother!” No doubt, he was right. He could preach the Christian religion, but had no time to practice it. It has always been my blessed privilege to see the humor of a trying situation. That dignified exit made me think of the deaf woman who lived in our old town. One day a stranger called, said he was a retired minister, and asked her to board him a week free of charge, so that he might “meditate over the follies of human life.” She refused, and he became quite insistent. He roared in her ear: “Be careful, now, lest ye entertain an angel unawares!” She was quick to reply: “I’m deaf, but I’m reasonably acquainted with the Lord, and I know He won’t send no angel to my house with a cud of tobacco in his mouth.” After failing with the ministry, I approached a man who looked like a substantial farmer—a man apparently with some sense of humor, though I judged him to be a bit stubborn. “Sir, I need your help. I must find someone to telephone for me. My sister and daughter are in the country, and—” That was as far as I could go with him. He put one hand on his pocket as if to make sure of his wallet, and waved the other at me. “No, you don’t! I’m no ‘come-on.’ None of your bunco games on me. That story is too old; I’ve heard it before. Get out or I’ll call the police!” I think the last sermon I ever heard was preached from the text, “And they all, with one accord, began to make excuses.” Unfortunately, the preacher had never been deaf, so he did not develop all the possibilities of that text. But these rebuffs did not discourage me; they are only part of the “social service” which the deaf must expect. These men merely lacked the imagination needed to show them the pleasure which would surely come from doing a kindly act. They had declined opportunity.