Near the station was a saloon. It was a warm night, and the door was open. I had just been offered the nomination for Congress on the Prohibition ticket in my home district. Of course, a Prohibition statesman has no business inside a saloon; but I paused at the door and looked in. A pleasant-faced, red-haired Irishman stood behind the bar, serving a glass of beer to a customer. I have always believed in experimenting with extremes. By hitting both ends one generally finds a soft spot at the middle. I was on a desperate quest, and, having been rejected by the pulpit and the plow, I was willing to approach the bar. So I entered the “unholy place.” The bartender ran an appraising eye over me, and like a good salesman asked: “What’ll it be—a beer? Or you likely need some of the hard stuff to brace you up?” “No; I want to find an honest man who will telephone for me. I cannot hear well, and I must have help. Can you do it?” “Sure I can, me friend, sure! ’Tis me job to serve the people. I’m very sorry for ye, and ye can borry me ears and welcome. Here, Mike! You run the bar while I help this gentleman find his friends.” And he did the job well. I wrote out my message and he went into the booth with it. Through the glass I saw him nodding his head and waving his hands in explanation. He came out all smiles. “Sure, and it’s all right. They missed the train through stopping too long to eat. They’re on their way now safe and sound, and happy as larks—and due in half an hour. They’d have let ye know, but couldn’t tell where to reach ye!” And he would have nothing but the regular toll for the service. But he put his hand on my shoulder and said: “Happy to meet ye. It’s a pleasure to serve such as ye. Come, now, and _have something_ on me!” And right there I came as near accepting a drink as I ever did in my life. But there is one thing I _did_ do. I declined the honor of running for Congress on the Prohibition ticket after receiving that kindly Christian service from a saloonkeeper. I told this story to a missionary who had spent much of his life among rough-and-ready customers. His comment was: “Many a hog will put on a white necktie, and many a saint will wear a flannel shirt, and one not overly clean at that. The best judge of a necktie is the hangman, and the final judgment over the boiled shirt is made at the washtub. He who sells beer brewed in charity is a better man than he who delivers sermons stuffed with cant and selfishness.” I presume he is right, but how can a deaf man distinguish the virtues and vices of the dispenser of selfish sermons from those of the dispenser of charitable beer—when he cannot hear the sermons and declines to taste the beer? However, since that night I have not been able to trust the combination of white vest and necktie and a taste for “burnsides.”