It struck the witty Irishman at once that they were not trying to install him as the Presbyterians do their pastors, but rather to forestall him after the manner of Dogtown; and he made up his mind not to be forestalled. He was certain they did not want any religion and he had no religion to throw away. He had his subject in mind, but he thought it best to select a more appropriate one. Accordingly, he announced as his text, “Oh, man of God, there is death in the pot.” He talked about twenty minutes, putting in the entire time telling his funniest stories, and pouring in one broadside after another of his Irish wit and humor. It was a diplomatic move. All seemed heartily to enjoy the “sermon,” except the seven members of his own congregation. The proceeding was most too irregular for their conventional tastes. The members of his uniformed guard were especially delighted. Every witticism was greeted with vociferous applause, by the stamping of their bare feet, clapping of hands, and unrestrained, boisterous laughter. “I would not black my boots to hear a long, dry sermon,” said the preacher by way of conclusion. “You are a fine looking set of fellows. I have been sent by the conference to preach to you, and I am sure we will get along well together. Now, if you see me at any time looking hungry, or if it is near night, take me in. I am an Irishman and easily pleased. And if I see any of you near my home, I will treat you the same. But, gentlemen, I have the most beautiful little wife you ever set eyes on. Now, I expect to bring her with me the next time, and you must be sure to put your boots on and fix up a little.” When he dismissed he went back among this raw element, shaking hands and talking freely with each one. Much of his time between that and the next appointment was spent studying “mischief”—loading up for the next discharge. His second talk was even more humorous than the first, having been prepared especially for the crowd and the occasion. In the meantime his fame had been spread broadcast, and an immense crowd was present to see and hear the “wild Irishman.” A number were congregated at the door for the purpose of greeting him upon his arrival at the church. At the third appointment he had an overflow crowd. As he was walking down the aisle to the pulpit, a brother whom he recognized as one of the true and blue seven of the first service, plucked him aside and whispered: “Parson, you’ve got ’em. You’re the smartest feller that ever struck this place. These fellers say you’ve got to have order if they have to fight for it.”