Nell Blossom had resurrected the old song, “This Is No Place for a Minister’s Son,” and in a ridiculous clerical make-up sang it each night in Colorado Brown’s place. Passing along the street to his hotel Hunt heard the chorus roared by the men who applauded the cabaret singer. He was met with more jeering laughter wherever he went than before; and he realized that ridicule would do the good cause more harm than any other form of opposition. Joe Hurley was very busy at the mine that week, and he had not much to say to his friend from the East when they met. But he showed curiosity as to what had befallen Hunt when he talked with Nell Blossom. “I fear I began wrong,” admitted the parson. “I reckon however you began you wouldn’t get far with Nell,” observed Hurley. “I’ll keep my eye on Tolley. He’s just boiling inside. But unless he has a gang behind him he hasn’t any more spunk than a rabbit. Nell’s too popular—just now, especially—for him to dare spring anything against her. And she certainly is making herself well-beloved with the boys from the Eureka Washings and the other mines,” and he grinned ruefully. “I can keep most of my own roughnecks in line. I reckon they kind of cotton to me, and they know I am set on this church business. But Nell certainly holds the camp in the hollow of her hand.” “She is wrong; but she does not realize it, perhaps,” considered Hunt. “And yet, maybe she does know.” The Reverend Willett Ford Hunt might have considered, as his sister believed at that moment, that the outlook for successful religious work in Canyon Pass was quite as foggy as it had been at any time at Ditson Corners. Yet the opposition that had developed here was nothing more than Hunt had expected. And it was open hostility. There was nothing hypocritical about it. He had met Slickpenny Norris at the bank, Hunt had opened an account there, and had invited the old curmudgeon to take some interest in the church proposal. He had got one large grunt from the banker, and that was all. Norris could be as close-mouthed as a clam when it might be to his disadvantage to speak his mind. But he offered no encouragement to the parson by that grunt. Saturday evening came and those who were most interested in the uplift of Canyon Pass gathered at the old Tolley place to view with satisfaction and no little pride the improvements and changes brought about. “Jib,” remarked Judson to Collins, having deserted the Three Star Grocery and left it in the care of the gangling Smithy at a very busy hour to “take a squint” at the interior of the meeting room, “Jib, you and Cale Mack have certainly done yourselves proud on that pulpit.” “Don’t praise me! Don’t praise me!” exclaimed Collins. “I never could stand flattery. It puffs me all up. But it’s a pretty nifty bit of work, I do agree.”