“I am dressing properly—for Canyon Pass,” he returned, smiling. “I am not inclined to attract the hearty laughter and scorn of such members of the community as Boss Tolley, Tom Hicks, and their ilk. Clerical garb might be considered by them as a gratuitous insult. And the last thing I wish to do here is to antagonize the rougher element.” Although Betty failed to see much distinction in the roughness of the community, she did not open that avenue of discussion. She did say decisively: “Why bother about those awful men, Ford? Tolley and his crowd will never, never be members of your congregation. Maria, Sam’s wife, has been giving me the history of those wicked men. She is afraid of her life because of the gang that hangs about the Grub Stake. That is a terrible institution, and everybody in Tolley’s employ is bad.” “And yet, Miss Rosabell Pickett, who plays the piano for Tolley, is going to have her own piano trucked over to the meeting room this morning and will play the hymns herself for us. So some good must be found at the Grub Stake,” Hunt rejoined, still smiling. “Besides, if they are bad men, I hope to help them.” Cholo Sam was closing the door of his bar and locking it when, later, Hunt and his sister came down from their rooms. Maria, with a jetted jacket, yellow petticoat and reboza, was waiting for her husband. “Señor Hunt,” said the innkeeper, flashing his white teeth as usual, “we honor ourselfs to attend your service, if we may? Si?” “I’ll be glad to see you and Maria there, Sam.” Hunt then followed Betty out of the hotel. It had rained since sunrise, but had stopped now. They were early for the service. The street was almost deserted. It had been arranged by Hurley that the whistle of the hoisting engine at the Great Hope should be blown at a quarter to eleven and again at five minutes of the hour. There was no other means of summoning the Passonians to worship. There was a roar of voices from the barroom of the Grub Stake as the parson and his sister passed. They crossed the street to avoid a quagmire, but the sound of revelry followed them. It seemed that all the other saloons and stores in sight, including the Three Star Grocery, were somnolent. Bill Judson joined them as they passed the grocery store. The old man was as solemn as a bishop and as uncomfortable as new shoes, tight light trousers of an ancient fashion, and a stiff-brimmed straw hat could make him. “Hello! What’s the matter with Tolley now?” the storekeeper exclaimed in surprise. The owner of the Grub Stake had come tearing out of the place, seemingly blinded by rage, and dashed along the street. The group that boiled out of the Grub Stake after him did not follow, but urged him on with jeering laughter. “What is it?” asked Betty, startled. “Dunno,” said Judson, quickening his stride. “But the feller’s up to something.” They were in sight of the meeting room now. The door stood open. When Tolley reached it he plunged in.