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It was inevitable, with this surpassing magnet of popular interest so near at hand, that for every truant convert who might halt to taste of the pleasures provided by AEsop Loving and his associate promoters, half a dozen possible patrons would pass on by and beyond, drawn away by the compelling power of the Sin Killer’s eloquence. Representations had been made to the revivalist that, with propriety, he might suspend his ministry for the great day. His answer was the declaration that on the Eighth he would preach not merely once, but twice.

By him and his there would be no temporizing with the powers of evil, however insidiously cloaked. Would not dancing be included in the entertainments planned by these self-seeking laymen who now approached him? Would not there be idle sports and vain pastimes calculated to entice the hearts of the populace away from consideration of the welfare of their own souls? Admittedly there would be drinking of soft drinks. And into the advertised softness some hardness assuredly would slip. You could not fool the Sin Killer. Having taken a firm stand, his rectitude presently moved him to further steps. On his behalf it was stated that he, personally, would lead the elect in triumphant procession out Tennessee Street to the tabernacle between the afternoon preaching and the evening. As an army with banners, the saved, the sober, and the seeking would march past, thus attesting their fealty to the cause which moved them. He defied all earthly forces to lure a single one from the ranks.

And, after the preaching, under his auspices, there would be a mighty cutting of watermelons for those deemed to be qualified to participate therein. By the strict tenets of the Rev. Wickliffe’s theology it seemed that watermelons were almost the only luscious things of this carnal world not held to be potentially or openly sinful. Small wonder then that Jeff, jauntily entering the Elite Funeral Home, read traces of an ill-concealed distress writ plain upon the face of AEsop Loving.

“Well, Brother Lovin’, you shore does look lak you’d hung yore harp ‘pon the willer-tree an’ wuz fixin’ to tek in sorrow fur a livin’,” he said in greeting. “Cheer yo’se’f up; ’tain’t nothin’ so worse but whut it mout be worser.”

“Easy fur you to say so, Brother Poindexter; harder fur me to do so,” stated AEsop. “Gallivantin’ ’round the way you is, you ain’t got no idea of the aggervations w’ich keeps comin’ up in connection wid an occasion sech ez this one, an’ mo’ ‘specially the aggervations w’ich pussonally afflicts the director-general of the same, w’ich I is him.”

“I been hearin’ somethings myse’f,” said Jeff. “Word is come to me, fur one thing, that this yere smart-ellicky gang out at the Belt Line Park is aimin’ to try to cut some of the groun’ frum under yore feet. I regrets to hear it.”

“‘Tain’t them so much,” said AEsop. “We couldn’t ‘spect to go ‘long havin’ a nomopoly furever. Sooner or late they wuz bound to be opposition arisin’ up. ‘Tain’t them so much, although I will say it wuz a low-flung trick to tek an’ rent that park right out frum under our noses ‘thout givin’ us no warnin’ so’s we mout go an’ rent it fu’st. No, hit’s the action of that Emmanuel Chapel bunch w’ich gives me the mos’ deepest concern. Seems lak ev’ry time that Rev’n’ Sin Killer open his mouth I kin feel cold cash crawlin’ right out of my pocket. Mind you, Brother Poindexter, I ain’t got a word to say ag’in religion. I’s strong fur it on Sundays, ez you well knows, but dog-gone religion w’en it come interferin’ wid a pusson’s chanct to pick up a little spare change fur hisse’f on a week-day!”

“Spoke lak a true business man, Brother Lovin’,” said Jeff. “Still, I reckin you’s mebbe countin’ the spoilt eggs ‘fore they’s all laid. The way I sees it, you’ll do fairly well, nevertheless an’ to the contrary notwithstandin’. Le’s see. Ain’t you goin’ to have the dancin’-pavilion goin’ all day?”