at occupied the bulletin board every Saturday, though I
never knew it for a fact. The way he handled the bad boys was
masterly. The way he introduced the performers was inimitable. The way
he did everything was the best way. And yet I did not like Brother
Hotchkins. I could not. He was too slim, too pale, too fair. His voice
was too encouraging, his smile was too restrained. The man was a
missionary, and it stuck out all over him. I could not abide a
missionary. That was the Jew in me, the European Jew, trained by the
cruel centuries of his outcast existence to distrust any one who spoke
of God by any other name than _Adonai_. But I should have resented the
suggestion that inherited distrust was the cause of my dislike for
good Brother Hotchkins; for I considered myself freed from racial
prejudices, by the same triumph of my infallible judgment which had
lifted from me the yoke of credulity. An uncompromising atheist, such
as I was at the age of fourteen, was bound to scorn all those who
sought to implant religion in their fellow men, and thereby prolong
the reign of superstition. Of course that was the explanation.

Brother Hotchkins, happily unconscious of my disapproval of his
complexion, arose at intervals behind the railing, to announce, from a
slip of paper, that "the next number on our programme will be a
musical selection by," etc., etc.; until he arrived at "I am sure you
will all join me in thanking the ladies and gentlemen who have
entertained us this evening." And as I moved towards the door with my
companions, I would hear his voice raised for the inevitable "You are
all invited to remain to a short prayer service, after which--" a
little louder--"refreshments will be served in the vestry. I will ask
Brother Tompkins to--" The rest was lost in the shuffle of feet about
the door and the roar of electric cars glancing past each other on
opposite tracks. I always got out of the chapel before Brother
Tompkins could do me any harm. As if there was anything he could steal
from me, now that there was no God in my heart!

If I were to go back to Morgan Chapel now, I should stay to hear
Brother Tompkins, and as many other brethren as might have anything to
say. I would sit very still in my corner seat and listen to the
prayer, and silently join in the Amen. For I know now what Wheeler
Street is, and I know what Morgan Chapel is there for, in the midst of
those crooked alleys, those saloons, those pawnshops, those g