uns and plays upon words, the defect had been cured. As the
Rev. A. Risen Shine he bore a name which fitted its bearer and its
bearer's calling--at once it was a slogan and a testimony, a trade-mark
and a watch-cry.

Proudly now he walked the earth, broadcasting the favor of his smile on
every side. For it had been he who divined that the times were ripe for
the importation of that greatest of all exhorting evangelists of his
denomination, the famous Sin Killer Wickliffe, of Nashville, Tenn. His
had been the zeal which inspired the congregation to form committees on
ways and means, on place and time, on finance; his, mainly, the energy
behind the campaign for subscriptions which filled the war-chest. As
resident pastor, chief promotor, and general manager of the project, he
had headed the delegation which personally waited upon the great man at
his home and extended the invitation. Almost immediately, upon learning
that the amount of his customary guaranty already had been raised and
deposited in bank, the Rev. Wickliffe felt that he had a call to come
and labor, and he obeyed it. He brought with him his entire
organization--his private secretary, his treasurer, his musical
director. For, mind you, the Sin Killer had borrowed a page from the
book of certain distinguished revivalists of a paler skin-pigmentation
than his. As the saying goes among the sinful, he saw his Caucasian
brethren and went them one better. His musical director was not only an
instrumentalist but a composer as well. He adapted, he wrote, he
originated, he improvised, he interpolated, he orchestrated, he played.
As one inspired, this genius played the saxophone.

Now, in the world at large the saxophone has its friends and its foes.
Its detractors agree that the late Emperor Nero was a maligned man;
cruel, perhaps, in some of his aspects, but not so cruel as has been
made out in the case against him. It was a fiddle he played while Rome
burned--it might have been a saxophone. But to the melody-loving heart
of the black race in our land the mooing tones of this long-waisted,
dark-complected horn carry messages as of great joy. It had remained,
though, for the resourceful Rev. Wickliffe to prove that it might be
made to fill a nobler and a higher destiny than setting the feet of the
young men to dancing and the daughters to treading the syncopated
pathways of the ungodly. Discerning this by a sort of higher intuition,
he had thrown himself into the u