And the men are too much absorbed in the object of their
trip to listen to gospel truths. They are thinking about whether they will
be able to get a room at the hotel, or whether they will have to sleep on
a cot.
Nobody can sing gospel songs on a car, with their throats full of
cinders, and their eyes full of dust, and the chances are if anybody
should strike up, "A charge to keep I have," some pious sinner who was
trying to take a nap in the corner of the gospel car would say:
"O, go and hire a hall!"
It would be necessary to make an extra charge of half a dollar to those
who occupied the gospel car, the same as is charged on the parlor car, and
you wouldn't get two persons on an average train full that would put up a
nickel.
Why, we know a Wisconsin Christian, worth a million dollars, who, when he
comes up from Chicago to the place where he lives, hangs up his overcoat
in the parlor car, and then goes into the forward car and rides till the
whistle blows for his town, when he goes in and gets his coat and never
says thirty-five cents to the conductor, or ten cents to the porter. Do
you think a gospel car would catch him for half a dollar? He would see you
in Hades first.
The best way is to take a little eighteen-carat religion along into the
smoking car, or any other car you may happen to be in.
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