In 1881 James Robertson left the pastorate to accept the newly
created post of superintendent of home missions for Manitoba and
the Northwest. He set off at once on his first missionary tour,
driving two thousand miles, at first through heat and dust and
rain and then through frosts and blizzards. He preached where
he could, and was not to be discouraged by any situation. Once,
coming to a settlement late on a Saturday evening, where the
largest building was the hotel and the largest room the bar, he
inquired of the hotel man:
“Is there any place where I can hold a service to-morrow?”
“Service?” “Yes, a preaching service.” “Preaching? Oh, yes, I’ll
get you one,” he replied with genial heartiness. Next day Mr.
Robertson came into the bar, which was crowded with men. “Well,
have you found a room for my service?” he inquired of his
genial host. “Here you are, boss, right here. Get in behind that
bar and here’s your crowd. Give it to ’em. God knows they need
it.”
Mr. Robertson caught the wink intended for the boys only. Behind
the bar were bottles and kegs and other implements of the trade;
before it men standing up for their drinks, chaffing, laughing,
swearing. The atmosphere could hardly be called congenial,
but the missionary was “on to his job,” as the boys afterward
admiringly said. He gave out a hymn. Some of the men took off
their hats and joined in the singing, one or two whistling the
accompaniment. As he was getting into his sermon one of the men,
evidently the smart one of the company, broke in:
“Say, boss,” he drawled, “I like yer nerve, but I don’t believe
yer talk.” “All right,” replied Mr. Robertson, “give me a
chance. When I get through you can ask any questions you like.
If I can I will answer them; if I can’t I’ll do my best.”
The reply appealed to the sense of fair play in the crowd. They
speedily shut up their companion and told the missionary to
“fire ahead,” which he did, and to such good purpose that when
he had finished there was no one ready to gibe or question.
After the service was closed, however, one of them observed
earnestly: “I believe every word you said, sir. I haven’t heard
anything like that since I was a kid, from my Sunday-school
teacher. I guess I gave her a pretty hard time. But look here,
can’t you send us a missionary for ourselves? We’ll chip in,
won’t we, boys?”--ROBERT E. SPEER, “Servants of the
King.”
(2049)
=Missionary Beginnings=--See ONE, WINNING.