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A crowd of Los Angeles reporters boarded the train at Pomona and clamored for an inter­view. This Dr. Dowie refused, but sent Herbert. One of their most persistent questions was whether or not Dr. Dowie, as Elijah, would pray for rain in Southern California. Here it was the middle of January and only a little rain since last April. Or­dinarily, rains began in November. Everything was burning up. The situation was becoming serious. Elijah of old had prayed for rain after three years and six months' drought and his prayer had been answered. Wouldn't Elijah in this day pray for rain after only nine months' dry spell?

Wouldn't Mr. Renbrush go and ask Dr. Dowie about it and let them know what he said?

Reluctantly, after much insistence, Herbert left the Pullman smoking-room where they were gath­ered and, going into the “Angeleno," put their query to his chief. The great man's eyes flashed, his brow clouded.

“Tell them I do not reveal my plans to the vipers of the press."

That message was softened by the young man who relayed it to the Los Angeles reporters, but with its substance they had to be satisfied.

Arriving at Los Angeles on Monday, the Zion




party devoted six days to sight-seeing and to swim­ming at Santa Monica. Many Zion people, residents and tourists in Southern California called upon them. Among them were Deaconesses Mary A. Montague and Ellene Le Moana, two hard workers in the eccle­siastical department at Zion City. The first was a widow of sixty, usually buxom and hearty but now much run down by the New York Visitation and a hard cold she had caught there. Diana was a hand­some spinster of thirty, with opulent physical charms, an aristocratic pedigree, and a more than adequate income. These two the General Overseer took under his wing.

During all this week the newspapers kept challeng­ing Dr. Dowie to pray for rain-some seriously, others humorously.

Hazzard's Pavilion was crowded at three o'clock on that Sunday afternoon. The day was warm. Cali­fornia's sun blazed down upon the scene from a sky upon which no cloud appeared. Outside, dry and dusty eucalyptus leaves rattled in a scorching Santa Ana wind. Inside, one could feel tension in the au­dience. "Will he dare pray for rain? The newspapers have put him in a hole. If he does and no rain comes, then he's not Elijah. If he doesn't, then he's afraid to -and that's almost worse."

At last the preacher dropped on his knees behind the pulpit. Never before had an audience followed his prayers with more strained attention.

In its early sentences the General Overseer's prayer was calmly, majestically eloquent. As the strong, rasping voice went on, there was rhythm, beauty,




earnestness, but always serenity. Dr. Dowie never ranted or became hysterical when he prayed. The great audience sat almost breathless. At last he came to' "this great and beautiful city, so happily situated between the mountains and the sea."

"It is now or never," thought Herbert. The as­sembled multitude leaned forward, hanging an every ward.

"But, Gad, our Father, we have seen the distress of this land, which Thou hast made so fair and fruitful. Look upon it now in Thy Mercy and send rain-Thy refreshing, life-giving rain-as Thou didst send the rain upon Israel in that day when Thy servant, Elijah the Prophet, bowed himself before Thee an Mount Carmel and besought Thy Divine favor. Hear and answer the prayer of Thy servant, O God, that this people may know that Thou. art Gad and that he who speaks to Thee is sent in the spirit and power of Elijah to turn the hearts of the children to the fathers and the hearts of the fathers to their children, lest Thou came and smite the earth with a curse."

Over the audience there swept a sibilant, rustling wave of sound like sudden rushing of wind through a wood. They had Came for sport-now they were a little awed and more than a little uncomfortable. Here was simple faith and courage they; could not understand and they were afraid.

The General Overseer finished his prayer and the services went an. He preached with more than usual fire. Whether the people believed all he said or not, they were impressed, deeply attentive.

As his sermon drew to its close the great pavilion




began to grow dark. Windows which had been bright with sunshine were now gray. The hot, dry Santa Ana wind was felt no more. Sounds died away and there was fear in the stillness. People looked at One another with wander and awe.

Suddenly the General Overseer stopped, calling as always for a rising profession. Apparently every one rose and many repeated after him the prayer Of consecration. He called upon them to sing with him one stanza of a hymn. When they had sung it, he pronounced the benediction, then said, "Get to your homes quickly, for there is sound of abundance of rain."

But he was too late.

Just as the multitude turned to go, rain descended in torrents.

Herbert was serenely, reverently happy-except for shame that he had been of so little faith as ever to doubt his General Overseer.


After a day spent at Santa Barbara, where Dr. Dowie met and entertained same members of  Zion in the private car, the party came at last to' San Francisco'. Here two evening meetings were held in a theater, and the General Overseer gave an elaborate luncheon to all his party and several guests, including a number of railroad and steamship officials, at the St. Francis. Immediately afterward he, Colonel Erdman, John Harrow, Harold Winans, and Herbert went an board the Sonoma and at about half past two' sailed away.

These five, after waving farewell to their




companions on the pier, stood forward, enjoying the pan­orama of San Francisco, her sister cities, and her harbor. They were dressed, as when they left the luncheon, in long black Prince Alberts, striped gray trousers, patent-leather shoes, and high silk hats. And they were gay. But the Colonel, John, and Harold sud­denly went to bed in all their splendid clothing and remained there in pallid misery for five days.

A day in Honolulu passed like a dream, and a week of quiet summer seas brought them into the cup-like harbor of Pago-Pago, Samoa. They entered before dawn and anchored. With the first rays of sunlight a dozen native canoes converged on the ship, bring­ing bananas, limes, oranges, and tapa cloth. While passengers bargained with smiling cafe-au-lait­-colored merchants, Herbert's eyes were drawn to four native girls. They were half white--one of them seemed nearly all white-with rosy cheeks, dark, liquid eyes, red lips, and beautiful white teeth. Their features were much finer than those of their companions-in short, they were both pretty and attrac­tive. These young women sat apart from the venders, each in a bright-hued wrapper, and laughed together over jokes of their own.

When the sun was high the whitest of these na­tive belles rose languidly, loosened her yellow gar­ment, and with a sinuous movement of her body slid it shimmering to her feet. Save for a white loin-cloth she stood nude in the sunlight, a Venus carved in ivory. Then, with an effortless dive she plunged into the water. The other girls, scarcely less beautiful than she, also stripped and dived. Laughing, they called for




coins, and, when these were tossed, went down for them as gracefully as young seals.

Dr. Dowie was charmed. He began by throwing dimes, but soon gained the girls' attention from other passengers by throwing quarters. He chose the whit­est girl as his favorite, helped her to maneuver away from the others, and threw her half-dollars, and then silver dollars, of which he got a supply from the purser. She began calling him "My sweetheart," which delighted him and made him answer her in kind. Some of her poses and gestures were not con­ventional according to canons of puritanical society, but he seemed to feel none the worse toward her on that account. At last his supply of silver failed, the ship's bugle sounded for luncheon, the little rascal climbed into her canoe and paddled away, waving and singing, "Good-by, my sweetheart," while the vener­able, white-bearded General Overseer of the Chris­tian Catholic Church in Zion Throughout the World responded with enthusiasm.

The Sonoma rode silently into the beautiful har­bor of Auckland, New Zealand, at midnight and dropped anchor. Next morning she passed quarantine and was docked. Then there trooped aboard more than fifty members of Zion to greet their General Overseer. Several of them had attended his meetings in Auckland sixteen years before. Herbert was amazed when the great man called each by name, re­membered what disease he had been healed of, inquired by name also about members of his family, and asked him about his grocery business, plumbing, or what­ever it was he did for a living. Herbert, disturbed in




spite of himself by the Pago-Pago episode and other eccentricities, was reassured. Any man with such a smoothly and accurately working memory had noth­ing wrong with his head.

After a day in Auckland, they sailed away to Syd­ney, where they were met by Overseer Voliva and several elders, evangelists, deacons, and deaconesses.

Meetings in Sydney Town Hall brought out great crowds, and there was booing, singing "Boys of the ' Bulldog Breed," and rioting both inside and outside the hall. No one was hurt, and after a week the party moved on to Melbourne, where they were joined by Mrs. Dowie, Gladstone, and Nancy Harrow, who had arrived from France a week or two earlier and had been visiting with relatives of Mrs. Dowie in :Ade­laide.

At Melbourne, for the first time in his life, the General Overseer found himself excluded from a ho­tel. The manager was polite but obstinate. "We have no room."

Other hotels were tried-with the same result. Dr. and Mrs. Dowie and their son went out to St. Kilda, a suburb, and crowded themselves into Overseer Voliva's cottage. The rest of the party found rooms in private houses near-by.

For two weeks the General Overseer preached every afternoon in Zion Tabernacle, a second-story hall in the heart of the city. On the last Sunday he was advertised for a great meeting in Exhibition Hall. The police professed to be worried about riots on that occasion.

Herbert spent most of his time in Overseer Voliva's




office-a room behind the platform of the Tabernacle -talking to real-estate and security prospects, or waiting for them to appear, but always attended the afternoon meetings. The others came to the Taber­nacle from St. Kilda in hired carriages.






Herbert was alone in his borrowed office writ­ing to his mother. It was almost time for the afternoon meeting. The carriages from St. Kilda were due. A swift staccato of footsteps, the door was thrown open, and Nancy came in. She was excited.

"Herbert," she said, "John resigned this morning. He's going back to Chicago."

"Nan! You're joking," gasped Herbert.

"Yes," she said, with a peculiar smile, "I guess it is a kind of joke, but I hadn't thought of it that way. Joke or not, however, It’s true.

"What came over him? I've been with him all these weeks and never suspected he had any such thing in his head. I don't understand it."

"Well, I guess he's been worried a good deal, from what he told me, ever since the New York trip. Some things the General Overseer's said and done on the way here have worried him more. Then this morning, down at Overseer Voliva's, they had a pretty hot quarrel and Jack suddenly threw his job, his office, and his Zion membership in the General Overseer's teeth and walked out. He came to our room and said, (Well, Nan, I've resigned. I'm going back to Chicago on the next boat. Do you want to go along?'

“After I'd had a minute to take in his news, I told him I'd stay with the General Overseer. He said that




was all right, he'd expected me to. I asked why he had resigned, and he said, (No matter now-that's all past.,’"

“Don't you worry, Nan," said Herbert, more con­fidently than he felt, "it's probably only a flash in the pan. They've both been under a strain and they lost their tempers. They'll make it all up to-night."

"You don't know John, Herbert, if you really think that. But he wants to see you. He's out at the room now, packing."

Herbert found the ex-deacon, ex-editor, and ex-­Zion member whistling and singing.

"Oh, hello, old man, come on in. Throw the col­lars off that chair and sit down. If you don't mind, I'll go right on packing while we chew the rag. I want to get off to Sydney to-night."

“It's all off, John. You're not going," laughed Her­bert.

"Not going? What'll you bet?"

“Four cents and a fish-hook, of course. You're to go to the G. O., say you're sorry, and both of you stop being ninnies."

“Say I'm sorry? Man, you must be crazy. I was never more glad of anything in my life."

“Glad to be out of Zion? Glad to be separated from Nancy?" gasped Herbert.

“Now look here, old man, I'm not going to argue this thing with you one minute. If you're happy in Zion, if you're fully satisfied with everything Doctor Dowie has said and done these last six months, I wouldn't upset you for the world. It'll be enough, I guess, to say that neither Zion nor Doctor Dowie's




the same as when I joined. I could work with 'em then. I can't now. I foolishly tried to stick it out until this trip was over because I didn't want to leave the old man in the lurch.

"This morning he sent for me before he was dressed. I could see he was in a vile temper about something, so I walked on eggs, as usual. He wanted to get off a cable for the ‘Leaves,' and had me taking it down. There was a lot of sticky fly-paper around, and he was fussing and fuming the way he does when he's mad. He dropped his collar-button, and that made him cuss-in his Christian way. Then he laid down his collar to look for the button-and put it right smack in the middle of a sheet of fly-paper, not noticing what he did. I couldn't see the fly-paper, of course; it was on top of the chiffonier. Well, I found his collar-button for him, and then he grabbed his collar."

John stopped to laugh.

"Holy cats! You ought to have seen and heard him. The fly-paper came up with the collar--stuck to his hand. He tried to shake it off, and it got on his cuff. Then he tried to snatch it off with the other hand and got that all gummed up-all the time bellowing like a cast bull. Gosh, it was better than a monkey with a mirror. I nearly died choking back a laugh in his face.

"Of course I tried to help him, so he turned on me. You know how he is when he gets mad-blows up whoever's nearest. Accused me of putting his collar on the sticky stuff. Then when I said I didn't, yelled at me that I was a liar. Well, that was more than




plenty, so I just told him I was through and would thank him to accept my resignation from the whole smear right then and there. He took me up like a flash and ordered me out of the house. Called me a dirty coward and deserter. Of course, I expected that. He never lets anybody get away without a shot in the back."

"Well, don't you see, John, you were both mad. He didn't mean what he said, and you don't need to mean what you said."

"Oh, that's all right. I don't hold that against him. I know he's just letting off steam such times. But it gave me a chance I couldn't afford to miss. Now I'm out, I'd certainly be a darn fool to sneak back in again. But that isn't what I wanted to talk to you about-that's all past and gone. Did Nan tell you she wasn't going back to Chicago with me?"

"Yes, she did."

“Well, that's another reason I'm glad this has hap­pened. Nan's a wonderful girl and I admire her im­mensely, and I think she has at least some little re­spect for me. But we just don't gee, somehow. 'Tisn't her fault, and I hope it isn't altogether mine, but we'll both be a lot happier apart. 'Twas all a mistake we ever married. We've both seen it for a long time but have hated to make a break when we've been pretty prominent in Zion. The newspapers make so much of anything like that. Now this comes along and solves the problem.

“I wanted to tell you this, so you'd understand. And I'm fond of her, in a way, and want her to be happy, even if we couldn't make each other happy.




So I'm asking you to be a good friend to her. She thinks a lot of you and you can kinda help her get herself adjusted. I suppose we'll both want a divorce, eventually, and I guess I can give her, at least techni­cally, the only grounds that count in Zion-but that's in the future. It depends on what she wants. What­ever it is, you tell her she can count on me."

"But John, this is terrible, I-"

"Oh, no, it isn't, old man. Get that out of your coco. I'm happier than I've been for months---seems like years-and Nan's a good sport. I'll bet you any­thing you like she's even more relieved than I am. I'll be all right. I may try to get some kind of newspaper job in Sydney for a while. Now I'm here, I'd kind a like to see Australia before I go back. I'm sorry to leave you, of course. You're the best friend I ever had."

"But to be outside of Zion!"

"I know just how you feel, of course, but I'm not going to talk about it. All I can say is I feel as if I had just waked up and was tickled to death to find a terrible nightmare was only a dream, after all."

"But, John, you won't fight Zion?"

"Good Lord, no! I've got my bellyful of fighting from now on."