The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
'And these signs shall follow them that believe. In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.'
'Well, you can't heal the sick, neither can you speak new languages or cast out devils; but perhaps you can drink deadly things without suffering harm.' The speaker here suddenly drew from his waistcoat pocket a small glass bottle and held it out towards Misery, who shrank from it with horror, as he continued: 'I have here a most deadly poison. There is in this bottle sufficient strychnine to kill a dozen unbelievers. Drink it! If it doesn't harm you we'll know that you really are a believer and that what you believe is the truth!'
''Ear, 'ear!' said the Semi-Drunk, who had listened to the progress of the argument with great interest, ''Ear, 'ear! that's fair enough. Git it acrost yer chest.'
Some of the people in the crowd began to laugh, and voices were heard from several quarters calling upon Misery to drink the strychnine.
'Now, if you'll allow me, I'll explain to you what that there verse means,' said Hunter. 'If you read it carefully—with the context—'
'I don't want you to tell me what it means,' interrupted the other. 'I am able to read for myself. Whatever you may say, or pretend to think it means, I know what it says.'
'Hear, hear!' shouted several voices and angry cries of 'Why don't you drink the poison?' began to be heard from the outskirts of the crowd.
'Are you going to drink it or not?' demanded the man with the bottle.
'No! I'm not such a fool!' retorted Misery, fiercely, and a loud shout of laughter broke from the crowd.
'Pr'aps some of the other "believers" would like to,' said the young man scornfully, looking round upon the disciples. As no one seemed desirous of availing himself of this offer, the man returned the bottle regretfully to his pocket.
'I suppose,' said Misery, regarding the owner of the strychnine with a sneer, 'I suppose you're one of them there hired critics wot's goin' about the country doin' the devil's work?'
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