CR-UNCH! Bang!―and the car made a shuddering stop. Our longsuffering Ford had kicked at last, and smashed all her back gearing.
We looked at each other in dismay, for it was soon clear that our well-laid plans would need radical revision ere the next bill was paid.
We had just climbed over the big divide which separates the states of Pernambuco and Alagoas, and the going had been rather heavy, but we had not counted on this. It was certainly disconcerting, but there was nothing for it but to turn our best faces to the situation, and search for a friendly mechanic and new cog wheels. Fortunately the latter were available, and the former was not far off, though he took over a day to clean up the situation, robing us badly in the process, I fear, which made the proposed modification of plans imperative, for gasoline is an expensive liquid in Brazil.
Now the town where our misadventure occurred is called Quebrangulo (broken cornerstone). There we found a small Presbyterian congregation, which seemed to have rather vague views on the doctrine of the forgiveness of sins; so two days later while our car was being patched up, I preached on the subject and sought to clean up their ideas of this cornerstone of Truth.
Once more we were ready for the road, but instead of making the long round of colportage through Alagoas as projected, we felt it might be best to concentrate on a brief preaching campaign in a large sugar plantation ten miles away, and thither we went. Our arrival caused great surprise, but, unfortunately it seemed, the farmer-owner of the plantation and sugar mill was away. Now, I had the privilege of being this farmer’s father in God ten years before, so that I felt I could make pretty free with such a situation, and three hours after our arrival we had a splendid and most inspiring meeting among three or four hundred of the farm and mill hands.
Next day we continued the cleaning-up process. The man had built a little Gospel chapel facing his house on the highroad, but there was nothing to indicate its purpose to the many passers by. The walls inside were bare of Scripture texts also. This needed reformation, so we managed to make some kind of paint, and inscribed across the front of the building the words, “Casa da Oracão” (“House of Prayer”), in artistic style, “while all the world wondered.” Then we painted three large wall texts on the bare interior walls. My son Fred was the chief artist. After this I turned my attention to the farmer’s bookcase. The windows badly needed cleaning; one could hardly see the contents, and I found a still greater need to make a careful survey of the library. Among these I found some queer books, some of a Sabbathist character, whose sting I was able to remove with my penknife―just a section or two sufficed; but several I felt bound to clear out altogether―they simply disappeared!
That night we had another splendid meeting of two hours’ duration. During the service I earnestly sought to clean up some slack ideas prevalent concerning the Lord’s Day, the sale of intoxicating drinks, the use of tobacco, and the modern fashions of the women, not omitting to remark on the perils that await the shorn female.
Next day the farmer himself arrived, and I felt rather anxious as to how he would view the cleaning up process. He was certainly surprised, but was honestly delighted to see me. He approved of the texts, and I soon persuaded him that I had really improved his bookcase. He also promised to end the wine-selling, and I am sure that Giant Tobacco got a very grave wound.
Yet another meeting was held in the church of the “broken cornerstone,” and we were soon on our homeward journey over the hills again. Shortly afterward we were at work cleaning up the old car ready for our next adventure abroad.