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THE DEACON STOPPED HIM.

By MAX ADELEE. Last winter a man named Jones used to come to our church regularly. Jones had a habit of coughing and clearing his throat constantly, nnd when he would cough It proved to be contagious, and a cough would go clear around through the entire congregation, as It always does on these occasions. When Jones would clear his throat about sixty persons would follow his example, involuntarily, until the voice of the preacher conld hardly be heard.

As Jones used to go through with this performance every Sunday, It at last got to be intolerable to Deacon Pratt, who Is a singularly nervous man. So the deacon made up his mind to stop it. One Sunday he brought a jugful of ipecac along with him, and put a huge syringe in his pocket. When Jones had coughed about a dozen times, the deacon stepped over to him, and in a whisper asked him if he wouldn't try to stop. Jones curtly told him to "dry up," and then Jones cleared his throat and coughed more vigorously than ever.

During the sermon Jones fell asleep, witn his head thrown back upon the back of the pew. The deacon unloaded his syringe, worked it up and down in the ipecac three or four times, and went over to Jones. Jones' mouth was wide open. The deacon aimed his syringe at the oriflce and let drive. About a pint of the stuff went into Jones' gullet.

The next moment Jones was on his feet, spluttering and choking, just In time to see the deacon shutting np his syringe and going back to his seat. At first he didn't exactly grasp the situation. Then he made up his mind to punch the deacon's head right there in the church. Then he suddenly began to feel sick and he felt that he had better bolt out of that meeting house, and he did.

When the congregation came out they saw Jones leaning over the side fence, white as a sheet of paper, and every now and then heaving as If he would eventually throw up his shinbones. When Peter Lamb walked over to him Jones said, between the convulsive gasps:

"Oh, it's all right! It's all right! Never you mind! I'll fix him; I'll bust the head off him! Just as soon as I get this awful stuff out of my stummick, and am well enough to be about, if I don't show that old bald-headed rooster that he can't profane the services of the sanctuary by emptying his slops into my Insides, then my name's not William Henry Jones That's all. Jußt you wait! I'll shake the immortal liver out of him!"

But he hasn't done it. Instead of fighting be began to go to another church.

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THE DEACON STOPPED HIM. Auckland Star, Volume XL, Issue 85, 10 April 1909

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