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of the wagon and pushed, relieving Mr. Small’s rather sad old mare of the necessity of hauling the full load. Martha and Mrs. Small cheered them on each time, and Thaddeus had to admit that it certainly sped up the entire process, and probably kept the horse from keeling over.
    Between these heroic and rather comical episodes, Thaddeus reflected on the coming debate. He needed to make a good showing in order to keep people’s enthusiasm at a high pitch, but he found that he was not particularly worried by this challenge. In fact, he felt energized by it. He had no need for special preparation. He already knew which verses he would cite to refute whatever the Baptist might say, and his logic skills were well honed after the spiralling and spirited discussions that had taken place at Dr. Christie’s dinner table over the past two years. And after the dry struggle on Yonge Street, he welcomed the opportunity to address a receptive audience. Only once or twice during the ride did he caution himself against the sin of pride. Even though the Lord had blessed him with an excellent memory and a commanding voice, and he was only using it to further His cause, he should try not to be too confident. The Baptist might have some unanticipated argument to throw in his direction, and he would need to be sharp-witted in order to recognize and counter it, lest it trip up his argument.
    As they drew closer to Cold Springs, they began to encounter streams of people — some riding, some in carts, some on foot — joining the main road from the byways and side roads they passed. They stared when they saw Thaddeus and whispered to one another.
    â€œYou’re famous, Grandpa,” Martha called from her perch in the wagon.
    â€œGo on,” he said. “They know I’m a preacher, but they’re only guessing that I’m one of the speakers today. And I expect they’re not even sure which one.”
    He was pleased, though. His efforts to publicize the debate had obviously drawn good numbers. Now the rest would be up to him.
    When they reached Cold Springs, Mr. Small had trouble finding a place to leave the wagon. There were carts and buggies everywhere, and a large crowd of people milling about in the yard. The hall was a small building, capable of holding perhaps forty or fifty people, if they all stood and didn’t mind a close proximity with their neighbours. It would be completely inadequate for the numbers of people who had turned up.
    James Small climbed down from the wagon and looked around the yard, then pointed speculatively to a huge tree near the fence line of the property. The towering oak cast a welcome shade over a large part of the yard.
    â€œWhat do you think about setting up over there?” he said. “We’ll never get everyone into the hall.”
    â€œI think there will be a riot if we don’t,” Thaddeus replied. It was a good suggestion. The small building would be uncomfortably hot, even if they were able to cram everyone into it. “I wonder if your father could move his wagon over there? It would make a pretty good speaking platform.”
    â€œI don’t know where else he can put it anyway,” Small replied.
    Thaddeus left his assistant to organize the wagon while he moved through the crowd, letting everyone know about the change of plans. He spotted Leland Gordon helping his ancient mother down the rough path, and went over to welcome them. The old woman beamed when she saw Thaddeus.
    â€œLooking forward to today,” she said. “There’s nothing like a good preacher fight.”
    â€œI can only hope it remains a war of words.”
    â€œI’ve seen the fists come out on occasion,” she said. “I seem to recall that it was most entertaining.” She toddled off, cackling a little as she went.
    â€œWe’re going to move into the yard,” he said to Gordon. “Under the tree over there. You might want to steer