Oddly enough the most persistent decrier of the new spirit in Bidwell was
the man who, if the machine turned out to be a success, would profit most
from its use. Ezra French, the profane, refused to be convinced. When
pressed by Ed Hall, Dr. Robinson, and other enthusiasts, he fell back upon
the word of that God whose name had been so much upon his lips. The decrier
of God became the defender of God. "The thing, you see, can't be done.
It ain't all right. Something awful'll happen. The rains won't come and
the plants'll dry up and die. It'll be like it was in Egypt in the Bible
times," he declared. The old farmer with the twisted leg stood before the
crowd in the drug-store and proclaimed the truth of God's word. "Don't it
say in the Bible men shall work and labor by the sweat of their brows?" he
asked sharply. "Can a machine like that sweat? You know it can't. And it
can't do the work either. No, siree. Men've got to do it. That's the way
things have been since Cain killed Abel in the Garden of Eden. God intended
it so and there can't no telegraph operator or no smart young squirt like
Steve Hunter--fellows in a town like this--set themselves up before me to
change the workings of God's laws. It can't be done, and if it could be
done it would be wicked and ungodly to try. I'll have nothing to do with
it. It ain't right. That's what I say and all your smart talk ain't a-going
to change me.
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