In the last part Ben convinced most of the San Francisco clergymen to form a ministerial alliance in order to deal with an impending storm. The three who helped Ben rescue two from being shanghaied found him, attempting to enlist his participation in a vigilante effort. Ben convinced them to give God a chance to work. Finally, Ben found the same drunk that they’d rescued, helping him make it through the night.

“Josh,” Ben began as Josh pointed out his apartment building. “Do you want to continue as you have been, binge drinking?” Josh had told Ben that his drinking was a pay-day event. He paid his bills, and drank until passed out.

Josh took a long time to answer, but finally told Ben that he honestly didn’t know.

Ben nodded. “When you do know, look me up.”

Ben’s next order of business was to clean himself up, maybe get another hour of sleep, and then set about getting finances – he needed an apartment, or at least a room with toilet privileges. Remembering the conversation with his three friends, Ben decided that prayer was his primary need. Under his tarp at the Presidio, Ben began with worship and praise to God for who he was. He intended to move on to thanking him for what all he had done in his life, but woke not knowing when he’d fallen asleep. He felt invigorated.

The large Methodist church being his first thought, a modest Presbyterian church came first on his route. Ben met with the pastor.

“Yes, Mr. Persons, I have been approached about some sort of alliance. But to tell you the truth, I’m not too excited about laying aside what distinguishes us… what in search of a moderated faith, some sort of lowest common denominator? To what end? A universal blasé, milquetoast, pseudo belief in a general-sense Creator?

“I’m afraid we of the Presbyterian faith will decline, but…”

“Pastor, let me explain. Perhaps whoever presented you the alliance was a bit too hasty. The purpose is two-fold, with opportunity for far greater. First, ministers could support one another spiritually.”

The pastor began to jump into the discourse, but Ben quickly continued. “And some members are the stronger and could find themselves able to help bolster the younger or weaker. And secondly, who is so self-sufficient that they cannot be assisted by Christian fellowship? No compromising of faith, and no negotiating of tenets.

“Don’t we have but one major objective, Pastor: to acknowledge God in all his ways, and to bring as many to salvation as we possibly can?” Ben knew that principle could be counted as two, three, or parsed a thousand ways, but believed that the pastor in front of him was above that.

“Now I know that the Presbyterian church has for decades, centuries, been evangelistically- and socially-minded. You have built and staffed churches and schools for the pioneers the entire westward expansion. Done great things for the Kingdom of Christ. Your history and tradition are beyond dispute. Here, in San Francisco is a need. Alcohol is destroying lives and families. And we can do something about it.”

The pastor’s eyes immediately watered, tears streaming down his face. With trembling lips and a quivering voice, he asked Ben how he knew. How he knew that he could not make it through the day without drink, that he took lunch at eleven o’clock in order to get his first glass of wine as early as possible, and that he hadn’t had less than two bottles of wine each day since he could remember.

Ben laid both hands on the pastor’s head and prayed for him: grateful for the man’s confession, grateful for the man’s faith, gratitude for the man’s obvious desire to change.

“Are you ready to change, Pastor? Are you ready to ask God to fix what is wrong physically?”

To keep from sobbing, the pastor clenched his jaws, but said yes, violently nodding his head. Bubbles from his mouth through his thick saliva, he finally said yes, that he was.

“Lift your hands, Pastor, and praise God for delivering you.”

He did.

“Pastor, there is a problem that must be addressed.” Ben waited for the pastor to look him in the eye. “Your heart and mind say one thing, but your body, absent a miraculous healing, says another. Your body will crave the wine. Your hands will want to pour it, and your mouth will want to drink it.”

The pastor’s eyes opened wide like a man terrified.

“Pastor, I believe that it is critical that you meet with others with similar issues. Can I bring a man to you who needs the same as you?”

“Yes, if I can help…” He didn’t speak the reciprocal that they both understood.

Ben went on to the Methodist church where he thought he could connect their pastor with the Methodist church in Chicago, hoping for a Salvation Army branch in San Francisco. The pastor wasn’t in, but Ben was told to come back in the afternoon.

His head near spinning, Ben took a trolley car ride to the financial district. Exiting the streetcar at his destination, he took up residence on the corner with his hat on the ground beside him and began preaching Isaiah’s message of evangelism dominant in his heart: Who will I send? Send me.

In his periphery, Ben saw a man with a yellow-ribboned white hat board the other side of a trolley.

Standing on the street corner, his hat on the ground beside him, Ben began preaching Isaiah’s message along with Jesus’ whosoever salvation call. After a time, Ben stopped.

“Have a drink, Ben, isn’t it?” The man in the white hat handed him a canteen. Seeing Ben’s reluctance, he chuckled. “Water, Ben. It’s just water." The man continued, "I see someone put a confectionary in your hat. Ghirardelli. I’m told that’s the best. Don’t care for chocolate myself.” Hesitantly, Ben unwrapped the confectionary and tasted it, his first food of his day. “Wow! This is great! What is it, again?”

“Chocolate, Ghirardelli Chocolate. Can’t stand it myself.”

In that same moment, Henry Halleck approached. “Ben Persons! I was to look you up today, send someone for you. Fancy just coming on you on my route to the office!” After a greeting and introduction to Ben’s white hatted protector, Ben followed Henry to his office just around the corner.

“Juana’s will specified that ten percent of her estate was to go to charities. Of course I made contributions to her church, but… well, I simply haven’t the inclination to write checks to charlatans, or organizations that I don’t think Juana would trust.”

“Have you ever heard of the Salvation Army?” Ben asked.

Henry’s eyes lit up. “I have! Began in England? London?”

Ben explained that he was just that day to meet with the Methodist pastor who Ben was certain would sponsor a chapter.

“Whatever it takes, Ben. Juana would hug you for letting her participate. And also, she would like to contribute to your ministry. Would you make use of, say a hundred dollars a month?”

Immediately Ben saw forty as sufficient for his needs.

“Then let us say fifty and you can share as… as God sees fit.” The expression, somewhat foreign to Henry, came out as a stutter.

Ben thanked him.

“I’ll open an account in your name in the bank downstairs, The Miner’s Bank. You can make withdrawals as you see fit. Here, let me write a check and you can open the account. They’ll need your signature in any event. I’ll write if for the first quarter, a hundred and fifty.” Henry’s hand stopped as he got to the dollar amount on the check, writing two hundred without mentioning it to Ben.

Ben praised God with every step to the bank.