One story of Smith Wigglesworth always brings a smile. He had been visiting a woman on some matters of counsel and she had accompanied him to the boulevard fronting her house in order to wait for his ride.
Her little dog followed them with an imperious air to a spot dangerously close to the roadway.
“Now go on back to the porch, Rusty. You shouldn’t be out here near traffic.” She threw in a sweeping hand gesture for good measure.
No response. Just a cheeky look which seemed to say, ‘Nope, not gonna happen.’
A second rebuke with words something like, “Now do what you’re told. Scoot!”
Five perky steps in the opposite direction. Then nothing…
“Rusty, don’t make me get the switch.”
At this point Wigglesworth clapped those big plumber’s hands, and with the booming voice which could rival Niagara, commanded “Be gone! Now!”
A yelp. A tail between the legs. A cringing retreat to the front porch. A peeking out from behind railing pickets.
“And that Madam,” Wigglesworth noted, “is how we must deal with the devil in the name of Jesus.”