The Boy's mother and father were devout members of the Baptist Church,
but they were not demonstrative. They modestly and reverently took their
seats in an inconspicuous position about midway the building, entering
from one of the small aisles on the side. The Boy had often been to a
regular church service before, but this was his first camp meeting.
Four preachers sat in grim silence behind the pulpit's solid box front.
The Boy could just see the tops of their heads over the board that held
the big gilt-edged Bible.
The entire first two days and nights were given to a series of terrific
sermons on Death, Hell, and the Judgment, with a brief glimpse of the
pearly gates of Heaven and a few strains from the golden harps inside
for the damned to hear by way of contrast. The first purpose of the
preachers was to arouse a deep under-current of religious emotional
excitement that at the proper moment would explode and sweep the crowd
with resistless fire. Usually the fuse was timed to explode on the
morning of the third day. Sometimes, when sermons of extraordinary
power had followed each other in rapid succession, the fire broke out by
a sort of spontaneous combustion on the night of the second day.
It did so this time. The mother had no trouble in keeping the Boy by her
side through these first two days.
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