The sinners that
hadn't given up at the first break of the storm could not resist the
thrill of this wild music. One by one they pushed their way through the
crowd, found the aisle and staggered blindly to the front.
The Boy noticed curiously that it seemed to be the rule for them to
completely cover their streaming eyes with a handkerchief or with the
bare hands and go it blindly for the mourners' benches. If they missed
the way and butted into anything, a church member kindly took them by
the arm and guided them to a vacant place where they dropped on their
knees.
The Boy had leaped on the bench and stood beside his mother to get a
better view of the turmoil. He couldn't keep his eyes off a tall,
red-headed, thick-bearded man just across the aisle three rows behind
who kept twitching his face, looking toward the door and struggling
against the impulse to follow the mourners. Presently he broke down with
a loud cry:
"Lord, have mercy!"
He placed his hands over his face and started on a run to the front.
The Boy giggled, and his mother pinched him.
"Did ye see that red-headed feller, Ma," he whispered. "He didn't do
fair. He peeked through his fingers--I saw his eyes!"
"Sh!"
The preachers had come down from the pulpit now and stood over the
wailing prostrated mourners and exhorted them to repent and believe
before it was forever and eternally too late.
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