Yet the room had
strangely transformed itself into an alien temple, invaded by theology
and the breath of an unknown world. But though sobered, they were not
cast down; for the occasion was enlivened, in their case, by a
heaven-defying profligacy of intent. Every one of them knew that Sammy
Forbes had in his pocket a pack of cards, which he meant to drop, by
wicked but careless design, just when Deacon Pitts led in prayer, and
that Tom Drake was master of a concealed pea-shooter, which he had
sworn, with all the asseverations held sacred by boys, to use at some
dramatic moment. All the band were aware that neither of these daring
deeds would be done. The prospective actors themselves knew it; but it
was a darling joy to contemplate the remote possibility thereof.
Deacon Pitts opened, the meeting, reminding his neighbors how precious
a privilege it is for two or three to be gathered together. His
companion had not been able to come. (The entire neighborhood knew that
Mrs. Pitts had been laid low by an attack of erysipelas, and that she
was, at the moment, in a dark bedroom at home, helpless under
elderblow.)
"She lays there on a bed of pain," said the deacon. "But she says to
me, 'You go. Better the house o' mournin' than the house o' feastin','
she says.
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