brilliant attire, half fantastic, half crude. Down where the Toomsville-Montgomery highway dipped to the stream that fed the Cresswell swamp squatted a square barn that slept through day and weeks in dull indifference. But on the First Sunday it woke to sudden mighty life. The voices of men and children mingled with the snorting of animals and the cracking of whips. Then came the long drone and singsong of the preacher with its sharp wilder climaxes and the answering ‚Äúamens‚Äù and screams of the worshippers. This was the shrine of the Baptists‚ÅÝ‚Äîshrine and oracle, centre and source of inspiration‚ÅÝ‚Äîand hither Zora hurried.
The preacher was Jones, a big man, fat, black, and greasy, with little eyes, unctuous voice, and three manners: his white folks manner, soft, humble, wheedling; his black folks manner, voluble, important, condescending; and above all, his pulpit manner, loud, wild, and strong. He was about to don this latter cloak when Zora approached with a request briefly to address the congregation. Remembering some former snubs, his manner was lordly.
“I doesn’t see,” he returned reflectively, wiping his brows, “as how I can rightly spare you any time; the brethren is a-gettin’ mighty onpatient to hear me.” He pulled down his cuffs, regarding her doubtfully.
‚ÄúI might speak after you‚Äôre through,‚Äù she suggested. But he objected that there was the regular collection and two or three other collections, a baptism, a meeting of the trustees; there was no time, in short; but‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe eyed her again.
‚ÄúDoes you want‚ÅÝ‚Äîa collection?‚Äù he questioned suspiciously, for he could imagine few other reasons for talking. Then, too, he did not want to be too inflexible, for all of his people knew Zora and liked her.
“Oh, no, I want no collection at all. I only want a little voluntary work on their part.” He looked relieved, frowned through the door at the