The amens of approval were no longer matter-of-fact, perfunctory. They were quick, spontaneous, escaping the lips of their own accord; they were frequent and loud and began to come from the edges of the assembly instead of just the front rows. The old men cried, "Help him, Lord!” “Preach the
word!” “Glory!” taking no apparent heed of the awfulness of the description, and the old women continuously moaned aloud, nodding their bonneted heads, or swaying rhythmically forward and back in their seats.
Suddenly the preacher stopped, leaving the old men and old women still noisy with spiritual momentum. He stood motionless till the last echo of approbation subsided, then repeated the text from which his discourse had taken origin; repeated it in a whisper, lugubrious, hoarse, almost inaudible: “ 'In—hell—'" paused, then without warning, wildly shrieked, “In hell—'" stopped—returned to his hoarse whisper—"'he lifted up his eyes....'"
“What the hell you want to leave for?” Pete complained when he and Lucky reached the sidewalk. “That old bird would 'a' coughed up his gizzard in two more minutes. What's the idea?”
“Aw hell—I don't know.—You think that stuff's funny. You laugh at it. I don't, that's all.” Lucky hesitated. The urge to speak outweighed the fear of being ridiculed. “Dam' 'f I know what it is—maybe because it makes me think of the old folks or somethin'—but—hell—it just sorter—gets me—"
Lucky turned abruptly away and started off. Pete watched him for a moment with a look that should have been astonished, outraged, incredulous—but wasn't. He overtook him, put an arm about his shoulders, and because he had to say something as they walked on, muttered reassuringly:
“Well—if you ain't the damndest fool—"
