wistfully.
When they entered the Mission, which Haley saw was an old storeroom filled with benches, a pale young man was standing behind a pulpit, swinging his arms vigorously in time to the hymn he was leading. They took seats by themselves on the rear-most bench. From the room behind the pulpit came a clinking of heavy bowls and the dense smell of boiling kraut. Two dozen unkempt men mumbled the words in their hymnals under the haranguing of the leader. Haley yearned to get at the piano that stood in one corner, and wondered if he might not get permission to play it when the singing was at an end.
Mr. Banghart seemed soothed by the devotional atmosphere. He picked up two hymnals from a shelf along the wall, handed one to Haley, and burst into song with startling volume and brilliance. The young man directing the singing stared with surprise and gratitude, and his unwashed congregation turned their heads to squint in wonder.
“Welcome, brother,” said the young man at the end of the hymn. Mr. Banghart stood up, proud and poised, and bowed to the young man and then to the congregation. “I would now like to sing
Throw Out the Lifeline
,” he said.
“Excellent,” said the young man happily. “Let’s all turn to number 29.”
A short, stocky youth, wearing the threadbare remnants of an Army uniform, turned around in his seat on the bench in front of Haley and said in a loud hiss to Mr. Banghart, “Shut up, Buster, and sit down, or we’ll never get anything to eat.”
Mr. Banghart stopped his singing abruptly in mid-chorus, leaving only the reedy tenor of the leader and the apathetic murmur of the others to carry on. “I would appreciate an apology,” he said coldly.
“Go to hell,” said the youth, giving him an ugly grin. His two companions turned to sneer menacingly. The singing stopped completely.
Haley saw a look of fear pass over Mr. Banghart’s features, and then heard him shout wildly, “It’s a trap! They’re out to get us!” Mr. Banghart smashed his hard, massive fist into the youth’s insolent face, catapulting him over the bench and on to the floor.
“Stop it!” cried the young man behind the pulpit.
The youth arose from the floor, and he and his two companions started toward Haley and Mr. Banghart. Haley raised his frail hands in a gesture of defense as one of them singled him out and charged. The blow of a fist on his temple spun him around. He sank to his knees, and looked up, stunned and frightened. He blinked dully at the flash of light from Mr. Banghart’s knife, heard a scream, and was knocked senseless by another blow from behind.
The scuffling and shouts dropped away from him as the din of a city drops away from a soaring balloon. The glint of the knife became the beam of a flashlight, playing on the buff walls of the secret room hollowed in hay bales in the loft. The beam lighted the round face of the General, reflecting from the lenses of his glasses so that his eyes could not be seen. “Haley,” intoned the General’s image, “you have been nothing but a burden since I took you into my home. You are without character, without character.”
The light moved to Annie’s placid features. “The General is right,” she said firmly.
The beam picked Hope’s angelic face from the still-aired darkness. She giggled derisively, heartlessly, lovelessly.
Haley moaned, and he heard another voice, coarse and unfamiliar. “Well, when this youngster comes around, he’ll tell us who it was. He came in with him, didn’t he?”
Haley opened his eyes to see the blue jacket and silver shield of a policeman who leaned over him. He was still in the Mission, lying flat on his back. A splitting headache made him want to tumble into oblivion once more.
The policeman shook him gently. “Feel O.K., kid?” Haley sat up slowly and looked about the chapel. He saw that it was almost empty. There were only the policeman, the young
When they entered the Mission, which Haley saw was an old storeroom filled with benches, a pale young man was standing behind a pulpit, swinging his arms vigorously in time to the hymn he was leading. They took seats by themselves on the rear-most bench. From the room behind the pulpit came a clinking of heavy bowls and the dense smell of boiling kraut. Two dozen unkempt men mumbled the words in their hymnals under the haranguing of the leader. Haley yearned to get at the piano that stood in one corner, and wondered if he might not get permission to play it when the singing was at an end.
Mr. Banghart seemed soothed by the devotional atmosphere. He picked up two hymnals from a shelf along the wall, handed one to Haley, and burst into song with startling volume and brilliance. The young man directing the singing stared with surprise and gratitude, and his unwashed congregation turned their heads to squint in wonder.
“Welcome, brother,” said the young man at the end of the hymn. Mr. Banghart stood up, proud and poised, and bowed to the young man and then to the congregation. “I would now like to sing
Throw Out the Lifeline
,” he said.
“Excellent,” said the young man happily. “Let’s all turn to number 29.”
A short, stocky youth, wearing the threadbare remnants of an Army uniform, turned around in his seat on the bench in front of Haley and said in a loud hiss to Mr. Banghart, “Shut up, Buster, and sit down, or we’ll never get anything to eat.”
Mr. Banghart stopped his singing abruptly in mid-chorus, leaving only the reedy tenor of the leader and the apathetic murmur of the others to carry on. “I would appreciate an apology,” he said coldly.
“Go to hell,” said the youth, giving him an ugly grin. His two companions turned to sneer menacingly. The singing stopped completely.
Haley saw a look of fear pass over Mr. Banghart’s features, and then heard him shout wildly, “It’s a trap! They’re out to get us!” Mr. Banghart smashed his hard, massive fist into the youth’s insolent face, catapulting him over the bench and on to the floor.
“Stop it!” cried the young man behind the pulpit.
The youth arose from the floor, and he and his two companions started toward Haley and Mr. Banghart. Haley raised his frail hands in a gesture of defense as one of them singled him out and charged. The blow of a fist on his temple spun him around. He sank to his knees, and looked up, stunned and frightened. He blinked dully at the flash of light from Mr. Banghart’s knife, heard a scream, and was knocked senseless by another blow from behind.
The scuffling and shouts dropped away from him as the din of a city drops away from a soaring balloon. The glint of the knife became the beam of a flashlight, playing on the buff walls of the secret room hollowed in hay bales in the loft. The beam lighted the round face of the General, reflecting from the lenses of his glasses so that his eyes could not be seen. “Haley,” intoned the General’s image, “you have been nothing but a burden since I took you into my home. You are without character, without character.”
The light moved to Annie’s placid features. “The General is right,” she said firmly.
The beam picked Hope’s angelic face from the still-aired darkness. She giggled derisively, heartlessly, lovelessly.
Haley moaned, and he heard another voice, coarse and unfamiliar. “Well, when this youngster comes around, he’ll tell us who it was. He came in with him, didn’t he?”
Haley opened his eyes to see the blue jacket and silver shield of a policeman who leaned over him. He was still in the Mission, lying flat on his back. A splitting headache made him want to tumble into oblivion once more.
The policeman shook him gently. “Feel O.K., kid?” Haley sat up slowly and looked about the chapel. He saw that it was almost empty. There were only the policeman, the young
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