It was good for Paul and SilasAnd it’s good enough for me—
It was good for Paul and SilasAnd it’s good enough for me—
It was good for Paul and SilasAnd it’s good enough for me—
It was good for Paul and Silas
And it’s good enough for me—
and times when they had to be stirred by “At the Cross” or “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Adelbert had ideas about what he called “worship by melody,” but Elmer saw that the real purpose of singing was to lead the audience to a state of mind where they would do as they were told.
He learned to pick out letters on the typewriter with two fingers, and he answered Sharon’s mail—all of it that she let him see. He kept books for her, in a ragged sufficient manner, on check-book stubs. He wrote the nightly story of her sermons, which the newspapers cut down and tucked in among stories of remarkable conversions. He talked to local church-pillars so rich and moral that their own pastors were afraid of them. And he invented an aid to salvation which to this day is used in the more evangelistic meetings, though it is credited to Adelbert Shoop.
Adelbert was up to most of the current diversions. He urged the men and the women to sing against each other. At the tense moment when Sharon was calling for converts, Adelbert would skip down the aisle, fat but nimble, pink with coy smiles, tapping people on the shoulder, singing the chorus of a song right among them, and often returning with three or four prisoners of the sword of the Lord, flapping his plump arms and caroling “They’re coming—they’re coming,” which somehow started a stampede to the altar.
Adelbert was, in his girlish enthusiasm, almost as good as Sharon or Elmer at announcing, “Tonight, you are all of you to be evangelists. Every one of you now! Shake hands with the person to your right and ask ’em if they’re saved.”
He gloated over their embarrassment.
He really was a man of parts. Nevertheless, it was Elmer, not Adelbert, who invented the “Hallelujah Yell.”
Remembering his college cheers, remembering how greatly it had encouraged him in kneeing the opposing tackle or jabbing the rival center’s knee, Elmer observed to himself, “Why shouldn’t we have yells in this game, too?”
He himself wrote the first one known in history.
Hallelujah, praise God, hal, hal, hal!Hallelujah, praise God, hal, hal, hal!All together, I feel better,Hal, hal, hal,For salvation of the nation—Aaaaaaaaaaa—men!
Hallelujah, praise God, hal, hal, hal!Hallelujah, praise God, hal, hal, hal!All together, I feel better,Hal, hal, hal,For salvation of the nation—Aaaaaaaaaaa—men!
Hallelujah, praise God, hal, hal, hal!Hallelujah, praise God, hal, hal, hal!All together, I feel better,Hal, hal, hal,For salvation of the nation—Aaaaaaaaaaa—men!
Hallelujah, praise God, hal, hal, hal!
Hallelujah, praise God, hal, hal, hal!
All together, I feel better,
Hal, hal, hal,
For salvation of the nation—
Aaaaaaaaaaa—men!
That was a thing to hear, when Elmer led them; when he danced before them, swinging his big arms and bellowing, “Now again! Two yards to gain! Two yards for the Savior! Come on, boys and girls, it’s our team! Going to let ’em down? Not on your life! Come on then, you chipmunks, and lemme hear you knock the ole roof off! Hal, hal, hal!”
Many a hesitating boy, a little sickened by the intense brooding femininity of Sharon’s appeal, was thus brought up to the platform to shake hands with Elmer and learn the benefits of religion.
The gospel crew could never consider their converts as human beings, like waiters or manicurists or brakemen, but they had in them such a professional interest as surgeons take in patients, critics in an author, fishermen in trout.
They were obsessed by the gaffer in Terre Haute who got converted every single night during the meetings. He may have been insane and he may have been a plain drunk, but every evening he came in looking adenoidal and thoroughly backslidden; every evening he slowly woke to his higher needs during the sermon; and when the call for converts came, he leaped up, shouted “Hallelujah, I’ve found it!” and galloped forward, elbowing real and valuable prospects out of the aisle. The crew waited for him as campers for a mosquito.
In Scranton, they had unusually exasperating patients. Scranton had been saved by a number of other evangelists before their arrival, and had become almost anesthetic. Ten nights they sweated over the audience without a single sinner coming forward, and Elmer had to go out and hire half a dozen convincing converts.
He found them in a mission near the river, and explained that by giving a good example to the slothful, they would be doing the work of God, and that if the example was good enough, he would give them five dollars apiece. The missioner himself came in during the conference and offered to get converted for ten, but he was so well known that Elmer had to give him the ten to stay away.
His gang of converts was very impressive, but thereafter no member of the evangelistic troupe was safe. The professional Christians besieged the tent night and day. They wanted to be saved again. When they were refused, they offered to produce new converts at five dollars apiece—three dollars apiece—fifty cents and a square meal. By this time enough authentic and free enthusiasts were appearing, and though they were fervent, they did not relish being saved in company with hoboes who smelled. When the half-dozen cappers were thrown out, bodily, by Elmer and Art Nichols, they took to coming to the meetings and catcalling, so that for the rest of the series they had to be paid a dollar a night each to stay away.
No, Elmer could not consider the converts human. Sometimes when he was out in the audience, playing the bullying hero that Judson Roberts had once played with him, he looked up at the platform, where a row of men under conviction knelt with their arms on chairs and their broad butts toward the crowd, and he wanted to snicker and wield a small plank. But five minutes after he would be up there, kneeling with a sewing-machine agent with the day-after shakes, his arm round the client’s shoulder, pleading in the tones of a mother cow, “Can’t you surrender to Christ, Brother? Don’t you want to give up all the dreadful habits that are ruining you—keeping you back from success? Listen! God’ll help you make good! And when you’re lonely, old man, remember he’s there, waiting to talk to you!”
They generally, before the end of the meetings, worked up gratifying feeling. Often young women knelt panting, their eyes blank, their lips wide with ecstasy. Sometimes, when Sharon was particularly fired, they actually had the phenomena of the great revivals of 1800. People twitched and jumped with the holy jerks, old people under pentecostal inspiration spoke in unknown tongues—completely unknown; women stretched out senseless, their tongues dripping; and once occurred what connoisseurs regard as the highest example of religious inspiration. Four men and two women crawled about a pillar, barking like dogs, “barking the devil out of the tree.”
Sharon relished these miracles. They showed her talent; they were sound manifestations of Divine Power. But sometimes they got the meetings a bad name, and cynics prostrated her by talking of “Holy Rollers.” Because of this maliciousness and because of the excitement which she found in meetings so favored by the Holy Ghost, Elmer had particularly to comfort her after them.
All the members of the evangelistic crew planned effects to throw a brighter limelight on Sharon. There was feverish discussions of her costumes. Adelbert had planned the girdled white robe in which she appeared as priestess, and he wanted her to wear it always. “You are so queeeeenly,” he whimpered. But Elmer insisted on changes, on keeping the robe for crucial meetings, and Sharon went out for embroidered golden velvet frocks and, at meetings for business women, smart white flannel suits.
They assisted her also in the preparation of new sermons.
Her “message” was delivered under a hypnotism of emotion, without connection with her actual life. Now Portia, now Ophelia, now Francesca, she drew men to her, did with them as she would. Or again she saw herself as veritably the scourge of God. But however richly she could pour out passion, however flamingly she used the most exotic words and the most complex sentiments when some one had taught them to her, it was impossible for her to originate any sentiment more profound than “I’m unhappy.”
She read nothing, after Cecil Aylston’s going, but the Bible and the advertisements of rival evangelists in the bulletin of the Moody Bible Institute.
Lacking Cecil, it was a desperate and coöperative affair to furnish Sharon with fresh sermons as she grew tired of acting the old ones. Adelbert Shoop provided the poetry. He was fond of poetry. He read Ella Wheeler Wilcox, James Whitcomb Riley, and Thomas Moore. He was also a student of philosophy: he could understand Ralph Waldo Trine perfectly, and he furnished for Sharon’s sermons both the couplets about Home and Little Ones, and the philosophical points about will-power, Thoughts are Things, and Love is Beauty, Beauty is Love, Love is All.
The lady Director of Personal Work had unexpected talent in making up anecdotes about the death-beds of drunkards and agnostics; Lily Anderson, the pretty though anemic pianist, had once been a school-teacher and had read a couple of books about scientists, so she was able to furnish data with which Sharon absolutely confuted the rising fad of evolution; and Art Nichols, the cornetist, provided rude but moral Maine humor, stories about horse-trading, cabbages, and hard cider, very handy for cajoling skeptical business men. But Elmer, being trained theologically, had to weave all the elements—dogma, poetry to the effect that God’s palette held the sunsets or ever the world began, confessions of the dismally damned, and stories of Maine barn-dances—into one ringing whole.
And meanwhile, besides the Reverend Sister Falconer and the Reverend Mr. Gantry, thus coöperative, there were Sharon and Elmer and a crew of quite human people with grievances, traveling together, living together, not always in a state of happy innocence.
CHAPTER XIV
sedateas a long married couple, intimate and secure, were Elmer and Sharon on most days, and always he was devoted. It was Sharon who was incalculable. Sometimes she was a priestess and a looming disaster, sometimes she was intimidating in grasping passion, sometimes she was thin and writhing and anguished with chagrined doubt of herself, sometimes she was pale and nun-like and still, sometimes she was a chilly business woman, and sometimes she was a little girl. In the last, quite authentic rôle, Elmer loved her fondly—except when she assumed it just as she was due to go out and hypnotize three thousand people.
He would beg her, “Oh, come on now, Shara, please be good! Please stop pouting, and go out and lambaste ’em.”
She would stamp her foot, while her face changed to a round childishness. “No! Don’t want to evangel. Want to be bad. Bad! Want to throw things. Want to go out and spank a bald man on the head. Tired of souls. Want to tell ’em all to go to hell!”
“Oh, gee, please, Shara! Gosh all fishhooks! They’re waiting for you! Adelbert has sung that verse twice now.”
“I don’t care! Sing it again! Sing songs, losh songs! Going to be bad! Going out and drop mice down Adelbert’s fat neck—fat neck—fat hooooooly neck!”
But suddenly: “I wish I could. I wish they’d let me be bad. Oh, I get so tired—all of them reaching for me, sucking my blood, wanting me to give them the courage they’re too flabby to get for themselves!”
And a minute later she was standing before the audience, rejoicing, “Oh, my beloved, the dear Lord has a message for you tonight!”
And in two hours, as they rode in a taxi to the hotel, she was sobbing on his breast: “Hold me close! I’m so lonely and afraid and cold.”
Among his various relations to her, Elmer was Sharon’s employee. And he resented the fact that she was making five times more than he of that money for which he had a reverent admiration.
When they had first made plans, she had suggested:
“Dear, if it all works out properly, in three or four years I want you to share the offerings with me. But first I must save a lot. I’ve got some vague plans to build a big center for our work, maybe with a magazine and a training-school for evangelists. When that’s paid for, you and I can make an agreement. But just now—— How much have you been making as a traveling man?”
“Oh, about three hundred a month—about thirty-five hundred a year.” He was really fond of her; he was lying to the extent of only five hundred.
“Then I’ll start you in at thirty-eight hundred, and in four or five years I hope it’ll be ten thousand, and maybe twice as much.”
And she never, month after month, discussed salary again. It irritated him. He knew that she was making more than twenty thousand a year, and that before long she would probably make fifty thousand. But he loved her so completely that he scarce thought of it oftener than three or four times a month.
Sharon continued to house her troupe in hotels, for independence. But an unfortunate misunderstanding came up. Elmer had stayed late in her room, engaged in a business conference, so late that he accidentally fell asleep across the foot of her bed. So tired were they both that neither of them awoke till nine in the morning, when they were aroused by Adelbert Shoop knocking and innocently skipping in.
Sharon raised her head, to see Adelbert giggling.
“Howdareyou come into my room without knocking, you sausage!” she raged. “Have you no sense of modesty or decency? Beat it! Potato!”
When Adelbert had gone simpering out, cheeping, “Honest, I won’t sayanything,” then Elmer fretted, “Golly, do you think he’ll blackmail us?”
“Oh, no, Adelbert adores me. Us girls must stick together. But it does bother me. Suppose it’d been some other guest of the hotel! People misunderstand and criticize so. Tell you what let’s do. Hereafter, in each town, let’s hire a big house, furnished, for the whole crew. Still be independent, but nobody around to talk about us. And prob’ly we can get a dandy house quite cheap from some church-member. That would be lovely! When we get sick of working so hard all the time, we could have a party just for ourselves, and have a dance. I love to dance. Oh, of course I roast dancing in my sermons, but I mean—when it’s with people like us, that understand, it’s not like with worldly people, where it would lead to evil. A party! Though Art Nicholswouldget drunk. Oh, let him! He works so hard. Now you skip. Wait! Aren’t you going to kiss me good morning?”
They made sure of Adelbert’s loyalty by flattering him, and the press-agent had orders to find a spacious furnished house in the city to which they were going next.
The renting of furnished houses for the Falconer Evangelistic Party was a ripe cause for new quarrels with local committees, particularly after the party had left town.
There were protests by the infuriated owners that the sacred workers must have been, as one deacon-undertaker put it, “simply raising the very devil.” He asserted that the furniture had been burned with cigarette stubs, that whisky had been spilled on rugs, that chairs had been broken. He claimed damages from the local committee; the local committee sent the claims on to Sharon; there was a deal of fervent correspondence; and the claims were never paid.
Though usually it did not come out till the series of meetings was finished, so that there was no interference with saving the world, these arguments about the private affairs of the evangelistic crew started most regrettable rumors. The ungodly emitted loud scoffings. Sweet repressed old maids wondered and wondered what might really have happened, and speculated together in delightful horror as to whether—uh—there could have been anything—uh—worse than drinking going on.
But always a majority of the faithful argued logically that Sister Falconer and Brother Gantry were righteous, therefore they could not do anything unrighteous, therefore the rumors were inspired by the devil and spread by saloon-keepers and infidels, and in face of this persecution of the godly, the adherents were the more lyric in support of the Falconer Party.
Elmer learned from the discussions of damages a pleasant way of reducing expenses. At the end of their stay, they simply did not pay the rent for their house. They informed the local committee, after they had gone, that the committee had promised to provide living quarters, and that was all there was to it. . . . There was a lot of correspondence.
One of Sharon’s chief troubles was getting her crew to bed. Like most actors, they were high-strung after the show. Some of them were too nervous to sleep till they had read theSaturday Evening Post; others never could eat till after the meetings, and till one o’clock they fried eggs and scrambled eggs and burnt toast and quarreled over the dish-washing. Despite their enlightened public stand against the Demon Rum, some of the performers had to brace up their nerves with an occasional quart of whisky, and there was dancing and assorted glee.
Though sometimes she exploded all over them, usually Sharon was amiably blind, and she had too many conferences with Elmer to give much heed to the parties.
Lily Anderson, the pale pianist, protested. They ought all, she said, to go to bed early so they could be up early. They ought, she said, to go oftener to the cottage prayer meetings. The others insisted that this was too much to expect of people exhausted by their daily three hours of work, but she reminded them that they were doing the work of the Lord, and they ought to be willing to wear themselves out in such service. They were, said they; but not tonight.
After days when Art Nichols, the cornetist, and Adolph Klebs, the violinist, had such heads at ten in the morning that they had to take pick-me-ups, would come days when all of them, even Art and Adolph, were hysterically religious; when quite privately they prayed and repented and raised their voices in ululating quavers of divine rapture, till Sharon said furiously that she didn’t know whether she preferred to be waked up by hell-raising or hallelujahs. Yet once she bought a traveling phonograph for them, and many records, half hectic dances and half hymns.
Though her presence nearly took away his need of other stimulants, of tobacco and alcohol and most of his cursing, it was a year before Elmer was altogether secure from the thought of them. But gradually he saw himself certain of future power and applause as a clergyman. His ambition became more important than the titillation of alcohol, and he felt very virtuous and pleased.
Those were big days, rejoicing days, sunny days. He had everything: his girl, his work, his fame, his power over people. When they held meetings in Topeka, his mother came from Paris to hear them, and as she watched her son addressing two thousand people, all the heavy graveyard doubts which had rotted her after his exit from Mizpah Seminary vanished.
He felt now that he belonged. The gospel crew had accepted him as their assistant foreman, as bolder and stronger and trickier than any save Sharon, and they followed him like family dogs. He imagined a day when he would marry Sharon, supersede her as leader—letting her preach now and then as a feature—and become one of the great evangelists of the land. He belonged. When he encountered fellow evangelists, no matter how celebrated, he was pleased but not awed.
Didn’t Sharon and he meet no less an evangelist than Dr. Howard Bancock Binch, the great Baptist defender of the literal interpretation of the Bible, president of the True Gospel Training School for Religious Workers, editor ofThe Keeper of the Vineyard, and author of “Fool Errors of So-Called Science”? Didn’t Dr. Binch treat Elmer like a son?
Dr. Binch happened to be in Joliet, on his way to receive his sixth D. D. degree (from Abner College) during Sharon’s meetings there. He lunched with Sharon and Elmer.
“Which hymns do you find the most effective when you make your appeal for converts, Dr. Binch?” asked Elmer.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Brother Gantry,” said the authority. “I think ‘Just as I Am’ and ‘Jesus, I Am Coming Home’ hit real folksy hearts like nothing else.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t agree with you,” protested Sharon. “It seems to me—of course you have far more experience and talent than I, Dr. Binch—”
“Not at all, my dear sister,” said Dr. Binch, with a leer which sickened Elmer with jealousy. “You are young, but all of us recognize your genius.”
“Thank you very much. But I mean: They’re not lively enough. I feel we ought to use hymns with a swing to ’em, hymns that make you dance right up to the mourners’ bench.”
Dr. Binch stopped gulping his fried pork chops and held up a flabby, white, holy hand. “Oh, Sister Falconer, I hate to have you use the word ‘dance’ regarding an evangelistic meeting! What is the dance? It is the gateway to hell! How many innocent girls have found in the dance-hall the allurement which leads to every nameless vice!”
Two minutes of information about dancing—given in the same words that Sharon herself often used—and Dr. Binch wound up with a hearty: “So I beg of you not to speak of ‘dancing to the mourners’ bench!’ ”
“I know, Dr. Binch, I know, but I mean in its sacred sense, as of David dancing before the Lord.”
“But I feel there was a different meaning to that. If you only knew the original Hebrew—the word should not be translated ‘danced’ but ‘was moved by the spirit.’ ”
“Really? I didn’t know that. I’ll use that.”
They all looked learned.
“What methods, Dr. Binch,” asked Elmer, “do you find the most successful in forcing people to come to the altar when they resist the Holy Ghost?”
“I always begin by asking those interested in being prayed for to hold up their hands.”
“Oh, I believe in having them stand up if they want prayer. Once you get a fellow to his feet, it’s so much easier to coax him out into the aisle and down to the front. If he just holds up his hand, he may pull it down before you can spot him. We’ve trained our ushers to jump right in the minute anybody gets up, and say ‘Now, Brother, won’t you come down front and shake hands with Sister Falconer and make your stand for Jesus?’ ”
“No,” said Dr. Binch, “my experience is that there are many timid people who have to be led gradually. To ask them to stand up is too big a step. But actually, we’re probably both right. My motto as a soul-saver, if I may venture to apply such a lofty title to myself, is that one should use every method that, in the vernacular, will sell the goods.”
“I guess that’s right,” said Elmer. “Say, tell me, Dr. Binch, what do you do with converts after they come to the altar?”
“I always try to have a separate room for ’em. That gives you a real chance to deepen and richen their new experience. They can’t escape, if you close the door. And there’s no crowd to stare and embarrass them.”
“I can’t see that,” said Sharon. “I believe that if the people who come forward are making a stand for Christ, they ought to be willing to face the crowd. And it makes such an impression on the whole bunch of the unsaved to see a lot of seekers at the mourners’ bench. You must admit, Brother Binch—Dr. Binch, I should say—that lots of people who just come to a revival for a good time are moved to conviction epidemically, by seeing others shaken.”
“No, I can’t agree that that’s so important as making a deeper impression on each convert, so that each goes out as an agent for you, as it were. But every one to his own methods. I mean so long as the Lord is with us and behind us.”
“Say, Dr. Binch,” said Elmer, “how do you count your converts? Some of the preachers in this last town accused us of lying about the number. On what basis do you count them?”
“Why, I count every one (and we use a recording machine) that comes down to the front and shakes hands with me. What if some of themaremerely old church-members warmed over? Isn’t it worth just as much to give new spiritual life to those who’ve had it and lost it?”
“Of course it is. That’s what we think. And then we got criticized there in that fool town! We tried—that is, Sister Falconer here tried—a stunt that was new for us. We opened up on some of the worst dives and blind tigers by name. We even gave street numbers. The attack created a howling sensation; people just jammed in, hoping we’d attack other places. I believe that’s a good policy. We’re going to try it here next week. It puts the fear of God into the wicked, and slams over the revival.”
“There’s danger in that sort of thing, though,” said Dr. Binch. “I don’t advise it. Trouble is, in such an attack you’re liable to offend some of the leading church-members—the very folks that contribute the most cash to a revival. They’re often the owners of buildings that get used by unscrupulous persons for immoral purposes, and while they of course regret such unfortunate use of their property, if you attack such places by name, you’re likely to lose their support. Why, you might lose thousands of dollars! It seems to me wiser and more Christian to just attack vice in general.”
“How much orchestra do you use, Dr. Binch?” asked Sharon.
“All I can get hold of. I’m carrying a pianist, a violinist, a drummer, and a cornetist, besides my soloist.”
“But don’t you find some people objecting to fiddling?”
“Oh, yes, but I jolly ’em out of it by saying I don’t believe in letting the devil monopolize all these art things,” said Dr. Binch. “Besides, I find that a good tune, sort of a nice, artistic, slow, sad one, puts folks into a mood where they’ll come across both with their hearts and their contributions. By the way, speaking of that, what luck have you folks had recently in raising money? And what method do you use?”
“It’s been pretty good with us—and I need a lot, because I’m supporting an orphanage,” said Sharon. “We’re sticking to the idea of the free-will offering the last day. We can get more money than any town would be willing to guarantee beforehand. If the appeal for the free-will offering is made strong enough, we usually have pretty fair results.”
“Yes, I use the same method. But I don’t like the term ‘free-will offering,’ or ‘thank offering.’ It’s been used so much by merely second-rate evangelists, who, and I grieve to say there are such people, put their own gain before the service of the Kingdom, that it’s got a commercial sound. In making my own appeal for contributions, I use ‘love offering.’ ”
“That’s worth thinking over, Dr. Binch,” sighed Sharon, “but, oh, how tragic it is that we, with our message of salvation—if the sad old world would but listen, we could solve all its sorrows and difficulties—yet with this message ready, we have to be practical and raise money for our expenses and charities. Oh, the world doesn’t appreciate evangelists. Think what we can do for a resident minister! These preachers who talk about conducting their own revivals make me sick! They don’t know the right technique. Conducting revivals is a profession. One must know all the tricks. With all modesty, I figure that I know just what will bring in the converts.”
“I’m sure you do, Sister Falconer,” from Binch. “Say, do you and Brother Gantry like union revivals?”
“You bet your life we do,” said Brother Gantry. “We won’t conduct a revival unless we can have the united support of all the evangelical preachers in town.”
“I think you are mistaken, Brother Gantry,” said Dr. Binch. “I find that I have the most successful meetings with only a few churches, but all of them genuinely O. K. With all the preachers joined together, you have to deal with a lot of these two-by-four hick preachers with churches about the size of woodsheds and getting maybe eleven hundred a year, and yet they think they have the right to make suggestions! No, sir! I want to do business with the big down-town preachers that are used to doing things in a high-grade way and that don’t kick if you take a decent-sized offering out of town!”
“Yuh, there’s something to be said for that,” said Elmer. “That’s what the Happy Sing Evangelist—you know, Bill Buttle—said to us one time.”
“But I hope you don’tlikeBrother Buttle!” protested Dr. Binch.
“Oh, no! Anyway,Ididn’t like him,” said Sharon, which was a wifely slap at Elmer.
Dr. Binch snorted, “He’s a scoundrel! There’s rumors about his wife’s leaving him. Why is it that in such a high calling as ours there are so many rascals? Take Dr. Mortonby! Calling himself a cover-to-cover literalist, and then his relations to the young woman who sings for him—I would shock you, Sister Falconer, if I told you what I suspect.”
“Oh, I know. I haven’t met him, but I hear dreadful things,” wailed Sharon. “And Wesley Zigler! They say he drinks! And an evangelist! Why, if any person connected with me were so much as to take one drink, out he goes!”
“That’s right, that’s right. Isn’t it dreadful!” mourned Dr. Binch. “And take this charlatan Edgar Edgars—this obscene ex-gambler with his disgusting slang! Uh! The hypocrite!”
Joyously they pointed out that this rival artist in evangelism was an ignoramus, that a passer of bogus checks, the other doubtful about the doctrine of the premillennial coming; joyously they concluded that the only intelligent and moral evangelists in America were Dr. Binch, Sister Falconer, and Brother Gantry, and the lunch broke up in an orgy of thanksgiving.
“There’s the worst swell-head and four-flusher in America, that Binch, and he’s shaky on Jonah, and I’ve heard he chews tobacco—and then pretending to be so swell and citified. Be careful of him,” said Sharon to Elmer afterward, and, “Oh, my dear, my dear!”
CHAPTER XV
itwas not her eloquence but her healing of the sick which raised Sharon to such eminence that she promised to become the most renowned evangelist in America. People were tired of eloquence; and the whole evangelist business was limited, since even the most ardent were not likely to be saved more than three or four times. But they could be healed constantly, and of the same disease.
Healing was later to become the chief feature of many evangelists, but in 1910 it was advertised chiefly by Christian Scientists and the New Thoughters. Sharon came to it by accident. She had regularly offered prayers for the sick, but only absent-mindedly. When Elmer and she had been together for a year, during her meetings in Schenectady a man led up his deaf wife and begged Sharon to heal her. It amused Sharon to send out for some oil (it happened to be shotgun oil, but she properly consecrated it) to anoint the woman’s ears, and to pray lustily for healing.
The woman screamed, “Glory to God, I’ve got my hearing back!”
There was a sensation in the tabernacle, and everybody itched with desire to be relieved of whatever ailed him. Elmer led the healed deaf woman aside and asked her name for the newspapers. It is true that she could not hear him, but he wrote out his questions, she wrote the answers, and he got an excellent story for the papers and an idea for their holy work.
Why, he put it to Sharon, shouldn’t she make healing a regular feature?
“I don’t know that I have any gift for it,” considered Sharon.
“Sure you have! Aren’t you psychic? You bet. Go to it. We might pull off some healing services. I bet the collections would bust all records, and we’ll have a distinct understanding with the local committees that we get all over a certain amount, besides the collection the last day.”
“Well, we might try one. Of course, the Lord may have blessed me with special gifts that way, and to him be all the credit, oh, let’s stop in here and have an ice cream soda, Ilovebanana splits, I hope nobody sees me, I feel like dancing tonight, anyway we’ll talk over the possibility of healing, I’m going to take a hot bath the minute we get home with losh bath salts—losh and losh and losh.”
The success was immense.
She alienated many evangelical pastors by divine healing, but she won all the readers of books about will-power, and her daily miracles were reported in the newspapers. And, or so it was reported, some of her patients remained cured.
She murmured to Elmer, “You know, maybe there really is something to this healing, and I get an enormous thrill out of it—telling the lame to chuck their crutches. That man last night, that cripple—he did feel lots better.”
They decorated the altar now with crutches and walking-sticks, all given by grateful patients—except such as Elmer had been compelled to buy to make the exhibit inspiring from the start.
Money gamboled in. One grateful patient gave Sharon five thousand dollars. And Elmer and Sharon had their only quarrel, except for occasional spats of temperament. With the increase in profits, he demanded a rise of salary, and she insisted that her charities took all she had.
“Yuh, I’ve heard a lot about ’em,” said he: “the Old Ladies’ Home and the orphanage and the hoosegow for retired preachers. I suppose you carry ’em along with you on the road!”
“Do you mean to insinuate, my good friend, that I—”
They talked in a thoroughly spirited and domestic manner, and afterward she raised his salary to five thousand and kissed him.
With the money so easily come by, Sharon burst out in hectic plans. She was going to buy a ten-thousand-acre farm for a Christian Socialist colony and a university, and she went so far as to get a three-months’ option on two hundred acres. She was going to have a great national daily paper, with crime news, scandal, and athletics omitted, and a daily Bible lesson on the front page. She was going to organize a new crusade—an army of ten million which would march through heathen countries and convert the entire world to Christianity in this generation.
She did, at last, actually carry out one plan, and create a headquarters for her summer meetings.
At Clontar, a resort on the New Jersey coast, she bought the pier on which Benno Hackenschmidt used to give grand opera. Though the investment was so large that even for the initial payment it took almost every penny she had saved, she calculated that she would make money because she would be the absolute owner and not have to share contributions with local churches. And, remaining in one spot, she would build up more prestige than by moving from place to place and having to advertise her virtues anew in every town.
In a gay frenzy she planned that if she was successful, she would keep the Clontar pier for summer and build an all-winter tabernacle in New York or Chicago. She saw herself another Mary Baker Eddy, an Annie Besant, a Katherine Tingley. . . . Elmer Gantry was shocked when she hinted that, who knows? the next Messiah might be a woman, and that woman might now be on earth, just realizing her divinity.
The pier was an immense structure, built of cheap knotty pine, painted a hectic red with gold stripes. It was pleasant, however, on hot evenings. Round it ran a promenade out over the water, where once lovers had strolled between acts of the opera, and giving on the promenade were many barnlike doors.
Sharon christened it “The Waters of Jordan Tabernacle,” added more and redder paint, more golden gold, and erected an enormous revolving cross, lighted at night with yellow and ruby electric bulbs.
The whole gospel crew went to Clontar early in June to make ready for the great opening on the evening of the first of July.
They had to enlist volunteer ushers and personal workers, and Sharon and Adelbert Shoop had notions about a huge robed choir, with three or four paid soloists.
Elmer had less zeal than usual in helping her, because an unfortunate thing had gone and happened to Elmer. He saw that he really ought to be more friendly with Lily Anderson, the pianist. While he remained true to Sharon, he had cumulatively been feeling that it was sheer carelessness to let the pretty and anemic and virginal Lily be wasted. He had been driven to notice her through indignation at Art Nichols, the cornetist, for having the same idea.
Elmer was fascinated by her unawakenedness. While he continued to be devoted to Sharon, over her shoulder he was always looking at Lily’s pale sweetness, and his lips were moist.
They sat on the beach by moonlight, Sharon and Elmer, the night before the opening service.
All of Clontar, with its mile of comfortable summer villas and gingerbread hotels, was excited over the tabernacle, and the Chamber of Commerce had announced, “We commend to the whole Jersey coast this high-class spiritual feature, the latest addition to the manifold attractions and points of interest at the snappiest of all summer colonies.”
A choir of two hundred had been coaxed in, and some of them had been persuaded to buy their own robes and mortar boards.
Near the sand dune against which Sharon and Elmer lolled was the tabernacle, over which the electric cross turned solemnly, throwing its glare now on the rushing surf, now across the bleak sand.
“And it’s mine!” Sharon trembled. “I’ve made it! Four thousand seats, and I guess it’s the only Christian tabernacle built out over the water! Elmer, it almost scares me! So much responsibility! Thousands of poor troubled souls turning to me for help, and if I fail them, if I’m weak or tired or greedy, I’ll be murdering their very souls. I almost wish I were back safe in Virginia!”
Her enchanted voice wove itself with the menace of the breakers, feeble against the crash of broken waters, passionate in the lull, while the great cross turned its unceasing light.
“And I’m ambitious, Elmer. I know it. I want the world. But I realize what an awful danger that is. But I never had anybody to train me. I’m just nobody. I haven’t any family, any education. I’ve had to do everything for myself, except what Cecil and you and another man or two have done, and maybe you-all came too late. When I was a kid, there was no one to tell me what a sense of honor was. But—— Oh, I’ve done things! Little Katie Jonas of Railroad Avenue—little Katie with her red flannel skirt and torn stockings, fighting the whole Killarney Street gang and giving Pup Monahan one in the nose, by Jiminy! And not five cents a year, even for candy. And now it’s mine, that tabernacle there—look at it!—that cross, that choir you hear practising! Why, I’m the Sharon Falconer you read about! And tomorrow I become—oh, people reaching for me—me healing ’em— No! It frightens me! It can’t last.Make it last for me, Elmer!Don’t let them take it away from me!”
She was sobbing, her head on his lap, while he comforted her clumsily. He was slightly bored. She was heavy, and though he did like her, he wished she wouldn’t go on telling that Katie-Jonas-Utica story.
She rose to her knees, her arms out to him, her voice hysteric against the background of the surf:
“I can’t do it! But you—— I’m a woman. I’m weak. I wonder if I oughtn’t to stop thinking I’m such a marvel, if I oughtn’t to let you run things and just stand back and help you? Ought I?”
He was overwhelmed by her good sense, but he cleared his throat and spoke judiciously:
“Well, now I’ll tell you. Personally I’d never’ve brought it up, but since you speak of it yourself—I don’t admit for a minute that I’ve got any more executive ability or oratory than you have—probably not half as much. And after all, you did start the show; I came in late. But same time, while a woman can put things over just as good as a man, or better, for awhile, she’s a woman, and she isn’t built to carry on things like a man would, see how I mean?”
“Would it be better for the Kingdom if I forgot my ambition and followed you?”
“Well, I don’t say it’d be better. You’ve certainly done fine, honey. I haven’t got any criticisms. But same time, I do think we ought to think it over.”
She had remained still, a kneeling silver statue. Now she dropped her head against his knees, crying:
“I can’t give it up! I can’t! Must I?”
He was conscious that people were strolling near. He growled, “Say, for goodness’ sake, Shara, don’thollerand carry on like that! Somebody mighthear!”
She sprang up. “Oh, you fool! You fool!”
She fled from him, along the sands, through the rays of the revolving cross, into the shadow. He angrily rubbed his back against the sand dune and grumbled:
“Damn these women! All alike, even Shary; always getting temperamental on you about nothing at all! Still, I did kind of go off half cocked, considering she was just beginning to get the idea of letting me boss the show. Oh, hell, I’ll jolly her out of it!”
He took off his shoes, shook the sand out of them, and rubbed the sole of one stocking foot slowly, agreeably, for he was conceiving a thought.
If Sharon was going to pull stuff like that on him, he ought to teach her a lesson.
Choir practise was over. Why not go back to the house and see what Lily Anderson was doing?
Therewas a nice kid, and she admired him—she’d never dare bawl him out.
He tiptoed to Lily’s virgin door and tapped lightly.
“Yes?”
He dared not speak—Sharon’s door, in the bulky old house they had taken in Clontar, was almost opposite. He tapped again, and when Lily came to the door, in a kimono, he whispered, “Shhh! Everybody asleep. May I come in just a second? Something important to ask you.”
Lily was wondering, but obviously she felt a pallid excitement as he followed her into the room, with its violet-broidered doilies.
“Lily, I’ve been worrying. Do you think Adelbert ought to have the choir start with ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God’ tomorrow, or something a little snappier—get the crowd and then shoot in something impressive.”
“Honest, Mr. Gantry, I don’t believe they could change the program now.”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Sit down and tell me how the choir practise went tonight. Bet it went swell, with you pounding the box!”
“Oh, now,” as she perched lightly on the edge of the bed, “you’re just teasing me, Mr. Gantry!”
He sat beside her, chuckling bravely, “And I can’t even get you to call me Elmer!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare, Mr. Gantry! Miss Falconer would call me down!”
“You just let me know ifanybodyever dares try to callyoudown, Lily! Why—— I don’t know whether Sharon appreciates it or not, but the way you spiel the music gives as much power to our meetings as her sermons or anything else.”
“Oh, no, you’re just flattering me, Mr. Gantry! Oh, say, I have a trade-last for you.”
“Well, I—oh, let’s see—oh, I remember: that Episcopalopian preacher—the big handsome one—he said you ought to be on the stage, you had so much talent.”
“Oh, go on, you’re kidding me, Mr. Gantry!”
“No, honest he did. Now, what’s mine? Though I’d rather haveyousay something nice about me!”
“Oh, now you’re fishing!”
“Sure I am—with such a lovely fish as you!”
“Oh, it’s terrible the way you talk.” Laughter—silvery peals—several peals. “But I mean, this grant opera soloist that’s down for our opening says you look so strong that she’s scared of you.”
“Oh, she is, is she! Are you? . . . Huh? . . . Are you? . . . Tell me!” Somehow her hand was inside his, and he squeezed it, while she looked away and blushed and at last breathed, “Yes, kind of.”
He almost embraced her, but—oh, it was a mistake to rush things, and he went on in his professional tone:
“But to go back to Sharon and our labors: it’s all right to be modest, but you ought to realize how enormously your playing adds to the spirituality of the meetings.”
“I’m so glad you think so, but, honest, to compare me to Miss Falconer for bringing souls to Christ—why she’s just the most wonderful person in the world.”
“That’s right. You bet she is.”
“Only I wish she felt like you do. I don’t really think she cares so much for my playing.”
“Well, she ought to! I’m not criticizing, you understand; she certainly is one of the greatest evangelists living; but just between you and I, she has one fault—she doesn’t appreciate any of us—she thinks it’s her that does the whole darn’ thing! As I say, I admire her, but, by golly, it does make me sore sometimes to never have her appreciate your music—I mean the way it ought to be appreciated—see how I mean?”
“Oh, that is so nice of you, but I don’t deserve—”
“ButI’ve always appreciated it, don’t you think, Lily?”
“Oh, yes, indeed you have, and it’s been such an encouragement—”
“Oh, well, say, I’m just tickled to death to have you say that, Lily.” A firmer pressure on her frail hand. “Do youliketo have me like your music?”
“Oh, yes.”
“But do you like to have me likeyou?”
“Oh, yes. Of course, we’re all working together—oh, like sister and brother—”
“Lily! Don’t you think we might ever be, uh, don’t you think we could be just a little closer than sister and brother?”
“Oh, you’re just being mean! How could you ever like poor little me when you belong to Sharon?”
“What do you mean? Me belong to Sharon? Say! I admire her tremendously, but I’m absolutely free, you can bet your life on that, and just because I’ve always been kinda shy of you—you have such a kinda flower-like beauty, you might say, that no man, no, not the coarsest, would ever dare to ruffle it—and because I’ve stood back, sorta feeling like I was protecting you, maybe you think I haven’t appreciated all your qualities!”
She swallowed.
“Oh, Lily, all I ask for is the chance now and then, whenever you’re down in the mouth—and all of us must feel like that, unless we think we’re the whole cheese and absolutelyownthe gospel game!—whenever you feel that way, lemme have the privilege of telling you how greatlyonefellow appreciates the loveliness that you scatter along the road!”
“Do you really feel that way? Maybe I can play the piano, but personally I’m nothing . . . nothing.”
“It isn’t true, it isn’ttrue, dearest! Lily! It’s so like your modesty to not appreciate what sunshine you bring into the hearts of all of us, dear, and how we cherish—”
The door shot open. In the doorway stood Sharon Falconer in a black-and-gold dressing-gown.
“Both of you,” said Sharon, “are discharged. Fired. Now! Don’t ever let me see your faces again. You can stay tonight, but see to it that you’re out of the house before breakfast.”
“Oh, Miss Falconer—” Lily wailed, thrusting away Elmer’s hand. But Sharon was gone, with a bang of the door. They rushed into the hall, they heard the key in her lock, and she ignored their rapping.
Lily glared at Elmer. He heard her key also, and he stood alone in the hall.
Not till one in the morning, sitting in flabby dejection, did he have his story shaped and water-tight.
It was an heroic spectacle, that of the Reverend Elmer Gantry climbing from the second-story balcony through Sharon’s window, tiptoeing across the room, plumping on his knees by her bed, and giving her a large plashy kiss.
“I am not asleep,” she observed, in tones level as a steel rail, while she drew the comforter about her neck. “In fact I’m awake for the first time in two years, my young friend. You can get out of here. I won’t tell you all I’ve been thinking, but among other things you’re an ungrateful dog that bit the hand that took you out of the slimy gutter, you’re a liar, an ignoramus, a four-flusher, and a rotten preacher.”
“By God, I’ll show—”
But she giggled, and his plan of action came back to him.
He sat firmly on the edge of the bed, and calmly he remarked:
“Sharon, you’re a good deal of a damn fool. You think I’m going to deny flirting with Lily. I won’t take the trouble to deny it! If you don’t appreciate yourself, if you don’t see that a man that’s ever associated with you simply couldn’t be interested in any other woman, then there’s nothing I can say. Why, my God, Shara, you know what you are! I could no more be untrue to you than I could to my religion! As a matter of fact—— Want to know what I was saying to Lily, to Miss Anderson?”
“I do not!”
“Well, you’re going to! As I came up the hall, her door was open, and she asked me to come in—she had something to ask me. Well, seems the poor young woman was wondering if her music was really up to your greatness—that’s what she herself called it—especially now that the Jordan Tabernacle will give you so much more power. She spoke of you as the greatest spiritual force in the world, and she was wondering whether she was worthy—”
“Um. She did, eh? Well, she isn’t! And she can stay fired. And you, my fine young liar, if you ever so much as look at another wench again, I’ll fire you for keeps. . . . Oh, Elmer, how could you, beloved? When I’ve given you everything! Oh, lie, lie, go on lying! Tell me a good strong lie that I’ll believe! And then kiss me!”
Banners, banners, banners lifting along the rafters, banners on the walls of the tabernacle, banners moving to the air that sifted in from the restless sea. Night of the opening of Waters of Jordan Tabernacle, night of the beginning of Sharon’s crusade to conquer the world.
The town of Clontar and all the resorts near by felt here was something they did not quite understand, something marvelous and by all means to be witnessed; and from up and down the Jersey coast, by motor, by trolley, the religious had come. By the time the meeting began all of the four thousand seats were filled, five hundred people were standing, and outside waited a throng hoping for miraculous entrance.
The interior of the pier was barnlike; the thin wooden walls were shamelessly patched against the ravages of winter storms, but they were hectic with the flags of many nations, with immense posters, blood-red on white, proclaiming that in the mysterious blood of the Messiah was redemption from all sorrow, that in his love was refuge and safety. Sharon’s pretentious white-and-gold pyramidal altar had been discarded. She was using the stage, draped with black velvet, against which hung a huge crystal cross, and the seats for the choir of two hundred, behind a golden pulpit, were draped with white.
A white wooden cross stood by the pulpit.
It was a hot night, but through the doors along the pier the cool breeze filtered in, and the sound of waters, the sound of wings, as the gulls were startled from their roosts. Every one felt an exaltation in the place, a coming of marvels.
Before the meeting the gospel crew, back-stage, were excited as a theatrical company on a first night. They rushed with great rapidity nowhere in particular, and tripped over each other, and muttered, “Say—gee—gee—” To the last, Adelbert Shoop was giving needless instructions to the new pianist, who had been summoned by telegraph from Philadelphia,viceLily Anderson. She professed immense piety, but Elmer noted that she was a pretty fluffy thing with a warm eye.
The choir was arriving along with the first of the audience. They filtered down the aisle, chattering, feeling important. Naturally, as the end of the pier gave on open water, there was no stage entrance at the back. There was only one door, through which members of opera castes had been wont to go out to the small rear platform for fresh air between acts. The platform was not connected with the promenade.
It was to this door that Sharon led Elmer. Their dressing-rooms were next to each other. She knocked—he had been sitting with a Bible and an evening paper in his lap, reading one of them. He opened, to find her flaming with exultation, a joyous girl with a dressing-gown over her chemise. Seemingly she had forgotten her anger of the night.
She cried, “Come! See the stars!” Defying the astonishment of the choir, who were filing into the chorus dressing-room to assume their white robes, she led him to the door, out on the railed platform.
The black waves glittered with lights. There was spaciousness and a windy peace upon the waters.
“Look! It’s so big! Not like the cities where we’ve been shut up!” she exulted. “Stars, and the waves that come clear from Europe! Europe! Castles on a green shore! I’ve never been. And I’m going! And there’ll be great crowds at the ship to meet me, asking for my power! Look!” A shooting star had left a scrawl of flame in the sky. “Elmer! It’s an omen for the glory that begins tonight! Oh, dearest, my dearest, don’t ever hurt me again!”
His kiss promised it, his heart almost promised it.
She was all human while they stood fronting the sea, but half an hour after, when she came out in a robe of white satin and silver lace, with a crimson cross on her breast, she was prophetess only, and her white forehead was high, her eyes were strange with dreaming.
Already the choir were chanting. They were starting with the Doxology, and it gave Elmer a feeling of doubt. Surely the Doxology was the end of things, not the beginning? But he looked impassive, the brooding priest, in frock coat and white bow tie, portly and funereal, as he moved magnificently through the choir and held up his arms to command silence for his prayer.
He told them of Sister Falconer and her message, of their plans and desires at Clontar, and asked for a minute of silent prayer for the power of the Holy Ghost to descend upon the tabernacle. He stood back—his chair was up-stage, beside the choir—as Sharon floated forward, not human, a goddess, tears thick in lovely eyes as she perceived the throng that had come to her.
“My dear ones, it is not I who bring you anything, but you who in your faith bring me strength!” she said shakily. Then her voice was strong again; she rose on the wave of drama.
“Just now, looking across the sea to the end of the world, I saw an omen for all of us—a fiery line written by the hand of God—a glorious shooting star. Thus he apprized us of his coming, and bade us be ready. Oh, are you ready, are you ready, will you be ready when the great day comes—”
The congregation was stirred by her lyric earnestness.
But outside there were less devout souls. Two workmen had finished polishing the varnished wooden pillars as the audience began to come. They slipped outside, on the promenade along the pier, and sat on the rail, enjoying the coolness, slightly diverted by hearing a sermon.
“Not a bad spieler, that woman. Puts it all over this guy Reverend Golding up-town,” said one of the workmen, lighting a cigarette, keeping it concealed in his palm as he smoked.
The other tiptoed across the promenade to peer through the door, and returned mumbling, “Yuh, and a swell looker. Same time though, tell you how I feel about it: woman’s all right in her place, but takes a real he-male to figure out this religion business.”
“She’s pretty good though, at that,” yawned the first workman, snapping away his cigarette. “Say, let’s beat it. How ’bout lil glass beer? We can go along this platform and get out at the front, I guess.”
“All right. You buying?”
The workmen moved away, dark figures between the sea and the doors that gave on the bright auditorium.
The discarded cigarette nestled against the oily rags which the workmen had dropped on the promenade, beside the flimsy walls of the tabernacle. A rag glowed round the edges, worm-like, then lit in circling flame.
Sharon was chanting: “What could be more beautiful than a tabernacle like this, set on the bosom of the rolling deep? Oh, think what the mighty tides have meant in Holy Writ! The face of the waters on which moved the spirit of Almighty God, when the earth was but a whirling and chaotic darkness! Jesus baptized in the sweet waters of Jordan! Jesus walking the waves—so could we today if we had but his faith! O dear God, strengthen thou our unbelief, give us faith like unto thine own!”
Elmer, sitting back listening, was moved as in his first adoration for her. He had become so tired of her poetizing that he almost admitted to himself that he was tired. But tonight he felt her strangeness again, and in it he was humble. He saw her straight back, shimmering in white satin, he saw her superb arms as she stretched them out to these thousands, and in hot secret pride he gloated that this beauty, beheld and worshiped of so many, belonged to him alone.
Then he noted something else.
A third of the way back, coming through one of the doors opening on the promenade, was a curl of smoke. He startled; he almost rose; he feared to rouse a panic; and sat with his brain a welter of terrified jelly till he heard the scream “Fire—fire!” and saw the whole audience and the choir leaping up, screaming—screaming—screaming—while the flimsy doorjamb was alight and the flame rose fan-like toward the rafters.
Only Sharon was in his mind—Sharon standing like an ivory column against the terror. He rushed toward her. He could hear her wailing, “Don’t be afraid! Go out slowly!” She turned toward the choir, as with wild white robes they charged down from their bank of seats. She clamored, “Don’t be afraid! We’re in the temple of the Lord! He won’t harm you! I believe! Have faith! I’ll lead you safely through the flames!”
But they ignored her, streamed past her, thrusting her aside.
He seized her arm. “Come here, Shara! The door at the back! We’ll jump over and swim ashore!”
She seemed not to hear him. She thrust his hand away and went on demanding, her voice furious with mad sincerity, “Who will trust the Lord God of Hosts? Now we’ll try our faith! Who will follow me?”
Since two-thirds of the auditorium was to the shoreward side of the fire, and since the wide doors to the promenade were many, most of the audience were getting safely out, save for a child crushed, a woman fainting and trampled. But toward the stage the flames, driven by the sea-wind, were beating up through the rafters. Most of the choir and the audience down front had escaped, but all who were now at the back were cut off.
He grasped Sharon’s arm again. In a voice abject with fear he shouted, “For God’s sake, beat it! We can’t wait!”
She had an insane strength; she thrust him away so sharply that he fell against a chair, bruising his knee. Furious with pain, senseless with fear, he raged, “You can go to hell!” and galloped off, pushing aside the last of the hysterical choir. He looked back and saw her, quite alone, holding up the white wooden cross which had stood by the pulpit, marching steadily forward, a tall figure pale against the screen of flames.
All of the choir who had not got away remembered or guessed the small door at the back; so did Adelbert and Art Nichols; and all of them were jamming toward it.
That door opened inward—only it did not open, with the score of victims thrust against it. In howling panic, Elmer sprang among them, knocked them aside, struck down a girl who stood in his way, yanked open the door, and got through it . . . the last, the only one, to get through it.
He never remembered leaping, but he found himself in the surf, desperately swimming toward shore, horribly cold, horribly bound by heavy clothes. He humped out of his coat.
In the inside pocket was Lily Anderson’s address, as she had given it to him before going that morning.
The sea, by night, though it was glaring now with flames from above, seemed infinite in its black sightlessness. The waves thrust him among the piles; their mossy slime was like the feel of serpents to his frantic hands, and the barnacles cut his palms. But he struggled out from beneath the pier, struggled toward shore, and as he swam and panted, more and more was the sea blood-red about him. In blood he swam, blood that was icy-cold and tumultuous and roaring in his ears.
His knees struck sand, and he crawled ashore, among a shrieking, torn, sea-soaked crowd. Many had leaped from the rail of the promenade and were still fighting the surf, wailing, beaten. Their wet and corpselike heads were seen clearly in the glare; the pier was only a skeleton, a cage round a boiling of flame, with dots of figures still dropping from the promenade.
Elmer ran out a little into the surf and dragged in a woman who had already safely touched bottom.
He had rescued at least thirty people who had already rescued themselves before the reporters got to him and he had to stop and explain the cause of the fire, the cost of the tabernacle, the amount of insurance, the size of the audience, the number of souls revived by Miss Falconer during all her campaigns, and the fact that he had been saving both Miss Falconer and Adelbert Shoop when they had been crushed by a falling rafter.
A hundred and eleven people died that night, including all of the gospel crew save Elmer.
It was Elmer himself who at dawn found Sharon’s body lying on a floor-beam. There were rags of white satin clinging to it, and in her charred hand was still the charred cross.