It has been commented that at the average wedding the bridgeroom has a minor and insignificant rôle. Mr. Copewell had discovered a sure method, in the parlance of theatrical folk, of fattening the part. The male contracting party has only to stay away.
Suddenly he was aroused out of his apathy by the realization that he was not the only living being in that section of rural America. The discovery brought both surprise and comfort. There had drifted to his ears a plaintive singing voice, evidently not far away. The voice was a tenor and it floated through the thick night with the insistent melancholy of a lone minstrel who sings in adversity. Mr. Copewell could quite plainly distinguish the words of the ballad. They were these:
“Jay Gould’s daughter afore she died,
Done signed a paper, so de bums can’t ride.”
There was a silence, then the voice swelled and grew more melancholy, as though the singer were invoking verse and notes for the voicing of his own piteous plight:
“Or if they do ride, they must ride the rods,
And trust their souls in the hands of Gawd!”
The voice dwelt lingeringly on the final chord, then broke off in a deep-drawn sigh.
Suddenly it flashed on Mr. Copewell that there was need of quick action. For a while the minutes could hardly be too full of action.