He will wash them in His blood;
So hurry up to Jesus
And He’ll make you good.
Hallelujah!”
Grace was standing in the middle of the circle banging on her drum, her mouth wide open in her big poke-bonnet. On the cab-stand, lolling on his box, pretending to be half asleep, sat Mr. Grace. His daughter’s eyes were on him.
Peter scanned the crowd. It was composed of idlers, onlookers and scoffers, with a sprinkling of converts. The converts were noticeable by their pale, indignant enthusiasm.
At first he saw no one who attracted his attention, and then——. A man with dejected shoulders was crouching in the gateway of a house. He seemed to be trying to be unobserved. His clothes were shabby—out of fashion. His linen was soiled. It was the dirty white spats above his unshone boots that made Peter notice. He told the cabby to wait for him.
He walked by the man once. In passing he noted the total slovenliness of his appearance, the unkempt hands, the defeated air and the hat jammed down to hide the close-cropped hair. He turned back and was repassing. Like a whipped dog the man raised his eyes; then instantly lowered them. Peter held out his hand; his throat was too choked to say anything. The man seemed about to take it; then slunk back.
“You don’t want to know me.”
“I do. If I hadn’t, I shouldn’t have come. I’m——I’m awfully sorry.”