On entering the vestibule Bobby hunted for and quickly found the holy-water font. Dipping his finger in, he devoutly made the sign of the cross, while Mr. Compton gazed at him as though he were seeing for the first time an unusually occult rite.
Bobby motioned him; then pointed to the font. Compton came forward obediently enough, but he would not or could not understand what the child further expected.
“Here!” whispered Bobby, with unsmiling face. And catching Mr. Compton’s reluctant right hand, he dipped its index finger in the font.
“Now say what I say,” he adjured.
Standing on tiptoe, Bobby placed the captive finger on Compton’s forehead, brought it down to the breast, then to the left and the right shoulder, while Compton, his face red as a Los Angeles geranium, repeated after his young mentor, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
“You’ll do it better next time,” remarked Bobby consolingly.
“Now come on!” And Bobby, pushing the comedian in front of him, proceeded fully half way up the center aisle.
“Now you genuflect,” he whispered.
“Eh?” said Compton, looking like the “nut” he played.
“Sh-h-h!” warned Bobby. “Look.”