He begged our good people to be patient under the trying circumstances, explained that the burned-out fuse would soon be replaced, that an electrician was even now on his way to the church, and told them that a good thing was in store for them—he assured them, "Mr. Allen is still with us."
Five more minutes passed and darkness still brooded.
Again the parson gave the audience, which he hoped was still there, the same little speech, assuring them again, "Mr. Allen is still with us—there's a good thing coming."
At the end of fifteen minutes he repeated it again, assuring them a good thing was coming—the coffee began to boil in the church kitchen, the aroma floating through the auditorium—the lights came on and there hadn't one guilty man escaped. The audience was still there.
Kind reader, you'd never guess what I was thinking about during that trying fifteen minutes.
Well, I was trying to think of an appropriate story to open my speech with, to illustrate the situation—something about where the lights went out.
I thought, and thought, and THOUGHT, but could not fetch it, but the next morning I thought of a corker—I am descended from the English.
The coffee began to boil in the church kitchen, the aroma floated through the auditorium