“Have kissèd each other,” Edgar sighed softly. “Have kissèd each other—” the caressing tones melted into the organ’s, whispered once more, “each other,” and died lingeringly. A long breath, an audible “Ah-h-h!” drifted through the church. The choirmaster kicked his feet together under the organ for joy. He little knew that at that very moment the future of his vested choir was swinging lightly in the balance.
But such was the fact. Fate, who links together events seemingly isolated, smoothed Edgar’s way to his fight, but allowed him to be beaten. If this had not happened, his wrath would not have vented itself in hectoring a bad-tempered bass at the Wednesday rehearsal, by scampering in front of him and mimicking with wonderful accuracy his gruff, staccato voice.
“He taketh up the isles—as a ver-ry—little thing!” mocked Edgar.
“Shut up!” growled the bass.
“A ver-ry lit-tle thing!” Edgar continued malignantly, slipping across his victim’s path.
“Oh, all right, young feller!” called the bass, enraged at the grins and applause of the other men, “all right! Just you wait till Sunday, that’s all!” If Edgar had not teased him so, he would not have added: “I know what’ll happen then, if you don’t.”
“’You’re going to be bounced, that’s what.’”
“What?” Edgar inquired derisively, catching up with him.
“You’re going to be bounced, that’s what,” said the bass irritably.