Capt. Elliott felt that he was a pinioned bird. Stay he must, and all the while the young man on the platform shot his arrows.
“He’s a talkin’ out of his heart to some poor prodigal,” thought Aunt Lydia. “God help him!”
Then that beautiful appeal in the hymnal was sung, that Advent appeal;
“O Jesus, thou art standing
Outside the fast–closed door,
In lowly patience waiting
To pass the threshold o’er:
We bear the name of Christians,
His name and sign we bear:
O shame, thrice shame upon us,
To keep him standing there.”
“O dear!” groaned the captain. “That’s me! I can’t stand this. Guess I’ll go now.”
The young fishermen were now roaring “Ah–men!” and if they had been allowed to imitate the ocean long as they pleased, Capt. Elliott might have escaped. Mr. Raynham saw an old man rising, and guessing the object of the movement, waved his hand imperatively to the male singers. The ocean did not finish its roar very gracefully, but above the confused tumbling of the surf, Mr. Raynham’s voice rose triumphantly. “We will have music again, in a moment. A few words more.” Capt. Elliott remembered his promise to May, and reluctantly sat down.
“Oh, dear! Catch me makin’ sich a promise next time!” inwardly moaned the captain.