“Are you goin' to do that, Nelson?”
“Yes, I am. Do you want to come along to witness it?”
“No, I'll wait fer you here, but God bless you, my boy. You'll never, never be sorry fer it, if you live to be a hundred years old.”
Floyd sat down at a table, and, with a checkbook in hand, was adjusting his fountain-pen. Pole went to the window and looked out. Down in the glare below a woman in a blue hood and dress stood praying aloud, in a clear, appealing voice, while all about her were grouped the other Salvationists and a few earnest-eyed spectators.
“That's right, Miss Blue-frock,” Pole said to himself; “go ahead an' rake in yore converts from the highways an' byways, but I've got one in this room you needn't bother about. By gum! ef it was jest a little darker in here, I'll bet I could see a ring o' fire round his head.”
XXXVIII
IN the street below, Nelson took a car for his uncle's residence, and fifteen minutes later he was standing on the veranda ringing the bell. Through a window on his left he looked into a lighted room. He saw old Floyd's bent figure moving about within, and then the housekeeper admitted him into the dimly lighted hall. She regarded him with surprise as she recalled his face.
“You want to see Mr. Floyd?” she said. “I'll see if he will let you come in. He's in a frightful condition, sir, over his troubles. Really, sir, he's so desperate I'm afraid he may do himself some harm.”