gas. Pete went to the window and looked down at the tent across the street.
"Looks like the side show of a circus. Ever been in?”
“Not me. I'm a preacher's son—got enough o' that stuff when I was a kid and couldn't protect myself.”
“Ought to be a pretty good show when some o' them old-time sisters get happy. Too early for the cabarets; let's go in a while, just for the hell of it.”
"You sure are hard up for somethin' to do."
“Aw, come on. Somethin' funny's bound to happen. You might even get religion, you dam' bootlegger.”
Lucky grinned. “Might meet some o' my customers, you mean."
Through the thick, musty heat imprisoned by the canvas shelter a man's voice rose, leading a spiritual. Other voices chimed eagerly in, some high, clear, sweet; some low, mellow, full,—all swelling, rounding out the refrain till it filled the place, so that it seemed the flimsy walls and roof must soon be torn from their moorings and swept aloft with the song:
Where you running, sinner?
Where you running, I say?
Running from the fire—
You can't cross here!
The preacher stood waiting for the song to melt away. There was a moment of abysmal silence, into which the thousand blasphemies filtering in from outside dropped unheeded.
The preacher was talking in deep, impressive tones. One old patriarch was already supplementing each statement with a matter-of-fact "amen!” of approval.
The preacher was describing hell. He was enumerating without exception the horrors that befall the damned: maddening thirst for the drunkard; for the gambler, insatiable flame, his own greed devouring his soul. The preacher's voice no longer talked—it sang; mournfully at first, monotonously up and down, up and down—a chant in minor mode; then more intensely, more excitedly; now fairly strident.
