Whatever the vintage of the joke, the contralto was convulsed and in no state of mind to resist what followed. The missionary was more eloquent in Choctaw, I trust, than he was in English. He was tedious and statistical and he mumbled his words. Saint Jacob cupped a hand to his near ear and strained, but after a time he gave it up. He fidgeted in his chair, then fell asleep, which he could do the more readily in that he was hidden from the sight of the congregation. In a sleepy stirring he raised his right foot in a way that brought his knee against a support of the chair roof. The support gave way and the roof fell with an appalling racket to the tessellated marble floor. Had all the Indians detailed by the missionary attacked the church in a body, their war whoops would have been the cheep of a muted violin by comparison.
Saint Jacob awoke with a start, and as a realization of the truth came to him, he looked at Doctor Potter with a schoolboy's please-mister-I-didn't-do-it expression.
The fat contralto and I exploded. If I managed to regain control of myself, her muffled squeaks would set me off again.
Doctor Potter tiptoed across the platform and
[33]
