The man whom Ellery had decided must be Captain Eben Hammond was
standing on the low platform beside the table. A quaint figure,
patriarchal with its flowing white hair and beard, puritanical with its
set, smooth-shaven lips and tufted brows. Captain Eben held an open hymn
book back in one hand and beat time with the other. He wore brass-bowed
spectacles well down toward the tip of his nose. Swinging a heavy,
stubby finger and singing in a high, quavering voice of no particular
register, he led off the third verse:

"Oh, who shall weep when the roll is called
And who shall shout for joy?"

The melodeon and the hymn book were in accord as to the tune, but
Captain Eben and the various members of the congregation seemed to have
a desire to improvise. They sang with spirit, however, and the rhythmic
pat of feet grew louder and louder. Here and there men and women were
swaying and rocking their bodies in time to the music. The chorus for
each verse was louder than the one preceding it.

Another hymn was given out and sung. And another and still another. The
windows rattled. The patting grew to a steady "thump! thump!" Momentary
pauses between lines were punctuated by hallelujahs and amens. Standing
directly in front of the minister was a six-foot, raw-boned individual
whose clothes smelled strongly of fish, and whose hands, each swung
at the end of an exposed five inches of hairy red wrist, looked like
flippers. At the end of the third hymn this personage sprang straight up
into the air, cracked the heels of a pair of red cowhide boots together,
and whooped: "Glory be! Send the PAOWER!" in a voice like the screech
of a northeast gale. Mr. Ellery, whom this gymnastic feat had taken by