Of course that was the explanation.
Brother Hotchkins, happily unconscious of my disapproval of his complexion, arose at intervals behind the railing, to announce, from a slip of paper, that "the next number on our programme will be a musical selection by," etc., etc.; until he arrived at "I am sure you will all join me in thanking the ladies and gentlemen who have entertained us this evening." And as I moved towards the door with my companions, I would hear his voice raised for the inevitable "You are all invited to remain to a short prayer service, after which--" a little louder--"refreshments will be served in the vestry.

I will ask Brother Tompkins to--" The rest was lost in the shuffle of feet about the door and the roar of electric cars glancing past each other on opposite tracks.

I always got out of the chapel before Brother Tompkins could do me any harm.

As if there was anything he could steal from me, now that there was no God in my heart! If I were to go back to Morgan Chapel now, I should stay to hear Brother Tompkins, and as many other brethren as might have anything to say.

I would sit very still in my corner seat and listen to the prayer, and silently join in the Amen.