The Professor of Theology changed color slightly, but he made no answer to his wife. He was absorbed in watching the scene before him. There were many women in the crowd, but men predominated in proportion significant to the eye familiar with the painfully feminine character of New England religious audiences. Of these men, four fifths were toilers of the sea, red of face, uncertain of step, rough of hand, keen of eye, and open of heart,-- “Fearing no God but wind and wet.” The scent of bad liquor was strong upon the heavy, windless air; oaths rippled to and fro as easily as the waves upon the beach, and (it seemed) quite as much according to the laws of Nature. Yet the men bore a decent look of personal respect for the situation. All wore their best clothes, and most were clean for the occasion. They chatted among themselves freely, paying small heed to the presence of strangers, these being regarded as inferior aliens who did not know how to man a boat in a gale. The fisherman’s sense of his own superior position is, in any event, something delightful. In this case there was added the special aristocracy recognized in Angel Alley as belonging to Bayard’s people. Right under the ears of the Professor of Theology uprose these awful words:-- “D---- them swells. He don’t care a ---- for them. We get along up to Christlove without ’em, don’t we, Bob? The parson’s ourn, anyhow. He can’t be bothered with the likes o’ them.” “Look a’ Job Slip yonder! See the face of him, shaved like a dude. That’s him, a-passin’ round hymn-books. Who’d believe it? _Job!_ Why, he ain’t teched a ---- drop sence he swore off! Look a’ that young one of his taggin’ to his finger! That’s his wife, that bleached-out creetur in a new bunnet. See the look of her now!” “It’s a way women have,--lookin’ like that when a man swears off,” replied a young fellow, wriggling uncomfortably. “It kinder puts my eyes out--like it was a lamp turned up too high.” He winked hard and turned away. “Ben Trawl! Hello, Trawl! _You_ here? So fond of the minister as this?” “I like to keep my eye on him,” replied Ben Trawl grimly. Captain Hap, distributing camp-chairs for the women of the audience, turned and eyed Ben over his shoulder. The Captain’s small, keen eyes held the dignity and the scorn of age and character. “Shut up there!” he said authoritatively. “The minister’s comin’. Trot back to your grogshop, Ben. This ain’t no place for Judases, nor yet for rummies.” “Gorry,” laughed a young skipper; “he ain’t got customers enough to okkepy him. They’re all here.” Now there sifted through the crowd an eager, affectionate whisper. “There! There’s the preacher. Look that way--See? That tall, thin fellar--him with the eyes.” “That’s him! That’s him. That long-sparred fellar. Three cheers for him!” shouted the mate of a collier, flinging up his hat. A billow of applause started along the beach. Then a woman’s voice called out:--