Vinegar looked in vain for his three friends to-day. Hitch Diamond had been gone for three Sundays; Skeeter Butts was organizing a baseball nine, and Figger Bush had gone away with a fishing-party of white people. Suddenly the voice of Dinner Gaze, sitting on Vinegar’s right, rose loud and clear in the silence: “On de yuther side of Jordon, In de sweet fields of Eden, Whar de Tree of Life is bloomin’, Dar is rest fer you!” No one in the congregation knew the song, and the solo-voice floated out like the song of a bird. The people sat with bowed heads and listened. When the song ended Vinegar walked out of the pulpit and extended his hand cordially to Dinner Gaze. “Glad to meet yo’ ’quaintance, my brudder!” he rumbled. “Will you h’ist de toons fer us?” IX DINNER GAZE SINGS. Dinner Gaze rose from his seat and, stooping as if he were trying to catch a rat, walked to the front of the congregation. Pausing a moment, his body began to weave to and fro as if in conformity to the words of Scripture: “All my bones shall praise thee.” Then to the surprise of the congregation, after all this orthodox preparation for starting a tune, Dinner Gaze suddenly walked back to his former place and sat down! In the meantime Vinegar Atts was getting acquainted with the other stranger on the opposite side of the house. “Yes, suh, my name is Tucky Sugg,” the stranger told him. “I ain’t no reg’lar preacher, but I exhausts a little befo’ de people sometimes.” “I hopes you’ll take up yo’ stayin’-place wid us,” Vinegar said cordially. “Us needs good mens.” He turned to motion to Dinner Gaze to start the song, and found that Dinner had gone back to his seat. “Whut ails you, brudder?” he asked. “I’s skeart I don’t know enough toons to lead de singin’,” Gaze said with a grin. “I retires.” Vinegar’s eyes fell upon Ginny Babe Chew. “H’ist a toon, sister!” he commanded. In a hoarse bellow Ginny Babe began: “Blow--ye--de--trumpet--blow----” One line was enough. The words were not inspiring, the tune and tone and manner of the fat leader was a call to penitence, anguish, and tears. Vinegar sprang to his feet. “Dat’s won’t do, sister!” he interrupted. “Less sing _dis_ toon!” He began a song in a bellow which shook the rafters of the house and rattled the windows and threatened to crumble the foundations of the building. The song was a jay-bird affair, waltz-music to the stanza and jig-time to the chorus. The song might as well have been totally unfamiliar to the congregation. It was really one of their favorites--but, in spite of that, they let Vinegar sing it through as a solo. Verily, the hoodoo was working. Vinegar was appalled at the unresponsiveness of his congregation, and when the crowd had listened without objection or commendation to a solo prayer and to a reading from the old, worn Bible upon the desk, the preacher was almost in hysterics. He had never seen anything like that before.