At one point, after a breathing spell--or a rest, as musicians say--the tenor started alone. He didn't mean to. But by this break the deacons discovered that he was in the game and earning his salary. The others caught him at the first quarter, however, and away they went again, neck and neck. Before they finished, several had changed places. Sometimes "Abide" was ahead, and sometimes "Lord," but on the whole it was a pretty even thing. Then the minister--he drew a salary, also--read something out of the Bible, after which--as they say in the newspapers--"there was another well-rendered selection by the choir." This spasm was a tenor solo with chorus accompaniment. This was when he of the long neck got in his deadly work. The audience faced the choir and the salaried soloist was happy. When the huddling had ceased, the soloist stepped a trifle to the front and, with the confidence born of a man who stands pat on four aces, gave a majestic sweep of his head toward the organist. He said nothing, but the movement implied, "Let 'er go, Gallagher." Gallagher was on deck and after getting his patent leather shoes well braced on the sub-bass pedals, he knotted together a few chords, and the soloist was off. His selection was--that is, _verbatim_, "Ge-yide me, ge-yide me, ge-yide me, O-, Thor-or gra-ut Jaw-aw-hars-vah, Pi-il-grum thraw-aw this baw-aw-raw-en larnd." And he sang other things. He was away up in G. He diminuendoed, struck a cantable movement, slid up over a crescendo, tackled a second ending by mistake--but it went--caught his second wind on a moderato, signified his desire for a raise in salary on a trill, did some brilliant work on a maestoso, reached high C with ease, went down into the bass clef and climbed out again, quavered and held, did sixteen notes by the handful--payable on demand--waltzed along a minor passage, gracefully turned the dal segno, skipped a chromatic run, did the con expressione act worthy of a De Reszke, poured forth volumes on a measure bold, broke the centre of an andante passage for three yards, retarded to beat the band, came near getting applause on a cadenza, took a six-barred triplet without turning a hair--then sat down. Between whiles the chorus had been singing something else. The notes bumped against the oiled natural-wood rafters--it was a modern church--ricochetted over the memorial windows, clung lovingly to the new $200 chandelier, floated along the ridgepole, patted the bald-headed deacons fondly, and finally died away in a bunch of contribution boxes in the corner. Then the minister preached. * * * * * A Chicago man who has recently returned from Europe was asked by a friend what he thought of Rome. "Well," he replied, "Rome is a fair-sized town, but I couldn't help but think when I was there that she had seen her best days." MARK TWAIN THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY[B]