So every night, when the Army marched from its quarters to the street corner where open-air services were held, Bulger stumbled along with his bass drum behind the sergeant and the corporal, who played "Sweet By and By" and "Only an Armor-Bearer" in unison upon their cornets. And never before in that town was bass drum so soundly whacked. Bulger managed to keep time with the cornets upon his instrument, but his feet were always wo-fully unrhythmic. He shuffled and staggered and rocked from side to side like a bear. Truly, he was not pleasing to the sight. He was a bent, ungainly old man, with a face screwed to one side and wrinkled like a dry prune. The red shirt, which proclaimed his enlistment into the ranks, was a misfit, being the outer husk of a leviathan corporal who had died some time before. This garment hung upon Bulger in folds. His old brown cap was always pulled down over one eye. These and his wabbling gait gave him the appearance of some great simian, captured and imperfectly educated in pedestrian and musical manoeuvres. The thoughtless boys and undeveloped men who gathered about the street services of the Army badgered Bulger incessantly. They called upon him to give oral testimony to his conversion, and criticized the technique and style of his drum performance. But the old man paid no attention whatever to their jeers. He rarely spoke to anyone except when, on coming and going, he gruffly saluted his comrades. The sergeant had met many odd characters, and knew how to study them. He allowed the recruit to have his own silent way for a time. Every evening Bulger appeared at the hall, marched up the street with the squad and back again. Then he would place his drum in the comer where it belonged, and sit upon the last bench in the rear until the hall meeting was concluded. But one night the sergeant followed the old man outside, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Comrade," he said, "is it well with you?" "Not yet, sergeant," said Bulger. "I'm only tryin.' I'm glad you come outside. I've been wantin' to ask you: Do you believe the Lord would take a man in if he come to Him late like--kind of a last resort, you know? Say a man who'd lost everything--home and property and friends and health. Wouldn't it look mean to wait till then and try to come?" "Bless His name--no!" said the sergeant. "Come ye that are heavy laden; that's what He says. The poorer, the more miserable, the more unfortunate--the greater His love and forgiveness." "Yes, I'm poor," said Bulger. "Awful poor and miserable. You know when I can think best, sergeant? It's when I'm beating the drum. Other times there's a kind of muddled roarin' in my head. The drum seems to kind of soothe and calm it. There's a thing I'm tryin' to study out, but I ain't made it yet." "Do you pray, comrade?" asked the sergeant.