He watched his son keenly, but Edgar’s ecclesiastical demeanor was without a flaw. Moreover, his plans were gradually maturing. He sang _Amen_ at proper intervals and by a process of unconscious cerebration managed to get between the organist and the tenor, who depended on Mr. Fellowes to mark the time for him with his left hand, and in consequence of being unable to see him, bungled his offertory solo; but his thoughts were otherwhere. He had decided to slip out of the south transept door, thus eluding parental pursuit, and fight Howard Potter in his own back yard before he slept. He would practise upon his victim a recent scientific acquisition proudly styled by him “the upper-cut,” which he had learned from an acquaintance at the cost of ten cents and three sugar-cookies. At this point the anthem-prelude drew him to his feet. He had saved his voice, according to directions, for his solo, and in the waiting hush every word flowed, soft and pure, to the end of the church. “_Mercy and truth, mercy and truth, mercy—_” Ah, that exquisite soft swoop downward! The organ rippled on contentedly, a continuation of Edgar’s flutelike tones—“_and truth are me-et together_!” There was all the richness of a woman’s voice, all the passionless clearness of a boy’s, all the morning innocence of a child’s. It occurred to him suddenly that the north transept would be safer—it was on the side farthest from home. “_Righteousness and peace, righteousness and peace have kissèd each other!_” He wondered if Howard had learned the upper-cut since their last encounter. Tim’s face was as the face of an angel; a long slanting ray from the rose-window fell across his curls. “_Have kissèd each other_,” Edgar sighed softly. “_Have kissèd each other_—” the caressing tones melted into the organ’s, whispered once more, “_each other_,” and died lingeringly. A long breath, an audible “Ah-h-h!” drifted through the church. The choirmaster kicked his feet together under the organ for joy. He little knew that at that very moment the future of his vested choir was swinging lightly in the balance. But such was the fact. Fate, who links together events seemingly isolated, smoothed Edgar’s way to his fight, but allowed him to be beaten. If this had not happened, his wrath would not have vented itself in hectoring a bad-tempered bass at the Wednesday rehearsal, by scampering in front of him and mimicking with wonderful accuracy his gruff, staccato voice. “_He taketh up the isles—as a ver-ry—little thing!_” mocked Edgar. “Shut up!” growled the bass. “_A ver-ry lit-tle thing!_” Edgar continued malignantly, slipping across his victim’s path. “Oh, all right, young feller!” called the bass, enraged at the grins and applause of the other men, “all right! Just you wait till Sunday, that’s all!” If Edgar had not teased him so, he would not have added: “I know what’ll happen then, if you don’t.” [Illustration: “’_You’re going to be bounced, that’s what._’”]