Two speakers from
London were to address the meeting, and Jim gazed very critically on
both.
A hymn was sung, and the crash of the hoarse voices sounded weirdly over
the moan of the wind. Jim felt something catch at his throat, and yet he
was unable to tell what strange new feeling thrilled him. His comrades
sang as if their lives depended on their efforts. Jim sat on, half
pleased, half sulky, wholly puzzled. Then one of the speakers rose. At
first sight the preacher looked like anything but an apostle; his plump,
rounded body gave no hint of asceticism, and his merry, pure eye
twinkled from the midst of a most rubicund expanse of countenance. He
looked like one who had found the world a pleasant place, and Jim
gruffly described him as a "jolly old bloke." But the voice of this
comfortable, suave-looking missionary by no means matched his
appearance. He spoke with a grave and silvery pitch that made his words
seem to soar lightly over his audience. His accent was that of the
genuine society man, but a delicate touch--a mere suspicion--of Scotch
gave the cultured tones a certain odd piquancy.
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