They held a preliminary meeting before services in the study of the
Hard-Shell Baptist Church. Mr. Moseley occupied the chair, a Jove of
righteousness dispensing thunderbolts of indignation to his
satellites. A fringe of scant hair retreated respectfully from the
unadorned dome which crowned his personal edifice. His manner was most
serious and his every utterance freighted with importance.
Beside him sat his rival in municipal authority, the Methodist
preacher. He had a short upper lip and a square lower jaw, and a way
of glaring out of his convex glasses that gave a comical imitation of
a bullfrog in debate. This was the first occasion in the history of
the town when he and Mr. Moseley had met in friendly concord. For the
last few days the united war upon a common enemy had knitted their
souls in a bond of brotherly affection.
When the half-dozen preachers had assembled, Mr. Moseley rose with
dignity. "My dear brethren," he began impressively, "the occasion is
one which permits of no trifling. The dancing evil is one which has
menaced our community for generations--a viper to be seized and
throttled with a firm hand. The waltz, the--the Highland fling,
the--the--"
"German?" suggested some one faintly.
"Yes, the german--are all invasions of the Evil One.
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