whales,' let the music go
snorty; an' for wells, gliddery; an' likewise in a moving dulcet manner
for the holy an' humble Men o' heart.' Why, 'od rabbet us!--what's
wrong wi' that boy?"

All turned to Young Zeb, from whose throat uncomfortable sounds were
issuing. His eyes rolled piteously, and great tears ran down his
cheeks.

"Slap en 'pon the back, Calvin: he's chuckin'."

"Ay--an' the pa'son at' here endeth!'"

"Slap en, Calvin, quick! For 'tis clunk or stuffle, an' no time to
lose."

Down in the nave a light rustle of expectancy was already running from
pew to pew as Calvin Oke brought down his open palm with a _whack!_
knocking the sufferer out of his seat, and driving his nose smartly
against the back-rail in front.

Then the voice of Parson Babbage was lifted: "I publish the Banns of
marriage between Zebedee Minards, bachelor, and Ruby Tresidder,
spinster, both of this parish. If any of you know cause, or just
impediment, why these two persons--"

At this instant the church-door flew open, as if driven in by the wind
that tore up the aisle in an icy current. All heads were turned.
Parson Babbage broke off his sentence and looked also, keeping his
forefinger on the fluttering page. On the threshold stood an excited,
red-faced man, his long sandy beard blown straight out like a pennon,
and his arms moving windmill fashion as he bawled--

"A wreck! a wreck!"

The men in the congregation leaped up. The women uttered muffled cries,
groped for their husbands' hats, and stood up also. The choir in the
gallery craned forward, for the church-door was right beneath them.
Parson Babbage held up his hand, and screamed out over the hubbub--

"Where's she _to?_"

"Under Bradden Point, an' comin' full tilt for the Raney!"

"Then God forgive all poor sinners aboard!" spoke up a woman's voice, in
the moment's silence that followed.

"Is that all you know, Gauger Hocken?"

"Iss, iss: can't stop no longer--must be off to warn the Methodeys!
'Stablished Church first, but fair play's a jewel, say I."

He rushed off inland towards High Lanes, where the meeting-house stood.
Parson Babbage closed the book without finishing his sentence, and his
audience scrambled out over the graves and forth upon the headland.
The wind here came howling across the short grass, blowing the women's
skirts wide and straining their bonnet-strings, pressing the men's
trousers tight against their shins as they bent against it in