He debouched into the road leading to Zaneburg, after a plunge down the hill. Shade-trees bordered the avenue upon which stood pretty bungalows. There were an unusual number of people walking and riding; perhaps because of Saturday, or, and he suddenly remembered, because the Hillcrest Hotel was to be sold at public auction that very noon, with all its contents. Country folk are keen on buying something for nothing. Invern flicked golden-rod, abhorred of hay-fever sufferers, and decided to go with the crowd. But first I'll stop at Zaneburg and get a drink of cider. Nothing stronger in the state; indeed, nothing could be stronger than New Hampshire cider. He was thirsty, which pleasant condition he laughingly set down to his constellation; he had been born under the sign of Aquarius the Water-Carrier.
He entered the village and made for the Inn which bore the resounding title: At the Sign of the Golden Buck. He had hardly reached the post-office, also the general store, when noisy, discordant music struck his unwilling ears. A critic of music, once upon a time, he suffered from his sensitive hearing. He averred it was the false intonation of singers, whether in opera or concert that had driven him from professional criticism into the theatre; from the frying-pan into the fire, he lamented. So the horrible conglomeration of noises which assailed his tympani set him to wondering—and cursing. There were the banging of big drums, tambourine thumping, tooting of fifes coupled with hideous howling without tune or rhythm; just the howling of idiots penned-up behind bars, or the screeching of hyenas on a desert plain beneath the rays of a sultry midnight moon. He looked around for a path to escape, and then decided to see the show—probably some circus. A crowd had quickly formed. Borne along he soon saw an irregular procession chiefly composed of women dancing, screaming, beating tambourines. Hysteria was in the air. Two figures, detached from the others, focussed his attention. A gigantic noseless negro wearing a scarlet turban and dressed in a gaudy gown like a woman's wrapper, headed the throng. His big eyes rolled, and at intervals he emitted a roar as he struck an exotic gong with a hammer.
"De Holy Yowlers is here!" he boomed in a formidable basso. "Welcome de Holy Yowlers. Services at de rotunda in ten minutes. Entrance free. Come one, come all. Welcome all. Hear de Holy Yowlers." A young woman walking behind this giant and carrying a banner shrieked: "Holy Yowlers. Save your dirty souls. Dance into paradise. Holy Yowlers." Her pretty eyes were bloodshot. She staggered under the grievous burden. Her face was bloated with enthusiasm as she cursed the evil of rum-drinking. The Holy Yowlers was a prohibition organization, evidently, as the woman's words and behaviour indicated. Ulick examined her with curiosity. Here's the beginning of my new religion, he cogitated. Lots of noise, a few incomprehensible phrases, plenty of rum—and it's enough to start anything from a political party to the second advent of some sheep-god. I forgot to add fornication. The twin pillars of all religions have been, still are and ever shall be, superstition and fornication; faith in the imbecile doctrines and fornication—else the membership would dwindle. His reverie was interrupted by a voice that whispered: "It's Roarin' Nell, sartain. She's on one of her regular sprees. Nuthin' stops her. Just look at that big nigger, how he handles her. He ought to get his derned ugly head punched. Nell used to be pretty. Too much rum and religion got the best of her." It was a farm-hand who spoke. Ulick asked him questions. Nell joined them. She planted her banner—blazoned with the device of a cross and crescent on a red ground—the initials H. Y.—before him, and casually remarked:
"It's as hot as the hinges of hell. Buy a drink for me mister."
"Surely," he answered. "I'm going to the Inn. Come along." She held back. "They wunt be selling me any drink. I'm forbidden." "How forbidden?" "Well, see here. It's this way. When I drink I don't know when to stop—" "Yes stick to cider—" She burst into hysterical laughter. "Cider? That's the worst ever. It's a temperance drink, too. Them teetotallers just dote on cider." The procession had been halted. The coloured person had temporarily lost his zeal. Burning sunrays concentrated on his woolly skull. He vaguely passed thick fingers across his blubber lips. His eyes were soft and appealing as he gazed at Ulick. Roarin' Nell made significant motions. She threw back her head, whose shapeliness was concealed by a sunbonnet and placed a finger on her mouth. The thirst was in her and had insidiously attacked the citadel of the invading host. Brother Rainbow couldn't get any further. "Go back to de rotunda!" he bellowed to the faithful disciples, and as he once more struck the metallic gong he added: "In ten minutes, beloved brethren, de Holy Yowlers will attack de rum-devil and put him to flight." "Come along," impatiently cried Ulick, "I'm dying with thirst." "Go behind the barn, we can get what we want," cautioned Nell.
Oblivious to criticism the trio marched to a road at the side of the Inn and disappeared. The villagers winked and smiled. The motley gang of worshippers dispersed in irregular groups, slowly moving toward the rotunda, an ancient wooden structure originally destined to house circuses, theatrical companies, musical festivals, but now crowded with the odds and ends of agricultural implements. It was not so easy to get the coveted cider at the Inn; Invern soon found that out. The landlord was in a rage over something. To the request of the young man he snarled: "Nary a drink for Roarin' Nell or for that dam coon of hers. I've been warned by the judge over at Middletown. You can have all you want, not a drop for them others." Invern was disconcerted. He was thoroughly interested in his companions and didn't like to leave them; besides, he determined to attend their service and see the queer brand of religion they would serve. A minute or two had shown him that Brother Rainbow was not a fool; rather, a cunning imposter glib of speech. He didn't bother about the psychology of Nell. She was a poor deluded drunken creature under the control of this monstrous African. He irresolutely paused, then turned his back on the churlish inn-keeper. As he dawdled across to the barn, where his fellow-conspirators waited, he was dazzled by the vision of a tall beautiful girl in white, framed by an old New England doorway, clustered with honeysuckles. "God!" he ejaculated, "where did that dream come from?" He rubbed his eyes, but the dream did not fade from the spot of blazing sunshine and honeysuckles. She beckoned to him: "I was in the parlour," she said in contralto tones that made him vibrate, "and I heard how the old humbug lied to you. Tell your friends to come right in here. It's my room. I board at the Inn. I'll give you something better than cider." Hardly stopping to note that the girl was dark and that her smile was fascinating Ulick called to Brother Rainbow and Roarin' Nell and introduced them as he inquisitively regarded the new hostess.
"Names don't matter," she declared. "I'm Miss Richmond." "And I'm Mr. Paris," added Ulick, using the first name that occurred to him. She bade them be seated and then left the room. Brother Rainbow looked mighty solemn. Nell was like a cat in a strange cellar. Her roving eyes saw the flowers in the window-box, the white dimity curtains, the few scattered feminine ornaments. The photograph of a sweet-faced lady was on the bureau. She stared at it, and then, as if secretly, drew a hand across her eyes, and afterward the same hand across her mouth. She could have wept from sentiment and her tormenting thirst. Invern was vastly amused. Firm footsteps announced the return of the young woman. She was flushed, but triumphant. "He dared to refuse me, but I threatened to leave. I pay well. This is supposed to be the best room in the house, so here's your cider." She put down the tray with its pitcher and glasses and went to her trunk. "Here's the chaser." She held out a large liquour flask for their astonished inspection. Ulick openly admired her, and, with that easy Celtic assurance of his, he confessed his admiration.
"I'm a Southerner, born and bred down there," she confided, "I'm not ashamed of a whisky-flask. I never drink. It's full, as you see, but I hate good folks like you to go dry. Here's to!" She poured a goodly drink into each of the glasses, except her own. "I prefer cider," she explained. They drank in silence. The cider followed. Nell was all eyes. Never had she been so close to such a lovely woman. Such a gown. Invern thought the reverse. A pretty girl, but hoper lessly provincial. Their gaze collided. She smiled. He closed his eyes. He seemed to have seen sparks. Perhaps it was only the whisky. Then he thought of the time. He consulted his watch. "Hello there Brother Rainbow! You're twenty minutes late. Let's go to the rotunda. Come along, do Miss—Richmond?—I think we shall have lots of fun." She nodded, and carefully locking the door she followed the others into the hot sunlight. Brother Rainbow again sounded his exotic gong as he shouted: "De Holy Yowlers. We fight de rum devil!" And his voice was more unctuous and appealing than