Suddenly, as they passed, the irrelevant violence of tongues, the
broken, half-comprehensible tumult, was smitten and divided by a wave of
rhythmic sound. It pushed aside the cries of the sweetmeat sellers, and
mounted above the cracked bell that proclaimed the continual auction of
Krist, Dass and Friend, dealers in the second-hand. In its vivid
familiarity it seemed to make straight for the two Englishmen, to
surround and take possession of them, and they paused. The source of it
was plain--an open door under a vast white signboard dingily lettered
"The Salvation Army." It loomed through the smoke and the street lights
like a discovery.
"Our peripatetic friends," said Arnold, with his rare smile; and, as if
the music seized and held them, they stood listening.
"I've got a Saviour that's mighty to keep
All day on Sunday, and six days a week!
I've got a Saviour that's mighty to keep
Fifty-two weeks in the year."
It was immensely vigourous; the men looked at each other with fresh
animation. Responding to the mere physical appeal of it, they picked
their steps across the street to the door, and there hesitated, revolted
in different ways.
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