"Come," he said, rising and going towards the door, "come with me."
Wonderingly and obediently, Bud followed him into the church and up to
the organ where the choirmaster sat.
"This is one of the boys from St. Mark's. Try him on the solo. He just
sang it for me."
"I thought I heard it sung just now, but I feared it was only an echo of
my dreams. Let me hear you again, my lad."
Easily and confidently Bud attacked the high C in alt. At the end of the
solo, the long-suffering choirmaster looked as if he were an Orpheus,
who had found his Eurydice.
"Who taught you to sing that solo?" he demanded.
"My school teacher. She is studying fer an opery singer, and she helps
me with my Sunday singing."
"I thought the style was a little florid for the organist of St.
Mark's," said the choirmaster whimsically. "My boy, if you will sing it
for us at the recital as well as you did just now, you shall have ten
dollars."
The laundry now loomed as a fixed star in Bud's firmament. When he went
home and told his mother the good news she moved joyfully among her mops
and tubs. The turn of the wringer never seemed so easy, and she
frequently paused in the rubbing of a soaped garment to wring the suds
from her swollen hands and listen anew to the recital of Bud's call upon
the bishop and the choirmaster of Grace Church.