Nothing was altered in
these teeming galleries, except that turbid daylight had imperceptibly
given place to this other dimness, in which lanterns swung like tethered
fire-balloons. Life went on, mysteriously, without change or sleep.
While the two white men shouldered their way along, a strange chorus
broke out, as though from among the crowded carcasses in a butcher's
stall. Shrill voices rose in unearthly discord, but the rhythm was
not of Asia.
"There goes the hymn!" scoffed Heywood. He halted where, between the
butcher's and a book-shop, the song poured loud through an open doorway.
Nodding at a placard, he added: "Here we are: 'Jesus Religion Chapel.'
Hear 'em yanging! 'There is a gate that stands ajar.' That being the
case, in you go!"
Entering a long, narrow room, lighted from sconces at either side, they
sat down together, like schoolmates, on a low form near the door. From a
dais across at the further end, the vigorous white head of Dr. Earle
dominated the company,--a strange company, of lounging Chinamen who
sucked at enormous bamboo pipes, or squinted aimlessly at the vertical
inscriptions on the walls, or wriggling about, stared at the
late-comers, nudged their neighbors, and pointed, with guttural
exclamations.
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