If everybody gives one more dime, we’ll have it—” Reverend Sykes waved his hand and called to someone in the back of the church.
“Alec, shut the doors. Nobody leaves here till we have ten dollars.”
Calpurnia scratched in her handbag and brought forth a battered leather coin purse.
“Naw Cal,” Jem whispered, when she handed him a shiny quarter, “we can put ours in. Gimme your dime, Scout.”
The church was becoming stuffy, and it occurred to me that Reverend Sykes intended to sweat the amount due out of his flock.
Fans crackled, feet shuffled, tobacco-chewers were in agony.
Reverend Sykes startled me by saying sternly, “Carlow Richardson, I haven’t seen you up this aisle yet.”
A thin man in khaki pants came up the aisle and deposited a coin.
The congregation murmured approval. Reverend Sykes then said,
I want all of you with no children to make a sacrifice and give one more dime apiece.
Then we’ll have it.” Slowly, painfully, the ten dollars was collected.
The door was opened, and the gust of warm air revived us.
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