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  The church was icy cold, and he toiled in the cellar, stuffing wood into the flaming maw of the steam-heater, till it was time to ring the bell. As he gave the last stroke, Deacon Bradley approached him. Jehiel, Ive got a little job of repairing I want you should do at my store, he said in the loud, slow speech of a man important in the community. Come to the store to-morrow morning and see about it. He passed on into his pew, which was at the back of the church near a steam radiator, so that he was warm, no matter what the weather was. 
  The congregation responded in a timid inarticulate gabble, above which rose Deacon Bradleys loud voice, -- Our soul is escaped even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler. The snare is broken and we are escaped. He read the responses in a slow, booming roar, at least half a sentence behind the rest, but the minister always waited for him. As he finished, he saw the sexton standing in the open door. A little more steam, Jehiel, he added commandingly, running the words on to the end of the text.