There was a crowd in the street, a crowd in the door-way.  Sharp elbows and angry tongues were there; street boys and soldiers, maids and scrub-women; peaceable police and stormy rabble.  The army was new and the fashion.  The well-to-do and the wharf-rats, everybody went to the Salvation Army.  Within, the hall was low-studded.  At the farthest end was an empty platform; unpainted benches, borrowed chairs, an uneven floor, blotches on the ceiling, lamps that smoked.  The iron stove in the middle of the floor gave out warmth and coal gas.  All the places were filled in a moment.  Nearest the platform sat the women, demure as if in church, and back of them workmen and sewing-women.  Farthest away sat the boys on one another’s knees, and in the door-way there was a fight among those who could not get in.

The platform was empty.  The clock had not struck, the entertainment had not begun.  One whistled, one laughed.  The benches were kicked to pieces.  “The War-cry” flew like a kite between the groups.  The public were enjoying themselves.

A side-door opened.  Cold air streamed into the room.  The fire flamed up.  There was silence.  Attentive expectation filled the hall.  At last they came, three young women, carrying guitars and with faces almost hidden by broad-brimmed hats.  They fell on their knees as soon as they had ascended the steps of the platform.

One of them prayed aloud.  She lifted her head, but closed her eyes.  Her voice cut like a knife.  During the prayer there was silence.  The street-boys and loafers had not yet begun.  They were waiting for the confessions and the inspiring music.

The women settled down to their work.  They sang and prayed, sang and preached.  They smiled and spoke of their happiness.  In front of them they had an audience of ruffians.  They began to rise, they climbed upon the benches.  A threatening noise passed through the throng.  The women on the platform caught glimpses of dreadful faces through the smoky air.  The men had wet, dirty clothes, which smelt badly.  They spat tobacco every other second, swore with every word.  Those women, who were to struggle with them, spoke of their happiness.

How brave that little army was!  Ah, is it not beautiful to be brave?  Is it not something to be proud of to have God on one’s side?  It was not worth while to laugh at them in their big hats.  It was most probable that they would conquer the hard hands, the cruel faces, the blaspheming lips.

“Sing with us!” cried the Salvation Army soldiers; “sing with us!  It is good to sing.”  They started a well-known melody.  They struck their guitars and repeated the same verse over and over.  They got one or two of those sitting nearest to join in, but now sounded down by the door a light street song.  Notes struggled against notes, words against words, guitar against whistle.  The women’s strong, trained voices contested with the boys’ hoarse falsetto, with the men’s growling bass.  When the street song was almost conquered, they began to stamp and whistle down by the door.  The Salvation Army song sank like a wounded warrior.  The noise was terrifying.  The women fell on their knees.