Aurora Dawn by Herman Wouk Read Free Book Online Page A

manifested itself under Andrew’s nose,
     and its steam smote his nostrils like incense after the discouraging Pullman fish and the cold bus ride. Casting an appreciative
     eye around the board as he ate, he decided that in truth they “didn’t eat too bad.” There were plates heaped with corn, squashes,
     and baked potatoes; deep dishes filled with blocks of butter, halved lettuce heads, sliced tomatoes, peas, red beans, green
     beans, celery, applesauce, and stewed rhubarb; platters of steak, platters of pork chops, and platters of fried quarter chickens,
     all vanishing rapidly under the lunges of agile forks. Women rose from time to time with practiced dexterity to renew the
     supply and to refill the two tin pitchers of coffee that seemed never to stop in their rattling career around the table.
    Stanfield glanced with approval at the speed with which Andy fell to. “Young man is all right,” he commented, the comment
     somewhat muffled by steak. “Meet the folks, but don’t reach to shake no hands.” Starting at the head of the table, he introduced
     the men first, some as Elders, some simply by patronym, and, after he had made the round of male diners, he added, “The ladies
     alongside are the missus” which for some reason was greeted with a universal giggle. The men ranged in age from a white-haired
     farmer with seamed, blunt hands, seated at Stanfield’s right, to a stout, pale-faced young man with heavy black hair at the
     foot of the table, who had been introduced as “Chico–he handles the machinery, and knows more about it than Hennery Ford.”
     The men were all, it appeared, foremen or supervisors of various departments of the community farm, although the designation
     of Elder indicated that some were also religious functionaries in Stanfield’s peculiar prelacy. Andrew was introduced as “The
     young feller from Radio City, New York, who’s come down to see our meeting.” The dinner passed in lively conversation, incomprehensible
     to Andy, aside from the jests of Elder Billingsley at the head of the table, who was the accepted wit of the synod. These
     invariably took the form of broad flirtatious remarks addressed at various wives, and everybody invariably roared except the
     twitted husband who invariably looked mildly surprised and foolish. There was a long discussion of a revised plumbing system
     in the New House (which, Andy gathered, was a kind of dormitory where the eighty families of the Fold lived) and a heated
     attack on the merits of a scientific cattle feed by Elder Comer, a very old man with a bald pate, and a back bent like a resilient
     bow. As soon as the dessert was cleared, Stanfield led a prolonged prayer of thanks, at the conclusion of which he rose, saying
     “Them folks a-waiting.” Thereupon there was a great stir and bustle as everyone filed into the hall, donned hats and coats,
     and walked out across the dank lawn in the frosty March night to the Tabernacle.
    The revival meeting was an unforgettable experience for Andy, tired and sleepy though he was. From his vantage point on the
     stage in the row of the Elders he watched with growing wonder the strange mixture of tent-show and religious service that
     was Stanfield’s way of worship. As he listened to him deliver a sharp, rustically humorous diatribe against the growing tendency
     in the Fold to read popular magazines instead of the Bible–“Seems as how lately the Good Book is running a poor second to
     Red Book: I reckon the main trouble with the Gospel is, they ain’t no part in it you can illustrate with a girl with her laigs
     up in the air”–Andrew felt an accession of confidence in his sincerity. This lessened considerably when, after the community
     singing and just before the confessions, Elder Pennington, a slight, gray man with a large fleshy nose and deep folds in the
     skin of his face, who had said nothing at all during dinner except “Pass the beans” or “More coffee,” got up and