“Thank you,” the man said to the audience. “Now, I need volunteers to help disk John Malcolm’s peanut field for the tent. The field’s far too rough and covered with weeds, and John Malcolm’s too sick to run his tractor. Who’ll volunteer to drive?”

A man in the front shot up his hand; so did a few in back.

The man with the clipboard smiled and said, “Thank you, Tyler,” then wrote something down. “Thank you, Charlie.”

People started to murmur among themselves again.

“Folks!” the man shouted, swatting the mallet. “Folks! We’re not even close to being finished. Now, if I could just have everybody’s attention so we can all go home.”

The people grew quiet again. One little boy in the very back used this golden opportunity to press his palms against his mouth and make a farting noise.

Trickling laughs turned into one giant roar among God’s chosen people.

“Folks!” said the man on the stage. “Folks, please! Please!” The man was almost pleading now. “There are fourteen area revivals and thirty-two prayer meetings all happening in preparation for Reverend Chaplain’s revival in Saraland. Now, please. Let us carry on with the work of the Lord in all fervency. We want our town revival to be every bit as good as Mount Vernon’s or Perdue Hill’s, don’t we?”

“Let’s make it better!” shouted one man.

A hushed murmur swept across the crowd at the mention of Chaplain’s name. Even Coot felt a sense of awe when he heard it.

Coot saw the little boy press his palms to his face again, but before the child could provide an encore performance, a frail old woman grabbed him by the earlobe and smacked the child’s thigh with her pocketbook. Screaming ensued.

The man with the mallet announced, “And that brings us to the tent itself! We need ten volunteers to erect it tomorrow morning at six! We need men with strong backs, please.”

Joseph elbowed Coot, who raised his hand.

The man with the clipboard pointed his pencil at people in the audience.

“Your name, sir?” Clipboard said to a man in front.

“Rusty Miller,” the man answered.

Clipboard scribbled, then pointed to a man in back. “And you, sir?”

“Philip Whittle,” said another.

While the man with the clipboard was still scribbling, Joseph stepped forward and said in a loud voice, “Carl and Robert Allen, sir.” He coughed a few times. “We hereby volunteer to help the reverend erect his good tent.”

The man looked up from his clipboard. He glanced at Joseph and grinned. Joseph pulled Coot forward for the man to see. “I’m Carl, and this is my boy, Robert. We’re volunteering for the committee.”

“Thank you, Mister Allen, your help is a blessing to us all,” Clipboard said, then wrote on his board again.