He moved about amongst the men, but was reserved and grew every day more sullen.

He had heard much and had answered nothing; and now here he was at chapel and evidently bent on mischief, for the stockwhip was ominous.

Ephraim Shine had noticed it and retreated a step or two, and stood for quite a minute, turning his boot this way and that, but with his eyes on Harry all the time.

Now he cleared his throat, and called the number of the hymn.

He read the first verse and the chorus with his customary unction, and, all having risen, started the singing in a raspy, high-pitched voice.
Harry Hardy stood with the rest, a solitary figure in the centre of the chapel, still holding the long whip firmly grasped in his right hand.
Attention was riveted on him, and the singing of the hymn was a dismal failure.