Tears streamed down a toothless old woman's stoic face. "Hurry, God, and take me while I is pure," she prayed.

" Let us all kneel in prayer," the voice of Sweet Prophet boomed.

Automatically, as though under the influence of mass hypnotism, the multitude knelt in the street.

Sweet Prophet began praying over the loud-speakers with a steady, moving fervor:

" The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust; if God doesn't get you the devil must…"

No one noticed Sugar Stonewall turn the corner into Seventh Avenue and begin to run. He was a long-limbed, double-jointed man with fallen arches and flat feet. He ran as though his feet were made of beef filets and the streets were paved with broken glass, using his arms like a windmill to keep him afloat. But he was putting his heart into it. He didn't know how much he would have to do, nor how much time he would have to do it in.

2

The colored corporal in charge of the street detail rushed to the nearest police telephone box and telephoned the Homicide Bureau.

Elder Jones, at Sweet Prophet's direction, dashed to the nearest drugstore and telephoned the police precinct station for an ambulance.

Some well-meaning person telephoned the fire department.

Someone else telephoned Harlem's great undertaker, H. Exodus Clay.

It was Sunday, and all of them were delayed; but the undertaker's hearse got there first. The regular driver, Jackson, was attending the First Baptist church with his wife, Imabelle, when the call came in, so the relief driver took it.

He was a young man without much experience, but eager to make good. Mr. Clay told him to get a death certificate before bringing the body in. When he got to the scene there was no one present to give him the necessary death certificate, and he didn't have time to wait.