Part 6 (1/2)
”Down off there is where the foxes live,” said Lou. ”One night I went with pa to run them, and we galloped all round here, and when we got home, just about day, my clothes were torn nearly all to pieces; but it was such fun; and when old Bob got close to the fox and bellowed, it seemed like he was beatin' his paw on my heart. And away off yander, the hill-side opened and music poured out, and father reached over and put his hand on my head and we listened.”
”It is music,” said Jim, ”but the horn blowed by old Satan may be made outen silver.”
”But, Mr. Reverend,” Mrs. Mayfield spoke up, ”you surely don't object to the enjoyment of a harmless adventure.”
”No, ma'm. The Lord wants us to enjoy ourselves, but we should not jump on the hoss of pleasure and gallop too fur away from the gospel of truth.”
Kintchin ducked his woolly head. ”Keep on foolin' roun' an' dis yere white man call up mourners,” he declared. ”De gospel it all right, bof in de dark an' de light o' de moon; but you keep on foolin' wid it an'
follerin' it an' you gwine lose yo' min'. I knows whut I talkin' erbout.
You got ter come ter de 'clusion dat de Lawd knows best an' not pry too fur inter his erfairs. De Book say suthin' 'bout eat all you want an'
take er drink once in er while fur ter-morrer you ain't gwine be yere.”
”Does the Book say anything about shooting c.r.a.ps?” Tom inquired.
”Now, Mr. Tom, whut put dat inter yo' head? Book doan come out p'intedly an' say you shan't.”
”They cast lots for His garments,” the preacher spoke, and Kintchin replied:
”Oh, w'en you fling de Book down on me too hard, I jest hatter squirm, dat's all. Ef I had ernudder quarter I could open up er 'skussion dat--”
”You'll not get it,” said Jim.
”Dat ends it. Oh, I likes preachers--likes ter yere 'em talk, but I ain't nebber got no money outen one yit. Da all time talk erbout gib whut you got ter de po' an' foller on, an' da follers all right; but I ain't seen 'em gibbin' nuthin'.”
”They give to the spirit, Kintchin,” remarked Mrs. Mayfield.
”Yas'm. But sometimes I'd leetle ruther da give ter de pocket.
Howsomedever, I mustn't go too fur wid dis man. He's er preacher, but he er Starbuck an' he w'ar me out ef I push him too fur.”
”Now, Kintchin,” said the preacher, ”you know you couldn't provoke me into strikin' you. Don't you?”
”Yas, suh, I feels it; still I's er little skeered o' you. An' whut you gwine gimme caze I skeered? Ain't it wuth er quarter ter be skeered like I is? Huh?”
”Here,” replied Jim, giving him a piece of money. ”It's worth a quarter to see Satan play his pranks.”
A turn in the road, and there was a river, narrow, deep and as blue as the sky. Wild spice bushes, shedding a sweet perfume, grew upon the steep banks, and far below they saw a black ba.s.s leap to gulp a mouthful of the sun. The hills stretched away, purple, blue, green; and through the air shot a red bird, lightening from a cloud of flowers. A gaudy, wild dragon, zouave-arrayed, stood guard over a violet nodding beside a rock, and the milk-maidish white clover trembled in fear of the l.u.s.t-looking strawberry. Bold upon a high rock, with a fish in his claw, sat a defiant eagle, and straight down the river flew a sand-hill crane, like a fragment of gray mist.
They met a young fellow, carrying a tea-cup in his hand, with hair that looked like hackled flax and with a grin that invited the confidence of all mankind. It was Mose Blake, known to neighborhood fame as the stutterer. He halted and attempted to say something, but Kintchin drove on, muttering that he had no time for words that a fellow chewed all to pieces. The boy tried to shout his defiance, but ”you are a--a--a f--f--f--,” was all he could utter and even this was forestalled by Kintchin, who called back at him: ”Oh, we knows all erbout dat.”
The road dipped down, turned, and they drove upon a ferry-boat, a mere platform of rude plank and propelled by two gaunt men. On the other sh.o.r.e they drove along still keeping close to the river. A country boy hailed them, but without heeding him Kintchin remarked: ”Dat's Laz Spencer, an' he takin' dat meal bag home somewhar ter borry suthin'
else. Ef he wuz ter go ter heben an' foun' dat he couldn't borry some angel's harp, he wouldn't stay dar. I 'spize ter see er pusson all de time wantin' suthin'.”
”You don't borrow, do you?” Tom asked, and he answered:
”Who, me? No, suh. I earns all I gits--ef not befo', afterwards. Jest ez sho ez er pusson gibs me suthin' I gwine earn it.”
Turning off from the river and entering upon a piece of level ground, they came to the post-office, an old log house with gable end toward the road. In an inclosure a number of tow-headed boys were trying to ride a calf. In the road a child, not more than able to toddle, was throwing stones at a blowing old goose.
Kintchin tied his horse to a ”swinging limb,” and the ladies were a.s.sisted to the ground. Tom conducted them into the post-office, a store wherein the merchant had for sale snuff, red calico, brown jeans, plug tobacco, cast iron plow points, nails and cove oysters. The post-master came forward dragging after him two splint-bottom chairs.