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T was the second Sunday in July, and a bright, clear day. In
that mountainous region the early mornings of dry summer days are
delightfully cool and balmy. Abner Daniel was in his room making
preparations to go to meeting at Rock Crest Church. He had put on one
of his best white shirts, black silk necktie, doeskin trousers, flowered
waistcoat, and long frock-coat, and was proceeding to black his shoes.
Into an old pie-pan he raked from the back of the fireplace a quantity
of soot and added to it a little water and a spoonful of sorghum
molasses from a jug under his bed, stirring the mixture into a paste.
This he applied to his shoes with a blacking-brush, rubbing vigorously
until quite a decent gloss appeared. It was a thing poverty had taught
him just after the war, and to which he still resorted when he forgot to
buy blacking.
On his way to church, as he was crossing a broom-sedge field and
steering for the wood ahead of him, through which a path made a short
cut to Rock Crest Church, he overtook Pole Baker swinging along in his
shirt-sleeves and big hat.
“Well, I 'll be bungfuzzled,” Abner exclaimed, “ef you hain't got on a
clean shirt! Church?”
“Yes, I 'lowed I would, Uncle Ab. I couldn't stay away. I told Sally it
ud be the biggest fun on earth. She's a-comin' on as soon as she gits
the childern ready. She's excited, too, an' wants to see how it 'll come
out. She's as big a believer in you as I am, mighty nigh, an' she
'lowed, she did, that she'd bet you'd take hair an' hide off'n that gang
'fore they got good started.”
Abner raised his shaggy eyebrows. If this was one of Pole's jokes it
failed in the directness that usually characterized the jests of the
ex-moonshiner.
“I wonder what yo' re a-drivin' at, you blamed fool,” he said, smiling
in a puzzled fashion.
Pole was walking in front, and suddenly wheeled about. He took off
his hat, and, wiping the perspiration from his high brow with his
forefinger, he cracked it into the broom-sedge like a whip.
“Looky' heer, Uncle Ab,” he laughed, “what you givin' me?”
“I was jest tryin' to find out what you was a-givin' me,” retorted the
rural philosopher, a dry note of rising curiosity dominating his voice.
They had reached a rail fence which separated the field from the wood,
and they climbed over it and stood in the shade of the trees. Pole
stared at the old man incredulously. “By hunkley, Uncle Ab, you don't
mean to tell me you don't know what that passle o' hill-Billies is
a-goin' to do with you this mornin' at meetin'?”
Abner smiled mechanically. “I can't say I do, Pole. I'm at the fust of
it, if thar is to be any--”
Pole slapped his thigh and gave vent to a loud guffaw that rang through
the trees and was echoed back from a hidden hill-side.
“Well, what they _are_ a-goin' to do with you 'll be a God's plenty.
They are a-goin' to walk yore log, ur make you do it on all fours so
they kin see you. You've made it hot fer them an' they are a-goin' to
turn t'other cheek an' git a swipe at you. They are a-goin' to show you
whar you come in--ur, ruther, whar you go out.”
Abner's face was a study in seriousness. “You don't say!” he muttered.
“I _did_ notice that brother Dole kinder give our house a wide berth
last night. I reckon he sorter hated to eat at the same table with a
feller he was goin' to hit at to-day. Yes, Dole is at the bottom of it.
I know in reason I pushed 'im too fur the last time he was heer, but
when he rears back an' coughs up sanctimony like he was literally too
full of it fer comfort, I jest cayn't hold in. Seems to me I kin jest
close my eyes an' hit some spot in 'im that makes 'im wiggle like a
tadpole skeered in shallow water. But maybe I mought 'a' got a better
mark to fire at; fer this 'll raise no end of a rumpus, an' they may
try to make me take back water, but I never did crawfish. I couldn't do
that, Pole. No siree, I--I can' t crawfish.”
Abner was a special object of regard as he and Pole emerged from the
wood into the opening in front of the little unpainted meeting-house,
where the men stood about among the buggies and horses, whittling,
gossiping, and looking strange and fresh-washed in their clean clothes.
But it was noticeable that they did not gather around him as had been
their habit. His standing in that religious community was at stake; his
continued popularity depended on the result of that day's investigation.
Pole could afford to stand by him, and he did. They sat down on a log
near the church door and remained silent till the cast-iron bell in the
little belfry, which resembled a dog-kennel, was rattled vigorously as
an announcement that the service was about to begin. They all scurried
in like sheep. Abner went in last, with slow dignity and deliberation,
leaving Pole in a seat near the door.
He went up the narrow aisle to his accustomed seat near the long-wood
stove. Many eyes were on his profile and the back of his neck. Dole
was seated in the arm-chair behind the preacher's stand, but somehow he
failed to look at Abner as he entered, or even after he had taken his
seat. He seemed busy making notes from the big Bible which lay across
his lap. Abner saw Bishop and his wife come in and sit down, and knew
from the glances they gave him that they had heard the news. Mrs. Bishop
looked keenly distressed, but Bishop seemed to regard the matter only as
a small, buzzing incident in his own troubled career. Besides, Abner was
no blood relative of his, and Bishop had enough to occupy him in looking
after the material interests of his own family without bothering about
the spiritual welfare of a connection by marriage.
Dole stood up and announced a hymn, and read it from beginning to end
in a mellow, sonorous voice. The congregation, all eying Abner, rose and
sang it energetically; even Abner, who sang a fair bass of the rasping,
guttural variety, popular in the mountains, found himself joining in,
quite unconcerned as to his future right to do so. After this, Dole
led in prayer, standing with both hands resting on the crude, unpainted
stand, the sole ornament of which was a pitcher of water, a tumbler, and
a glass lamp with a green paper shade on it. Abner remarked afterwards
that Dole, in this prayer, used the Lord as a cat's-paw to hit at him.
Dole told the Lord a few things that he had never had the courage to
tell Daniel. Abner was a black sheep in a flock earnestly striving to
keep itself white--a thing in human shape that soiled that with which
it came in contact. He had the subtle tongue of the serpent that blasted
the happiness of the primeval pair in the Garden of Eden. Under the
cloak of wit and wisdom he was continually dropping poison into the
beverages of earnest folk who had not the religious courage to close
their ears. As a member of a consecrated body of souls, it was the
opinion of many that Abner was out of place, but that was to be decided
after careful investigation in the Lord's presence and after ample
testimony pro and con had been submitted. Any one wishing to show that
the offending member had a right to remain in good standing would be
gladly listened to, even prayerfully. On the other hand, such members
as had had their religious sensibilities wounded should feel that a most
sacred duty rested on them to speak their minds. All this Dole said he
trusted the Lord would sanction and bless in the name of the Lord Jesus
Christ, the Saviour and Director of all men.
Dole then started another hymn, and when it had been sung he announced
that no sermon would be preached that day, as the important business in
hand would consume all available time before the dinner-hour. Then he
courageously faced Abner. His countenance was pale and determined,
his tone perfunctory and sharp as a knife.
“I reckon, brother Daniel,” he said, “that you have a idee who I've been
talkin' about?”
Abner was slightly pale, but calm and self-possessed. The light of
merriment, always kindled by contact with Dole, danced in his eyes. “I
kinder 'lowed I was the one,” he said, slowly, “an' I'm sorter curis
to see who' ll speak an' what they 'll say. I 'll tell you now I ain't
a-goin' to do myse'f jestice. I 'ain't been to a debatin' club sence I
was a boy, but I 'll do my best.”
Dole stroked his beard and consulted a scrap of paper in the palm of his
hand. “Brother Throg-martin,” he called out, suddenly, and a short, fat
man on a bench behind Abner rose and cleared his throat.
“Now, brother Throgmartin,” went on the preacher, “jest tell some o'
the things you've heerd brother Daniel say that struck you as bein'
undoctrinal an' unbecomin' a member of this body.”
“Well, sir,” Throgmartin began, in a thin, high voice that cut the
profound silence in the room like a rusty blade, “I don't raily, in
my heart o' hearts, believe that Ab--brother Daniel--has the right
interpretation of Scriptur'. I remember, after you preached last
summer about the sacred teachin' in regard to future punishment, that
Ab--brother Daniel--an' me was walkin' home together. Ever' now an' then
he'd stop in the road an' laugh right out sudden-like over what you'd
contended.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Dole's face hardened. He couldn't doubt that part
of the testimony, for it was distinctly Abner's method.
“Yes, sir,” responded Throgmartin, sternly, “he 'lowed what you'd said
was as funny to him as a circus clown's talk, an' that it was all he
could do to hold in. He 'lowed ef you was to git up in a Darley church
with sech talk as that they'd make you preach to niggers. He 'lowed he
didn't believe hell was any hot place nohow, an' that he never could
be made to believe that the Lord ud create folks an' then barbecue 'em
alive through all eternity. He said it sorter turned his stomach to see
jest a little lamb roasted at a big political gatherin', an' that no God
he believed in would institute sech long torture as you spoke about when
you brought up the mustard-seed p'int.”
“He deliberately gives the lie to Holy Scripture, then,” said Dole,
almost beside himself with rage. “What else did he say of a blasphemous
nature?”
“Oh, I hardly know,” hesitated the witness, his brow wrinkled
thoughtfully.
“Well,” snarled Dole, “you hain't told half you said to me this mornin'
on the way to meetin'. What was his remark about the stars havin' people
on 'em ever' bit an' grain as worthy o' salvation as us all?”
“I disremember his exact words. Perhaps Ab--brother Daniel--will refresh
my memory.” Throg-martin was gazing quite respectfully at the offender.
“It was at Billy Malone's log-rollin', you know, Ab; me 'n' you'd eat a
snack together, an' you said the big poplar had strained yore side an'
wanted to git it rubbed.”
Abner looked straight at Dole. The corners of his big, honest mouth were
twitching defiantly.
“I said, I think,” he answered, “that no matter what some folks mought
believe about the starry heavens, no man ever diskivered a big world
with a tail to it through a spy-glass without bein' convinced that thar
was other globes in the business besides jest this un.”
Dole drew himself up straight and gazed broadly over his congregation.
He felt that in the estimation of unimaginative, prosaic people like his
flock Abner's defence would certainly fall.
“Kin I ax,” he asked, sternly, “how you happen to think like you do?”
Abner grasped the back of the bench in front of him and pulled himself
up, only to sink back hesitatingly into his seat. “Would it be out o'
order fer me to stand?” he questioned.
Dole spread a hard, triumphant smile over the congregation. “Not at all,
if it will help you to give a sensible answer to my question.”
“Oh, I kin talk settin',” retorted the man on trial. “I jest didn't know
what was right an' proper, an' I 'lowed I could hit that spit-box better
standin' than I kin over brother Tarver's legs.”
The man referred to quickly slid along the bench, giving Abner his place
near the aisle, and Abner calmly emptied his mouth in the wooden box
filled with sawdust and wiped his lips.
“I hardly know why I think like I do about other worlds,” he answered,
slowly, “unless it's beca'se I've always had the notion that the
universe is sech a powerful, whoppin' big thing. Most folks believe that
the spot they inhabit is about all thar is to creation, anyway. That's
human natur'. About the biggest job I ever tackled was to drive a hungry
cow from bad grass into a good patch. She wants to stay thar an' eat,
an' that's about the way it is with folks. They are short-sighted. It
makes most of 'em mad to tell 'em they kin better the'r condition. I've
always believed that's the reason they make the bad place out so bad;
they've made up the'r minds to live thar, an' they ain't a-goin' to
misrepresent it. They are out o' fire-wood in this life an' want to have
a good sweat in the next.”