"But," she continued, with an emphasis that brought me to a stop, "I
'low I better ask God, t' make sure."
'Twas the way she had in emergencies.
"Do," said I, dolefully.
The God of the lad that was I--the God of his childish vision, when,
in the darkness of night, he lifted his eyes in prayer, seeking the
leading of a Shepherd--was a forbidding God: white, gigantic, in the
shape of an old, old man, the Ancient of Days, in a flowing robe,
seated scowling upon a throne, aloft on a rolling cloud, with an awful
mist of darkness all roundabout. But Judith, as I knew, visualized in
a more felicitous way. The God to whom she appealed was a rotund,
florid old gentleman, with the briefest, most wiry of sandy whiskers
upon his chops, a jolly double chin, a sunburned nose, kindly blue
eyes forever opened in mild wonder (and a bit bleared by the wind),
the fat figure clad in broadly checked tweed knickerbockers and a
rakish cap to match, like the mad tourists who sometimes strayed our
way. 'Twas this complacent, benevolent Deity that she made haste to
interrogate in my behalf, unabashed by the spats and binocular, the
corpulent plaid stockings and cigar, which completed his attire. She
spread her feet, in the way she had at such times; and she shut her
eyes, and she set her teeth, and she clinched her hands, and thus
silently began to wrestle for the answer, her face all screwed, as by
a taste of lemon.[4]
Presently my patience was worn.
"What news?" I inquired.
"Hist!" she whispered. "He's lookin' at me through His glasses."