IN WHICH I VIEW AN EMPTY WORLD, ACT A HYPOCRITE, AND HEAR A CONFESSION OF LOVE
I sometimes wonder why it is that troubles pile up. Why they are not scattered along through our lives, instead of being accumulated, and then dumped upon our heads all at once. It doesn't seem like a fair game to me. It seems as if something was taking advantage of our helplessness. You see a fellow can rally under one or two back licks of Fate, if they are not too hard, and if there's any sort of fighting stuff in him. But when they come often, and come big and strong, his knees get wobbly and his spirit sickens. Is he to blame?
I find myself in some such strait to-night, for the open door of heaven which I went to sleep thinking about is not open, at all. It might be—I believe it would be if I could see Celeste, but she is gone. I marvel at the steady hand with which I trace these words. It is not because I do not feel. There are invisible fingers at my throat, and a spiked hand about my heart. Each spasmodic throb seems to thrust the cardiac walls against nettles. If my journal had not progressed so far I think I would end it right here. It appears as if this is to be the logical end anyway. Perhaps when I rise from my work to-night I shall gather up the written sheets and toss them, so much scrap paper, into the black jaws of the old fireplace. I don't know. I have come to look forward to my night's writing. It is not a diary, you see. It is—well, it must be a story, in a way, but how could we call such simple and homely things as I have jotted down a story? I'm sure it is not like the other story I wrote; the book which was published, and which no one would read. I made that up out of the whole cloth. I wonder if people knew—and I wonder if they will believe my word that this is the truth. But if I stop writing to-night I won't have a story. Things have gone on and on, and here I am mortally in love with Celeste Somebody, and elsewhere are the others I have met who have touched my life in various ways. All in suspense, as it were, awaiting developments. I can't end my journal to-night. That is, I can't end it and expect any sane people to put it between book covers. Wouldn't it be an innovation! The thought amuses me in the midst of my heartsickness. But Celeste is gone, and with her gone there is nothing more to say. I could offer little else than Mark Twain's memorable diary on shipboard: "Got up, washed, and went to bed." She must come back, that is all. I don't know where she is, nor how long she will be away. These things I will find out. Here I have wandered on much like a maundering old man, without first setting down the adventure of the day, and then commenting, if so inclined. I beg pardon. To-night I really am not fit, and should not attempt to write. But I have begun; inaction would be galling, so I will continue.
Was I astir early this morning? The first gray arrow, barbed with silver and feathered with gloom, had not found my small window ere I was up with a snatch of song welling from my throat, and hurrying for the big washtub back of the kitchen which does the duty of a bathtub in civilization. I had never been so completely happy since I was a boy on my grandad's farm. I even wanted to whistle while I was shaving, I was so full of song and laughter. Cooking breakfast was a jolly lark; eating it a delicious pastime. Then I was gone like a deer breaking cover, the door to the Lodge open to its fullest extent. She knew the truth, and I might even meet her coming to me.
As I ran easily through the forest on the now familiar way, I noticed that my exuberant spirits began to decline. A foreboding of some disaster crept stealthily and steadily upon me, until I actually had a chilly sensation down my spine, and a woeful sinking in my breast. This phenomenon, in common with many others attendant upon our daily life, cannot be explained. I really suffered until I came in sight of the roof which sheltered my beloved; then, as I mounted to the tree-bridge with feet suddenly grown leaden, a numb calm gripped me. I stood and leaned against the section of the root-wadded disk which projected above the butt of the oak, little spiders of feeling scurrying out all over my chest from a center above my heart. No signs of morning activity greeted my despairing gaze. The house was silent and lifeless as the trunk beneath my feet. No blue wood smoke curled up from the kitchen chimney. Not even the dog was visible. Only from the comb of the chicken house a lonesome guinea fowl squawked harshly. I dragged myself forward. When I reached the house I went in a mechanical way to each door and window in turn. They were fastened, but I discovered the dining room window was without a shade or curtain, and to a pane of glass here I pressed my face, shielding my eyes from the light with my hands. Slowly the interior took shape. A table covered with oilcloth; a few low-backed, shuck-bottomed chairs; a smaller table against the wall holding what appeared to be a jar of honey; a safe with tin paneled doors stuck full of holes in some kind of design; a fly-brush in the corner made of newspaper slit into strips and fastened to the end of a piece of bamboo fishing-pole. A bare floor, well scrubbed. I saw no one; I heard nothing, though I listened for several minutes with parted lips. They were gone. Everybody was gone. Where? Maybe just to spend the day with a neighbor. I knew this was a rural custom. Hope flared up with a quick rush to welcome this idea. Where were those neighbors? Ah, yes! The Tollers! Celeste had told me of them the first time I had talked with her. She had said they lived over the hill. So over the hill I fared in a bee-line, ignoring the road below which in all probability would conduct me to my destination. It was a hard climb, for the spur rose up rugged and forbidding, but I was growing inured to such things and scarcely noticed the exertion. When I reached the valley upon the other side I came upon the road. Following this for a short distance I discovered a log cabin, set dangerously near the bank of a creek. To one side a huge black kettle was a-boil over a faggot fire, and by it stood a woman stirring with a long stick the clothes she was getting ready for the wash. Children were everywhere, like squirrels in a hickory tree in nutting time. There must have been fourteen, and the oldest was far from grown. At sight of me one gave a shrill little yelp, then there began a mighty scuttling for hiding places. The majority made for the door of the cabin, several found refuge behind convenient trees, while one of the boys shinned up an ash as though in mortal fright. Two or three more dropped over the shelving bank of the stream, and holding to the sod with tenacious, grimy paws, thrust their heads up and watched me with brilliant, dancing eyes. The smallest sought the protection of their mother's bedraggled skirts, which they pulled over their faces, thus stifling in a measure the piercing wails which had marked their progress to her side. The woman turned impatiently at the hubbub, brushed the smoke from her eyes, and peered at me with puckered face.
I came boldly toward her. Already I knew she whom I sought was not here, but I had to make my errand known.
"I'm looking for—a person," I began, conscious that I was stating my mission very lamely.
A look of mingled craft and truculence spread over the seamed, sallow face of the woman. What a pitiful appearance she made! I was assured she was not over thirty, but she seemed nearer fifty. Hipless, flat-breasted, stringy-necked; her hands and wrists red and rough. Her scanty hair was pale straw in color, showed dirt, and was slicked back and screwed into a knot about the size of a walnut on the crown of her head. Her dress was—simply a protection against nakedness.
"I 'low yo' 'd better git!" presently exclaimed this mother of many, with painful directness.
"Yes," I assented; "I'll git in a minute. Have you seen Lessie this morning? It is she I want!"
"Oh!"
The washed-out blue, almost vacant eyes popped open wider in instant relief. Then I knew. Her man was a 'shiner, and she, seeing at a glance that I was not of the vicinity, had visions of revenue officers and penitentiaries when I vaguely declared I was looking for a person.
"Air you him?" she resumed, squinting one eye and giving a little jerk of her head.
From which I judged that my fame had gone abroad throughout all the region round about, and that her ambiguous query related to the unhappy dweller on old Baldy's lap.
"I'm him," I acquiesced, a dull misery making me careless of speech. "Have you seen Lessie this morning?" I repeated, listlessly.
The woman drew a deep breath of visible comfort.
"Naw. She 's gone a-visit'n'. Th' hull kit 'n' bil'n' uv 'em tuk train this morn'n' at peep o' day. I's over to Granny's yistiddy to borry a chunk o' soap. She 's tur'ble worrit, 'n' tol' me she 's go'n' 'way fur a spell."
"Where have they gone?"
"Snack Holler."
"Where 's that?"
"Lard knows! T' other en' o' th' worl', some'r's, lak 's not. Granny's got folks thur."
She turned to the kettle again and began to stir the clothes.
"You say they left on the train from Hebron?"
"I never said Hebrin, but that's whur they tuk train.... I wouldn't git on one o' th' murder'n' thin's fur a sheer in th' railroad," she confided, almost instantly.
"Then they must be going on a long trip?"
"To Snack Holler, I tol' yo'. Granny's got folks thur."
"You don't know whether or not Snack Hollow is in Kentucky?"
A doggedness born of desperation was goading me to find out all I could about the destination of the fugitives, for I had no doubt this was a move on Granny's part to elude me utterly and permanently.
"'Pears to me yo' 've axed questions 'nough fur a plum' stranger, 'n' I'm too busy to be pestered no mo'. 'T ain't none o' my business whur Snack Holler's at, 'n' thin's whut ain't none o' my business I let 'lone. That's a mort'l good thin' to 'member, stranger—don't bother 'bout other people's business!"
The unkempt brood among whom my approach had wrought such consternation was beginning to make itself manifest again. Those who had fled creekward now squatted on the verge of the bank; those who had rushed indoors had inched out and lined up by the cabin wall; those who had hastened to place the thickness of a tree between themselves and the deadly danger which emanated from my simple presence now stalked boldly in the open, while the infants had forsaken the folds of their mother's dress and, on hands and knees, were diligently pursuing the erratic journey of a spotted toad, punching him in the rear with their fingers when he fain would rest. The tree climber was still wary; I could see his slim brown legs and knotty knees dangling below a limb where he sat astride.
I had a prescience that this hill woman knew more than she had told me, but how was I to get it from her after that last speech? It was safe to assume the Tollers were good friends to Granny, and confidences were just as essential to these people as to those more civilized. I determined to employ strategy. Would it hurt my conscience? Bah! For Celeste I would lie, or steal, or kill!
"Mrs. Toller," I began, as though I had at that moment made a discovery. "I declare you have a fine, handsome lot of children. All of them yours?"
I turned smiling from one group to the other. When my eyes came back to the woman I saw with joy that her features had relaxed, and something resembling a grin played about her bloodless lips. She quit work, and beamed upon her frowzy, tatterdemalion progeny, proud as if each had been a world conqueror instead of a dirt-enameled midgit of ignorance. Ah! the simplicity and the beauty of motherhood!
"Ever' chick 'n' chil' 's mine 'n' th' ol' man's." How her voice had changed; a silver thread had crept into it where before iron had rung. "Fo'teen uv 'em, sir, 'n' we've marrit fifteen year come th' fust o' Jinnywary!"
"Fine, healthy lot!"
I rubbed my chin and took a fresh view of the spindle-shanked, pinched-cheeked, tallow-faced little creatures, salving my conscience as best as I could by bringing to mind that faulty old saw that the end justifies the means. But I knew I was lying, and I wasn't used to it. True this lie would do good. It would give happiness unalloyed to Mrs. Toller, and I felt that I had put in a wedge with which I might prize out the information I coveted.
Mrs. Toller relinquished her grasp on the stick, turned her back on the clothes, and folded her arms contentedly.
"They air a likely look'n' set o' young-uns, since yo' 're kind 'nough to say so. Co'se it ain't fur me to brag, seein' 's I'm they mammy"—she could hardly speak that sentence because of the pride which tightened her throat—"but they ain't none here-'bout, not ev'n over to Hebrin way, whut's nice 'n' man'erly 'n' ree-specb'l, sho!"
The peregrinations of the persecuted toad, after describing an irregular semi-circle, had now led him near the spot where I stood. After the patient reptile toiled the three infants; two of the same size and apparently the same age, and one who had but recently reached the crawling period. This one, by the way, was perpetually in the rear of the procession, its single garment hampering its knee action and making any sort of speed out of the question. The frog had become tired of his enforced journey, and was getting harder to move after each diminishing leap. Now it sat with palpitating sides, stubbornly refusing another jump, while the finger of the lead tormentor prodded with dull persistence at its posterior.
Up to this time Mrs. Toller had paid no heed to the unique pastime of her three youngest, such pursuits possibly having lost interest from their commonness. Now, however, she bent suddenly forward, exclaiming shrilly:
"You Stephen Alec! Don't tech that varmint ag'in! Yo' wan' to hev warts all over yo'?"
Stephen Alec promptly drew back and thrust the hand which stood in jeopardy behind him. He turned a loose-lipped visage to his angry parent, then began a series of extraordinarily piercing yells.
Behold my chance! I stepped forward and gathered Stephen Alec up in my arms and sat him upon my shoulder. Then I tossed him gently. Next I was sitting on the ground with my watch out against his ear. The yells ceased, and presently brothers and sisters were crowding around me. I told them a story—one of the old, old favorites which our grandmothers used to quiet their children with, and before it was done a little girl had slid up so close to me over the bare ground that, still talking, I put out my arm and curled it around her and pulled her up onto my knee. At that another came voluntarily and crouched against my leg. Presently the whole ragged, unwashed crew were squeezing about me as close as they could get, and I was digging in the unused recesses of my mind for the most correct version of Red Riding Hood and Three Little Pigs. Poor Mrs. Toller! Happy Mrs. Toller! She fluttered from the black kettle to my group, back and forth, listening in silence, like one of the children, then hastening back to the clothes. I must have acted entertainer for a full hour, although I found it interesting, and did not tire. When I signified my intention of going I encountered a vociferous denial, and perforce must relate a number of the tales a second time. But at length I was on my feet, and with urchins clinging to every available hold about me, advanced to bid Mrs. Toller good-by.
"I'm awfully glad to have seen you and all these bright little people!" (I should have been ashamed; I know it.) "I must be getting on now."
Mrs. Toller was actually embarrassed.
"I mought 'a' spoke a bit mo' ceev'ly to yo' ef I'd 'a' knowed yo' 's sich a nice man. A pus'n can't be too partic'ler, yo' know, 'specially w'en th' man's 'way mos' o' th' time. Since th' chil'n' hev took to yo' so I don't mind sayin' that Granny 'lowed to me she's tak'n' Lessie 'way from th' neighborhood 'count uv a man, but she nev'r named 'im 'cus people don't tell names 'n' tales too, ez a gin'r'l thin'."
"Much obliged to you, indeed. Glad to have seen you. Good-day."
"Good marn'n'. Come back ag'in ef yo' git lonesome."
A half-hour later I was sitting in the porch entrance of the deserted house at Lizard Point. Right there we had sat such a short time before, and she had learned her A B C's. Down that winding path we had strolled the first time I came to call, and she had struggled so to tell me of the darkened house in which she dwelt. And I was going to help her. Already I had helped her, and now—I ground my teeth in sudden rage and leaped up. Where was Jeff Angel? Gone with them? Where was anybody who could point me a way out? Father John! He might know something of this remote spot with the classic name where Granny "had folks." I wanted to see Beryl Drane, anyway. I had not gone to her before because I knew well no good would come of it. To-day I wanted to stand before her face in the presence of her uncle, and ask her why she had told that vicious lie which had wrought such evil. I wanted to confront her with her baseness, and demand an explanation of her wanton wickedness. The sense of chivalry which was born in my blood and which had caused me to shield her once at the sacrifice of myself, was gone. It was consumed in the hot furnace of my wrath and indignation. I wanted Celeste—Celeste—Celeste! I would move heaven and earth to get her, for the wonder and mystery of her rare beauty and the hypnotic effect of her sweet personality had combined fearfully to work havoc within me. The elemental peace which brooded like a living presence over the earth this sunny, summer morning became to me a disturbing, harrowing force by very contrast with the awful tumult which boiled within my breast. I was lonely—lonely and desperate. I had borne all I could. That terrible week wherein I never saw the sun, nor heard a bird voice, nor felt the soothing benediction of a breeze, had well-nigh worn me out, bodily and spiritually. This crowning calamity I would not accept meekly. I would fight it; I would disclaim its existence. It was unjust, unfair, treacherous and cowardly. I had been honest from the beginning, and when a man plays the game of life fairly and squarely, not even Providence, or whatever Great Power there be, has the right to take advantage of him, and seek to overwhelm him. I would dare everything—heaven and hell, if need be—for the sake of this golden haired Dryad with the lips of flame. She had been removed by force. Even a lover's mind is acute when the object of his adoration is concerned, and I knew—I knew that Celeste loved me! What else mattered? This compulsory separation? A great surge of triumph heaved up within me, and the light of victory came to my eyes. What poor, ignorant puppets these were, who had tried to rob me of my rare jewel? The beacon of her bright coronal would guide me to the furthest corner of the earth, and if need had been I would have followed across sea and plain and mountain and desert; followed with a fire-wrapped heart of deathless devotion, even as Three of old followed a certain Star.
Filled with mingled emotions, all primal, all superlative, so that my head seemed encircled with a close fitting metal band, I took up my march to Hebron along the dusty road. My mood was reckless. I wanted to see that little she-cat whose low vindictiveness was at the bottom of my present luckless plight. I would neither spare nor choose my words. There was no gallantry lurking in my soul now to temper the accusations born of an outraged and agonized spirit. I felt sorry for the little priest, for he loved her well. But innocent suffer with and for the guilty daily. It is part of that plan we are told to accept blindly, and when we question it, however meekly and with the true and earnest desire for light, we are haled forth with a rope around our necks as heretics and atheists. Father John would have to witness the destruction of an idol, for I was merciless, and knew the power was within me to beat down any brazen denial this creature might utter. A mighty strange thing is love, my masters!
Across the home-made bridge I tramped, striding heavily. A figure stood in the door of the smithy, leather-aproned, tall and strong. I strode up the slope with bent head, and reached a point opposite him before I looked at Buck. Arms akimbo, sturdy legs apart, a grin on his face which broke into a low, deep chuckle as he caught my eye. I almost stopped, while my fists knotted with the instinct of a savage. But I went on, that rumbling, mocking laugh echoing in my ears. He knew she was gone. Perhaps he had something to do with her leaving. That insulting, gloating chuckle could easily give rise to a suspicion of the sort, or it may have been he was in equally bad case, and had simply adopted that method of tormenting me.
I gained the priest's house with a feeling such as I imagine a tiger possesses when it gathers itself together to spring upon its prey. It was entirely alien to my nature, but it had been born of circumstance, not of my will, and I made no effort to remove or curb it. The front door was closed, probably against the heat. I pounded upon a panel with my fist, ignoring the gentler and more refined summons it is customary to give with the knuckles. As I stood waiting, restlessly turning from side to side, I observed that the shades to the two windows visible were drawn to within a foot of their respective sills. At this discovery a wild and reasonless alarm seized me. I renewed my hammering on the door, and even seized the knob, shaking it vigorously. A key grated and the door was opened, revealing the gaunt face and bony form of Marie, the housekeeper. Wonder and a sort of terror shone in her bright black eyes.
"Father John!... Miss Drane!" I exclaimed roughly, brushing past her into the hall. "Where are they? In the library? I must see them both at once—together!"
I stopped and glared at the woman with a menacing forehead.
"His rev'rence an' Mees Bereel ees not here!" she said, simply and calmly.
"Not here! Not here!... Where are they?"
"Gone. Mees Bereel goes home yest'day. His rev'rence go to Lou-ees-ville wiz her, an' have not return'; oui."
I made no reply, but left the house and mechanically turned back toward the little hamlet. Gone! Was that the monotonous and deadly refrain to which the world had been set running? All gone. Everybody gone. Wherever I turned—gone. With sagging shoulders I plodded on, trying to think of something else. Where was Snack Hollow? Where was Snack Hollow? Where was Snack Hollow? This sentence raced through my brain with the regularity of a pendulum's swing. Why, the station agent would know! I had reached the foot of the steep hill, where the track ran, when this illuminating idea was conceived. To my right was the small depot, fronted by a platform of a height to unload freight upon from a car door. Looking up suddenly under the force of my discovery, I saw Jeff Angel seated upon this platform, his thin legs hanging from it, an oilcloth-covered bundle at his side. He was leisurely eating cheese and crackers from a yellow paper sack. What a glad sight he was to me in the midst of an empty world!
"O you blessed old Satyr!" I yelled, and ran toward him forthwith.
"Whut's th' furse 'bout?" he asked, quietly, trying to smile a welcome, but only succeeding in showing some imperfect teeth caked with cheese and dough.
"Why, damn your dirty, good old hide, I'm glad to see you!" I continued, jumping to a seat at his left and squeezing his disengaged hand. "I'm about two-thirds crazy, you know, and I need somebody to hold me when the other third slips over. Think you can?"
I nudged his skinny ribs jocularly. My mental condition truly was not up to standard that moment.
"Huh!" grunted Jeff, casting me a quick, amused glance.
"Why didn't you wait and have breakfast?" I asked, drawing a breath which flooded the deepest cell in my lungs.
I tell you it was good to sit by the side of that ragged piece of flotsam. I felt hope coming back, for I knew he was my friend.
"Woke up—thirsty 's 'ell. Your'n gone; mine gone. Had to hev some liquor, so I lit out, easy, so 's not to wake you up. Had some muster, didn't we?—Huh?"
I nodded. I didn't care to review that night's doings.
"See here, Satyr," I said, abruptly; "where's Lessie?"
"She's 'ith Granny 'n' Gran'fer, I reck'n," he replied, with a naturalness which for a moment caused me to wonder if he knew of their departure. "Leas'ways, they lef' together," he added, after a brief interval.
"Where have they gone?—what did they go for?—when are they coming back?"
My companion tossed the last bit of cheese, rind and all, into his mouth; inverted the sack and allowed all the crumbs to go the same way; blew the sack up and burst it on his knee, and began to feel for his pipe before he replied.
"I don' know whur they gone. They went to git Lessie 'way frum you. They 's com'n' back putty durn soon."
"I know where they've gone! It's to Snack Hollow!"
"Who tol' yo'?"
The look he bent upon me was a mixture of pity and contempt.
"Mrs. Toller. I've just come from there. She was uncivil at first, but I made up with the children, then she said Granny had told her she was going to Snack Hollow, where she had some folks. Where is this place, Satyr? I'm going, too, next train."
"No ust, pardner."
He scratched the dirty stub of a match on a plank, and lit up.
"Granny—'n' Gran'fer—'n' Lessie—ain't a-nigh Snack Holler!"
The fateful sentence came out in jerks, between puffs. I thought he was trying to scare me.
"You can't fool me, Jeff," I retorted, but my voice lacked assurance. "How far is this Snack Hollow, and how soon can I get there?"
With the greatest air of insouciance the vagabond fiddler chanted, in the same sing-song with which I had grown familiar:
"Raccoon got a ring-a-roun' tail,
Possum tail am bar';
Rabbit got no tail at all,
Jes' a little bunch o' ha'r!"
It was plainly immaterial to Jeff whether I believed him or not. Equally plain it was that he knew what he was talking about.
"I believe you, Satyr. But who told you?"
He was instantly placated.
"Nobody to' me noth'n', but I ain't no plum' ejit."
"But Mrs. Toller—"
"Look-y-here, pardner!" Jeff squirmed around and thrust his goat-tuft forward. "Granny tuk Lessie 'way frum these here parts on 'count o' you. She 'peared to b'lieve whut I tol' 'er 'bout th' gel lyin' on yo', but they ain't no manner o' 'pen'ence to be put in Granny's notions. She's made up o' contrair'ness, anyhow. She jes' got to mull'n' 'n' a-brood'n', 'n' whut 'ith her trouble 'ith Ar'minty 'n' all she jes' 'lowed it's well 's not to light out fur a spell. 'N' hev yo' got little 'nough sinse to 'low fur a minute she 'd tell that long-tongued Ab'gail Toller whur she's a-goin'? Yes, she tol' Ab'gail Toller she's a-goin' to Snack Holler—'n' fur why? 'Cus she knowed yo'd come a-nosin' 'roun' axin' questions, 'n' th' fust place you'd go 'd be right thur."
I felt the water closing over me afresh at these words of doom.
"But don't you know?" I urged, desperately. "Didn't you ask Granny?"
"Yes, I axed 'er, 'n' she 'lowed it's none o' my 'fair."
"But you said they would be back soon. How do you know?"
A sly grin crept to his thinly bearded lips.
"Look-y-here, pardner. Me 'n' you's frien's. I've et yo' grub 'n' drunk yo' liquor 'n' slep' on yo' floor. I know yo 're lovin' Lessie 'n' lovin' her hones'. I 'm a-gunta bring 'er back to yo'. I said I didn't know whur they went, 'n' I don't, but I've got my s'picions. It mought be a week, 'n' it mought be a mont', 'n' it mought be longer. But I 'm a-gunta do it. Never yo' min' jes' how I'll manage. Th' day I fin' 'em that day they start home, 'n' I don't 'low they 's so tur'ble fur, neither."
I felt my throat choke up at this totally unexpected act of generous devotion. I know my eyes grew moist, and it was several moments before I could say anything.
"Satyr, I—I—you don't know how much I appreciate this. I don't deserve it. But—can't I go with you on the search?"
Jeff Angel laughed his mirthless, jackass laugh before answering.
"Lord, no! This here pleasure trip 's all fur me. You jes' hang 'roun' 'n' wait fur nooze!"
"You'll need money—how much?"
My hand started toward an inner pocket, but instantly Jeff's long, wiry fingers had gripped it, and dragged it down.
"Naw yo' don't, pardner!"
There was a peculiar earnestness to his voice and an exalted look in his bleary eyes as, holding my hand hard down on the platform, he resumed:
"I wen' to hear Father John preach onct—jes' out o' cur'os'ty. He tol' a tale 'bout a Feller whut some heath'ns nailed on a cross, 'n' that Feller c'd a-he'p' Hisself if He'd a-wanted to, but He let 'em kill 'im so 's a pas'l o' other fellows c'd live. Father John said 't wuz fur you 'n' me, too, 'n' ever'body, but I 'low he kin' o' got that part o' the story crooked, 'cus that ain't natch'l. Anyhow, he 'lowed that whut that Feller done saved th' worl', 'n' He done it 'ithout money 'n' 'ithout price. That's whut stuck in my craw. Jes' think uv it! 'Ithout money 'n' 'ithout price! I ain't no sort o' eddicated, but it 'pears to me that w'en a feller c'n do some'n' fur another feller 'ithout no sort o' pay—some'n' that's shore 'nough, yo' know—that it'd make 'im holler'n' 'n' shout'n' happy fur quite a spell. That's whut I mean, pardner; 'n' that's whut I 'low to do fur you—fur, b' gosh! I love yo'!"