In spite of a certain restraint of manner and evident uneasiness at the situation, he had something of boldness, even the condescension of the victor toward me. He was standing and looking down at me; yet he stood ill at ease by the table.
"Sit down, Joel," I said, assuming an authority in his house that I saw he could not quite feel.
"I can't; I 've got my overhalls on."
"Let us do all things decently and in order, Joel," I continued, touching the great Book reverently.
"But I never set in this room. My chair's out there in the kitchen."
I moved over to the window to get what light I could, Joel following me with furtive, sidelong glances, as if he saw ghosts in the dark corners.
"We keep this room mostly for funerals," he volunteered, in order to stir up talk and lay what of the silence and the ghosts he could.
"I 'll read your story of Adam's farming first," I said, and began: "These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth"—going on with the account of the dry, rainless world, and with no man to till the soil; then to the forming of Adam out of the dust, and the planting of Eden; of the rivers, of God's mistake in trying Adam alone in the Garden, of the rib made into Eve, of the prohibited tree, the snake, the wormy apple, the fall, the curse, the thorns—and how, in order to crown the curse and make it real, God drove the sinful pair forth from the Garden and condemned them to farm for a living.
"That's it," Joel muttered with a mourner's groan. "That's Holy Writ on farmin' as I understand it. Now, where's the other story?"
"Here it is," I answered, "but we 've got to have some fresh air and more light on it," rising as I spoke and reaching for the bolt on the front door. With a single quick jerk I had it back, and throwing myself forward, swung the door wide to the open sky, while Joel groaned again, and the big, rusty hinges thrice groaned at the surprise and shock of it. But the thing was done.