Job brought his clenched hand down heavily on his knee.
“You can’t onderstand, sir,” he said drearily. “You ain’t a drinkin’ man.”
“I sometimes wish I had been,” said the minister unexpectedly. “I must understand these things.”
“God forbid!” said Job solemnly. He stretched his shaking arm out with a beautiful gesture, and put it around Bayard, as if he were shielding from taint a woman or some pure being from an unknown world.
Tears sprang to the minister’s eyes. He took the drunkard’s dirty hand, and clasped it warmly. The two men sat in silence. Job looked at the water. Bayard looked steadily at Job.
“Come,” he said at length, in his usual tone. “It is beginning to rain, in earnest. I’m not quite strong yet. I suppose I must not sit here. Take my arm, and come home to Mari and Joey.”
Job acquiesced hopelessly. He knew that it would happen all over again. They walked on mutely; their steps fell with a hollow sound upon the deserted pier; the water sighed as they passed, like the involuntary witness of irreclaimable tragedy.
Suddenly, Bayard dropped Job’s hand, and spoke in a ringing voice:—
“Job Slip, get down upon your knees—just where you stand!”