“He is dead,” said Job. “Lord A’mighty, he ain’t alive. Seems I couldn’t get it into my head. They’ve killed him. He’s goin’ to be buried.”
Job clenched his gnarled hands together, and shook them at the sky; then they dropped.
“Seems like shakin’ fists at him,” thought Job. “I ain’t a-goin’ to. S’posen he’s up yander. That’s the idee. Lord A’mighty, what do you mean by it? You didn’t stop to think of us reformed men, did you, when you let this happen?... For Christ’s sake. Amen,” added Job, under the impression that he had been giving utterance to a prayer.
“Mr. Bayard?” called Job aloud. He slipped off the keg and got upon his knees. As he changed his position, the fisherman vaguely noticed the headlight of the schooner on which he was to have taken his trip, that night. “There goes the Tilly E. Salt,” said Job, interrupting himself; “she’s got to weigh without me, this time. I’m guard of honor for the—the—I can’t say it!” groaned Job. “It’s oncredible him bein’ in a—him put in a—Lord, he’s the livin’est man I ever set my eyes on; he can’t die!... Mr. Bayard? Mr. Bayard, sir?”
Job paused, as if he expected to be answered. The water dashed loudly against the old pier. The distant cry of the buoy came over the harbor. The splash of retreating oars sounded faintly somewhere, through the dark.
“He’s livin’ along,” said Job, after some thought. “He can’t get fur out of Angel Alley. He wouldn’t be happy. He’d miss us, someways; he’s so used to us; he’s hoverin’ in them hymn-toons and that gymnasium he set so much by. I’ll bet he is. He’s lingerin’ in us poor devils he’s spent three year makin’ men of.... He’s a-livin’ here.”
Job struck his own broad breast, and then he struck it again. A shudder passed over his big frame; and then came the storm. He had not wept before, since Mr. Bayard died. The paroxysm wearied and weakened him, and it was the piteous fact that these were the next words which passed the lips of the half-healed drunkard.
“God A’mighty, if I only had a drink!”