Two hours afterwards, Job Slip came up the wharves; he came as he went, alone; he walked with a steady step; he held his head high in the dark. He whispered as he walked:—
“I didn’t—no, I didn’t do it.... Bein’ left so—I’ve alwers had you, sir, before, you know. It makes a sight o’ difference when a man hain’t anybody but God. He’s a kinder stranger. I didn’t know, one spell there—but I was goin’ under.... You won’t desert a fellar, will you—yander? I’ll do you credit, sir, see if I don’t. I won’t disgrace you, ——d if I will!”
At that moment Job shied suddenly, like a horse, clear from one side of the wharf to the other. He cried aloud,—
“Why, why, what’s here? What’s got me?” Fingers touched him, but they were of flesh; little fingers, but they were warm, and curled confidingly in Job’s big hand.
“Joey? You? Little Joey! Why, father’s sonny boy! You come just in the right time, Joey. I was kinder lonesome. I miss the minister. I ain’t—just feelin’ right.”
“Fa—ther,” said Joey pleasantly; “Marm said to find you, for she said she fought you’d need you little boy.”
“And so I do, my son, and so I do!” cried Job.
With Joey’s little fingers clasped in his, Job walked up Angel Alley, past the doors of the dens that were closed, and the doors that were open still; and if the ghost of the dear, dead minister had swept visibly before Job and Joey, no man could have tempted or disturbed them less.