“It was Saul first,” explained Jimmy Brower. “He got diffrunt after a while. Then he got a new name.”
“I see,” said Murray, fencing for time. What a queer lesson. Who was this Paul he wondered? Not Paul Revere, of riding fame? He searched his scant knowledge of history in vain. Of Bible lore he had not the slightest shred.
“Well, he was Paul the longest, anyhow,” insisted Skid. “Everybody calls him Paul. You don’t never hear him called Saul.”
“Tell me more about him,” said Murray. “What did he do?”
“Why, he was fierce!” said Jimmy earnestly. “He killed folks!” The teacher sat up sharply and drew a deep breath. He had killed some one.
“Yes,” said Skid, “he went right into their houses and took ’em to the magistrates, and had ’em whipped and sent to prison, and burned their houses and took their kids’n’everything, an’ he was the one that held the men’s sweaters when they was stoning Stephen, ya know. Gee, I’d like to a been living then! It musta been great! When they didn’t like what anybody said they just stoned ’em dead! We had Stephen last Sunday. And Saul—I mean Paul—but he was Saul then when he held the cloes—he was to blame, ya know. He couldda stopped ’em stoning Stephen ef he’d wanted. He was some kinda officer, ya know. But he didn’t, ’cause he didn’t wantta. Ya know he thought he’s doin’ right. That’uz before he was born again.” He looked at his new teacher for approval, and found a flattering attention. Murray’s face was white, and beads of perspiration were standing on his brow, but he summoned a wan smile of approbation, and murmured faintly:
“Yes? How was that?”
Jerry Pettingill raised a smudgy hand.
“Lemme tell. He’s talked long enough. It’s my turn.”
Murray turned his eyes nervously to this new boy, and he continued with the tale.