“‘You go too far from home,’ said the Son of Ben Ali. ‘Many a negro where you’ve been to-night will tell what you have said, in hopes of getting an extra rasher of meat.’
“Ooft—gooft!” grunted the White Pig; “and hog meat at that. But the Teacher said that he would trust them.
“‘The best good-night I can give you,’ said the Son of Ben Ali, ‘is not to trust them too much or too far.’
“Ooft—oof! Now you might wonder how I could remember such little things. But little things have a way of growing, and this was one of the little things that grew. Humph! It grew like a pumpkin vine. One thing followed another like sheep jumping over a rail on the ground. The last sheep to go over jumps higher than a man’s head. So with these things I am telling you of. They grew, and they jumped.
“When we met the Teacher, the grass was green, but it was not long before the winds began to blow keen and cold, and then the grass shriveled and the leaves on the trees began to fall. As for me, I could lie in the sedge and keep warm, or I could make me a bed of leaves on the windward side of the fence and never know that the weather was cold. With the Son of Ben Ali, it was different. Not having been born free to the woods and the weather—to the four winds and the four seasons—humph!—he must have a fire. He must have a fire that could be felt and not be seen. So he dug him a hole in the ground, a trench he called it, and in this he made his fire, and he seemed to be very fond of it when the weather was damp and cold.
“One night when I was returning from the yam patch to the top of the hill, I heard horses going along the road. I knew the horses had riders, for I could hear no wheels. The fog was heavy and thick, and so I went close to the road to see and hear what I could. I slipped through the wet grass and listened. Suddenly one of the riders pulled up his horse and cried out:—
“‘Look! look on the hill yonder!’
“I turned to see what it was, and it was terrible enough to scare anybody. On the clouds above the hill was the shadow of a man as big as a fodder stack, and as high as the tallest pine. Even the horses saw it and snorted with fear. The shadow raised its arms above its head and then let them drop quickly. I knew at once that it was the shadow of the Son of Ben Ali, but even then I had a quaking fear. Suddenly I heard another voice call out:—
“‘Whoever you are, come and help a man in trouble.’
“The Son of Ben Ali heard it, too, for the cry of the man for help had hardly died away before the shadow on the clouds disappeared as if it had been wiped out. I knew that the voice that had called to the shadow was the voice of the Teacher, the man who had told the Son of Ben Ali that thousands and tens of thousands were praying for him. And I wondered whether the thousands and the tens of thousands were praying for the Teacher, now that he seemed to be in trouble.