Even the child was surprised when Carpenter, half wickedly, in rage, half tauntingly slapped the other cheek with a blow that almost sent the preacher reeling against the bed. Again the great fist gripped convulsively, and the big muscles that had once pitched the Mountain Giant over a rail fence worked—rolled beneath their covering.
“What else kin I do for you at the request of yo' Master?” sneered Carpenter.
“As He never said anything further on the subject,” said the old man, in a dry pitched voice that told how hard he was trying to control himself, “I take it He intended me to use the same means that He employed when He run the thieves an' bullies of His day out of the temple of God.”
The child thought they were embracing. It was the old hold and the double hip-thrust, by which the overseer had conquered so often before in his manhood's prime. Nor was his old-time strength gone. It came in a wave of righteous indignation, and like the gust of a whirlwind striking the spars of a rotting ship. Never in his life had Carpenter been snapped so nearly in two. It seemed to him that every bone in his body broke when he hit the floor.... It was ten minutes before his head began to know things again. Dazed, he opened his eyes to see the Bishop sitting calmly by his side bathing his face with cold water. The blood had been running from his nose, for the rag and water were colored. His head ached.
Jud Carpenter had one redeeming trait—it was an appreciation of the humorous. No man has ever been entirely lost or entirely miserable, who has had a touch of humor in him. As the Bishop put a pillow under his head and then locked the door to keep any one else out, the ridiculousness of it all came over him, and he said sillily:
“Wal, I reckin you've 'bout converted me this time.”
“Jud Carpenter,” said the Bishop, his face white with shame, “for God's sake don't tell anybody I done that—”
Jud smiled as he arose and put on his hat. “I can stan' bein' licked,” he added good naturedly—“because I remember now that I've run up agin the old champion of the Tennessee Valley—ain't that what they useter call you?—but it does hurt me sorter, to think you'd suppose I'd be such a damned fool as to tell it.”
He felt the child's wrist again. “'Pears lak she's got a little fever since all this excitement—guess I'll jes' let her be to-day.”
“I do think it 'ud be better, Jud,” said the Bishop gently.