“Yo’ know right smart about such things,” Rasba reminded him. “I ’low hit were about time somebody shot yo’ easy, so’s to give yo’ repentance a chance to catch up with yo’ wickedness. Don’t yo’?”
Prebol glared at the accusation, but Rasba pretended not to notice.
“Yo’ see, Prebol, this world is jes’ the hounds 188 a-chasin’ the rabbits, er the rabbits a-gittin’ out the way. The good that’s into a man keeps a-runnin’, to git shut of the sin that’s in him, an’ theh’s a heap of wrestlin’ when one an’ tother catches holt an’ fights.”
“Hit’s seo!” Prebol admitted, reluctantly. He didn’t have much use for religious arguments. “I wisht yo’d read them books to me, Parson. I ain’t neveh had much eddycation. I’ll watch the riveh, an’ warn ye, ’gin we make the crossin’s.”
Nothing suited them better. Rasba read aloud, stabbing each word with his finger while he sought the range and rhythm of the sentences, and, as they happened to strike a book of fables, their minds could grasp the stories and the morals at least sufficiently to entertain and hold their attention.
Prebol said, warningly, after a time:
“Betteh hit that sweep a lick, Parson, she’s a-swingin’ in onto that bar p’int.”
A few leisurely strokes, the boats drifted away into deep water, and Rasba expressed his admiration.
“Sho, Prebol! Yo’ seen that bar a mile up. We’d run down onto hit.”
“Yas, suh,” the wounded man grinned. “Three-four licks on the oars up theh, and down yeah yo’ save pullin’ yo’ livin’ daylights out, to keep from goin’ onto a sandbar or into a dryin’-up chute.”