“How’s that?” Rasba cocked his ear. “Say hit oveh—slow!”
“Why, if yo’s into the set of the current up theh, hit ain’t strong; yo’ jes’ give two-three licks an’ yo’ send out clear. Down theh on the bar she draws yo’ right into shallow water, an’ yo’ hang up.”
Rasba looked up the river; he looked down at the nearing sandbar, and as they passed the rippling head in safety he turned a grave face toward the pilot. 189
“Up theh, theh wasn’t much suck to hit, but down yeah, afteh yo’ve drawed into the current, theh’s a strong drag an’ bad shoals?”
“Jes’ so!”
“Hit’s easy to git shut of sin, away long in the beginnin’,” Rasba bit his words out, “but when yo’ git a long ways down into hit—Ho law!”
Prebol started, caught by surprise. Then both laughed together. They could understand each other better and if Prebol felt himself being drawn in spite of his own reluctance by a new current in his life, Rasba did not fail to gratify the river man’s pride by turning always to him for advice about the river, its currents and its jeopardies.
“I’ve tripped down with all kinds,” Prebol grinned as he spoke, “but this yeah’s the firstest time I eveh did get to pilot a mission boat.”
“If you take it through in safety, do yo’ reckon God will forget?” Rasba asked, and Prebol’s jaw dropped. He didn’t want to be reformed; he had no use for religion. He was very well satisfied with his own way of living. He objected to being prayed over and the good of his soul inquired into—but this Parson Rasba was making the idea interesting.
They anchored for the night in the eddy at the head of Needham’s Cut-Off Bar, and Prebol was soon asleep, but Rasba sat under the big lamp and read. He could read with continuity now; dread that the dream would vanish no longer afflicted him. He could read a book without having more than two or three other books in his lap.