“I don’ remembeh, but Buck done give hit to me, him an’ Jock Drones.”
“Hi-i-i! Yo’ all found the man yo’ come a-lookin’ fo’. Ho law!”
“Hit’s the Riveh Prophet,” someone replied to a hail from within, the dance ending.
A crowd came tumbling out onto the deck of the big boat of the dance hall, everyone talking, laughing, catching their breaths.
“Hi-i! Likely he’ll preach to-morrow,” a woman cried. “To-morrow’s Sunday.” 192
“Sunday?” Rasba gasped. “Sunday—I plumb lost track of the days.”
“You’ll preach, won’t yo’, Parson? I yain’t hearn a sermon in a hell of a while,” a man jeered, facetiously.
“Suttingly. An’ when hit’s through, yo’ll think of hell jes’ as long,” Rasba retorted, with asperity, and his wit turned the laugh into a cheer.
The fleet anchored a hundred yards up the eddy, and Rasba heard a woman say it was after midnight and she’d be blanked if she ever did or would dance on Sunday. The dance broke up, the noise of voices lessened, one by one the lights went out, and the eddy was still again. But the feeling of loneliness was changed.
“Lord God, what’ll I preach to them about?” Rasba whispered. “I neveh ’lowed I’d be called to preach ag’in. Lawse! Lawse! What’ll I say?”