“Gimme some!” he told Old Kalbean. “I’m a fool! I’m damned. I’ll go with the rest of ye to Hell! Gimme some!” 6
“Wha—What?” Old Kalbean choked with horror. “Yo’ gwine to drink, Parson?”
“Suttinly!” Rasba cried. “Hit ain’ no ust for me to preach! I preach, an’ the congregation murders one anotheh! Ef I don’t preach, I cayn’t live peaceable! They say hit makes a man happy—I ain’ be’n happy, not in ten, not in twenty yeahs!”
He caught up the jug that rested on the floor, threw the tin cup to one side, up-ended the receptacle, and the moonshiner and his customers stared.
“Theh!” Rasba grunted, when he had to take the jug down for breath. He reached into his pocket, drew out a silver dollar, and handed it to the amazed mountain man.
“Theh!” he repeated, defiantly. “I’ve shore gone to Hell, now, an’ I don’t give a damn, nuther. S’long, boys! D’rectly, yo’l heah me jes’ a whoopin’, yas suh! Jes’ a whoopin’!”
He left them abruptly and he went up into the darkness of the laurels. They heard him crashing away into the night. When he was gone the men looked at one another:
“Yo’ ’low he’ll bring the revenuers?” one asked, nervously.
“Bring nothin’!” another grinned. “No man eveh lived could drink fifteen big gulps, like he done, an’ git furder’n a stuck hog, no, suh!”
They listened for the promised whoops; they strained their ears for the cries of jubilation; but none came.