“Hyar’s the Prophet!” a voice shouted. “Now git ready fo’ yo’ eternal damnation. See ’im gather hisse’f!”
Rasba gathering himself! Jock could not help but take a peep. It was Rasba, gaunt, tall, his head up close to the shanty-boat roof and his shoulders nearly a head higher than the collars of most of those men who stood by with insolence and doubtful good humour.
“Which’d yo’ rather git to play, Parson?” someone asked, slyly. “Cyards er bones er pull-sticks?”
“I’ve a friend down yeah, gentlemen.” The Prophet ignored the insult. “His mother wants him. She’s afeared likely he mout forget, since he was jes’ a boy friendly and needing friends. He’s no runt, no triflin’ no-’count, puppy man, like this thing,” in the direction whence the invitation had come, “but tall an’ square, an’ honourable, near six foot, an’ likely 160 pounds. Not like this little runt thing yeah, but a real man!”
There was a yell of approval and delight.
“Who all mout yo’ friend be?” Buck asked, respectfully, seeing that this was not a raid, but a visit.
“Jock, suh, Jock Drones, his mammy wants him, suh!”
Buck eyed the visitor keenly for a minute. Someone 124 said they never had heard of him. Buck, who saw that the visitor was in mind to turn back, suggested:
“Won’t yo’ have a cup of coffee, suh? Hit’s raw outside to-night, fresh and mean. Give him a chair, boys! I’m friendly with any man who takes a message from a mother to her wandering son.”
A dozen chairs were snatched out to the stove, and when Parson Rasba had accepted one, Buck stepped into the kitchen. He found Slip, alias Jock Drones, standing with beads of sweat on his forehead. No need to ask the first question; Buck poured out a cup of coffee and said: