“That ain’t no sort o’ Bible talk, anyway,” he protested. “You need suthin’ what gives ’em a lesson. Now, ther’s Nore an’ his floatin’ ranch––”
“That wa’an’t a ranch neither,” contradicted Sandy promptly. “It was jest a barn.”
“Ark,” said Toby.
“Wal, ark then,” admitted Sandy. He didn’t mind Toby’s interference.
But the discussion was allowed to go no further. Bill’s impatience manifested itself promptly.
“Say, it don’t matter a cuss whether it was an ark or a barn or a ranch. Sunny’s yarn goes. Now, jest set around an’ git the kids in the middle, an’ you, Zip, git busy with this Nore racket.”
The last authority had given its decision. There was no more to be said, and the matter was promptly proceeded with. The expectant children, who had stood by listening to the discussion of their elders, were now seated on the grass, and before them sat the board of Scriptural instruction. Bill remained in his position on the tree-trunk. On the ground, cross-legged, sat Scipio, on his right. Sunny lounged full length upon the ground next to him. Sandy and Toby formed the other horn of the half-circle on the gambler’s left.
It was a quaint picture upon which the warm noon sun shone down. The open grass clearing, surrounded with tall dense bushes. On one side the wash-tub and the various appurtenances of the bath, with the creek a little way beyond. And in the open, sitting alone, side by side, their little pink bodies bare of all but their coarse woolen undershirts, their little faces shining with wholesome soap, their eyes bright with expectancy for the story that was to come, the two pretty children of a lonely father. Then, in a semicircle about them, the members of the Trust, with their hard, unclean faces, their rough clothes and rougher manners, and their uncultured minds driven by hearts that were––well, just human.
“Git busy,” ordered Bill, when the Trust had finally settled itself.
And promptly Scipio, with more determination than discretion, cleared his throat and plunged into his peroration.