“We ain’t the only ones that need a jab of dope, Dominie,” said Mr. Hines, hard and pink and hoarsely confidential as when I first saw him.
“No? Who else?” Though I suspected, of course.
“Old Gloom. He’s over in the Acre.”
“Did you meet him there? What did he say?”
“I ducked him. He never saw me. He was—well, I guess he was praying,” said Mr. Hines shamefacedly.
“Praying? At the Munn grave?”
“That’s it. Groaning and saying, ‘A sign, O Lord! Vouchsafe thy servant a sign!’ Kept saying it over and over.”
“For guidance to-morrow,” I murmured. “Mr. Hines, I’m not sure that I know Bartholomew Storrs’s God. Nor can I tell what manner of sign he might give, or with what meaning. But if I know my God, whom I believe to be the true God, your Minnie is safe with him.”
“Yeh? You’re a good guy, Dominie,” said Mr. Hines in his emotionless voice.
I took him home with me to sleep. But we did not sleep. We smoked.