“Satan can’t hurt the elect.”
“What’s that to me? I reckon I’m none of your elect. I’m just a poor boy who’s done for himself.”
Mr. Sumption dropped on his knees beside him, and began to pray.
“O Lord, Thou hast given me a sore trial in this son of mine, and now terrible doubts are in my soul as to whether he is one of the elect for whom Jesus died. O Lord, he’s my flesh and bone, and the flesh and bone of my dear wife who’s dead, and yet it looks as if Satan had got him. O Lord, save my son from the lion and my darling from the power of the dog, from the dreadful day that shall burn like an oven, and the furnace of pitch and tow....”
“Father, have done, do—you give me the creeps.”
“I’m praying for your soul, ungrateful child.”
“Let my soul be—I’m tired to death.”
Indeed a grey shade of utter weariness had crept into his skin, so that his face looked ghastly in the morning twilight fighting round the lamp. Mr. Sumption, who had stood up, knelt down again, and took off Jerry’s boots.
“Have a sleep then, my laddie—there on the sofy. It’s scarce worth going to bed. Besides, you’d have to clean yourself first.”
“You won’t leave me, father—you’ll stay along of me?”