For a second he snickered, but:
“Not nice to talk that way. Even if a fellow don’t do what’s right himself, no excuse for his sneering at fellows that do, like preachers. . . . There’s where Jim makes his mistake.
“Not worthy to be a preacher. But if Jim Lefferts thinks for one single solitary second that I’m afraid to be a preacher because he pulls a lot of guff—I guess I know how I felt when I stood up and had all them folks hollering and rejoicing— I guess I know whether I experienced salvation or not! And I don’t require any James Blaine Lefferts to tell me, neither!”
Thus for an hour of dizzy tramping; now colder with doubt than with the prairie wind, now winning back some of the exaltation of his spiritual adventure, but always knowing that he had to confess to an inexorable Jim.
IV
It was after one. Surely Jim would be asleep, and by next day there might be a miracle. Morning always promises miracles.
He eased the door open, holding it with a restraining hand. There was a light on the washstand beside Jim’s bed, but it was a small kerosene lamp turned low. He tiptoed in, his tremendous feet squeaking.
Jim suddenly sat up, turned up the wick. He was red-nosed, red-eyed, and coughing. He stared, and unmoving, by the table, Elmer stared back.
Jim spoke abruptly:
“You son of a sea-cook! You’ve gone and done it! You’ve been saved! You’ve let them hornswoggle you into being a Baptist witch-doctor! I’m through! You can go—to heaven!”