The preacher said, “She’ll just fret if she don’t.”
“Think he’s awright?” Ma asked.
Casy shook his head slowly. Ma looked quickly down at the struggling old face with blood pounding through it. She drew outside and her voice came through. “He’s awright, Granma. He’s jus’ takin’ a little res’.”
And Granma answered sulkily, “Well, I want ta see him. He’s a tricky devil. He wouldn’t never let ya know.” And she came scurrying through the flaps. She stood over the mattresses and looked down. “What’s the matter’th you?” she demanded of Grampa. And again his eyes reached toward her voice and his lips writhed. “He’s sulkin’,” said Granma. “I tol’ you he was tricky. He was gonna sneak away this mornin’ so he wouldn’t have to come. An’ then his hip got a-hurtin’,” she said disgustedly. “He’s jus’ sulkin’. I seen him when he wouldn’t talk to nobody before.”
Casy said gently, “He ain’t sulkin’, Granma. He’s sick.”
“Oh!” She looked down at the old man again. “Sick bad, you think?”
“Purty bad, Granma.”
For a moment she hesitated uncertainly. “Well,” she said quickly, “why ain’t you prayin’? You’re a preacher, ain’t you?”
Casy’s strong fingers blundered over to Grampa’s wrist and clasped around it. “I tol’ you, Granma. I ain’t a preacher no more.”
“Pray anyway,” she ordered. “You know all the stuff by heart.”