“In the water. We was all walkin' along the river bank, and some o' the Flock got to complainin' because he hadn't fetched the New Jerusalem down yit, and wantin' to know when he was goin' to do it, and sayin' this was Philadelphy, and why didn't he; and Mr. Hingston he was tryin' to pacify 'em, and Mr. Enraghty he scolded 'em, and told 'em to hesh up, or they'd be in danger of hell-fire; but they didn't, and the Good Old Man he begun to cry. It was awful, mother.”
“Go on, Joey. Don't stop.”
“Well, he'd been prayin' a good deal, off and on, and actin' like he wasn't in his right senses, sometimes, talkin' to hisself, and singin' his hymn—that one, you know—”
“Never mind, Joey dear,” his mother said, “keep on.”
“And all at once, he up and says, 'If I want to, I can turn this river into a river of gold,' and one o' the Flock, about the worst one, he hollers back, 'Well, why don't you do it, then?' and Mr. Enraghty—well, they call him Saint Paul, you know—he told him to shut his mouth; and they got to jawin', and I heard a rattlin' of gravel, like it was slippin' down the bank, and then there was the Good Old Man in the water, hollerin' for help, and his hat off, floatin' down stream, and his hair all over his shoulders. And before I knowed what to think, he sunk, and when he come up, I was there in the water puttin' out for him.”
“Yes, Joey—”
“I can't remember how I got there; must 'a' jumped in without thinkin'; he'd been so good to me, all along, and used to come to me in the nighttime when he 'sposed I was asleep, and kiss me; and cry—But I'd 'a' done it for anybody, anyway, mother.”
“Yes. Go—”
“Some of 'em was takin' their shoes and coats off to jump in, and some jest standin' still, and hollerin' to me not to let him ketch holt o' me, or he'd pull me under. But I knowed he couldn't do that, becuz I could ketch him by one arm, and hold him off—me 'n' Benny's practised it in the crick—and I swum up to him; and he went down ag'in, and when he come up ag'in, his face was all soakin' wet like he'd been cryin' under the water, and he says, kind o' bubblin'—like this,” the boy made the sound. “He says, 'Oh, my son, God help—bub-ub—bless you!' and then he went down, and I swum round and round, expectin' he'd come up somewheres; but he didn't come up no more. It was awful, mother, becuz that didn't seem to be the end of it; and it was. Just didn't come up no more. They jawed some, before they got over the mountains,” the boy said reminiscently. “They hadn't brung much money; even Mr. Hingston hadn't, becuz they expected the Good Old Man to work miracles, and make silver and gold money out of red cents, like he said he would. All the nights we slep' out o' doors, and sometimes we had to ast for victuals; but the Good Old Man he always found places to sleep, nice caves in the banks and holler trees, and wherever he ast for victuals they give plenty. And Mr. Enraghty he said it was a miracle if he always knowed the best places to sleep, and the kindest women to ast for victuals. Do you believe it was, mother?”
Nancy said, after an effort for her voice, “He might have been there before.”