“No, Joey.”
“Well, that's what I think, too. If he was God, he wouldn't been afeared, would he? And in the night sometimes he'd come and git me to come and lay by him where he could put his arm round my neck, and feel me, like as if he wanted comp'ny. Well, now, that wasn't much like God, was it? And when he thought I was asleep, I could hear him prayin', 'O merciful Savior!' and things like that; and if he was God, who could he pray to? It wasn't sense, was it? Well, I just believe he fell in, and he was afeared he was drowndin' and that's why he hollered out. Don't you, mother?”
“Yes, I do, Joey.”
“And you think I done right, don't you, to try to help him, even if it was some resk?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I knowed it was some resk, but I didn't believe it was much, and I kind of thought you'd want me to.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” his mother said. “You did right, Joey. And you're a good boy, and—Joey dear,”—and she rose from the bench where she was sitting with him—“I believe I'll go and lay down on the bed a minute. Bein' up, so—”
“Why, yes, mother! You lay down and I'll clear up the breakfast, or supper if it's it. It'll be like old times,” he said in the pride of his long absence from home. His mother lay down on the bed with her face to the wall, and he went very quietly about his work, so as not to wake the baby. But after a moment he went to his mother, and whispered hoarsely, “You don't suppose I could go and see Benny, a minute, after I've got done? It's 'most broad day, and I know he'll be up, too.”
“Yes, go,” she said, without turning her face to him.
He kept tiptoeing about, and when he had finished, he stood waiting to be sure whether she was sleeping before he opened the door. Now she turned her face, and spoke: “Joey?”