but even a pantheist . . . must eat, hence Maria Monk.” A few drops of rain, icy and stinging as hail, had begun to drive in their faces. “I’ll get pneumonia at this rate, and it’ll be your fault, too; I thought you said you could drive a horse . . . Here, drive into that farmhouse on the left. Maybe they’ll let us put the horse and wagon in their barn.”
As they drove up the lane towards the gray house and the big gray barn that stood under a clump of pines a little off from the road, the piebald slowed to a walk and began reaching for the bright green clumps of grass at the edge of the ditch. Fainy beat at him with the ends of the reins, and even stuck his foot over the dashboard and kicked him, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Goddam it, give me the reins.”
Doc Bingham gave the horse’s head a terrible yank, but all that happened was that he turned his head and looked at them, a green foam of partly chewed grass between his long yellow teeth. To Fainy it looked as if he were laughing. The rain had come on hard. They put their coat collars up. Fainy soon had a little icy trickle down the back of his neck.
“Get out and walk; goddam it to hell, lead it if you can’t drive it,” sputtered Doc Bingham. Fainy jumped out and led the horse up to the back door of the farmhouse; the rain ran down his sleeve from the hand he held the horse by.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” Doc Bingham was on his feet bowing to a little old woman who had come out of the door. He stood beside her on the stoop out of the rain. “Do you mind if I put my horse and wagon in your barn for a few moments? I have valuable perishable materials in the wagon and no waterproof covering . . .” The old woman nodded a stringy white head. “Well, that’s very kind of you, I must say . . . All right, Fenian, put the horse in the barn and come here and bring in that little package under the seat . . . I was just saying to my young friend here that I was sure that some good samaritan lived in this house who would take in two weary wayfarers.” “Come inside, mister . . . maybe you’d like to set beside the stove and dry yourself. Come inside, mister-er?” “Doc Bingham’s the name . . . the Reverend Doctor Bingham,” Fainy heard him say as he went in the house.
He was soaked and shivering when he went into the house himself, carrying a package of books under his arm. Doc Bingham was sitting large as life in a rocking chair in front of the kitchen stove. Beside him on the wellscrubbed deal table was a piece of pie and a cup of coffee. The kitchen had a warm cosy smell of apples and bacon grease and lamps. The old woman was leaning over the kitchen table listening intently to what Doc Bingham was saying. Another woman, a big scrawny woman with her scant sandy hair done up in a screw on top of her head, stood in the background with her red-knuckled hands on her hips. A black and white cat, back arched and tail in the air, was rubbing against Doc Bingham’s legs.
“Ah, Fenian, just in time,” he began in a voice that purred like the cat, “I was just telling . . . relating to your kind hostesses the contents of our very interesting and educational library, the prime of the world’s devotional and inspirational literature. They have been so kind to us during our little misfortune with the weather that I thought it would be only fair to let them see a few of our titles.”
The big woman was twisting her apron. “I like a mite o’ readin’ fine,” she said, shyly, “but I don’t git much chanct for it, not till wintertime.”
Benignly smiling, Doc Bingham untied the string and pulled the package open on his knees. A booklet dropped to the floor. Fainy saw that it was
The Queen of the White Slaves.
A shade of sourness went over Doc Bingham’s face. He put his foot on the dropped book. “These are Gospel Talks, my boy,” he said. “I wanted
Doctor Spikenard’s Short Sermons for All Occasions
.” He handed the
As they drove up the lane towards the gray house and the big gray barn that stood under a clump of pines a little off from the road, the piebald slowed to a walk and began reaching for the bright green clumps of grass at the edge of the ditch. Fainy beat at him with the ends of the reins, and even stuck his foot over the dashboard and kicked him, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Goddam it, give me the reins.”
Doc Bingham gave the horse’s head a terrible yank, but all that happened was that he turned his head and looked at them, a green foam of partly chewed grass between his long yellow teeth. To Fainy it looked as if he were laughing. The rain had come on hard. They put their coat collars up. Fainy soon had a little icy trickle down the back of his neck.
“Get out and walk; goddam it to hell, lead it if you can’t drive it,” sputtered Doc Bingham. Fainy jumped out and led the horse up to the back door of the farmhouse; the rain ran down his sleeve from the hand he held the horse by.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” Doc Bingham was on his feet bowing to a little old woman who had come out of the door. He stood beside her on the stoop out of the rain. “Do you mind if I put my horse and wagon in your barn for a few moments? I have valuable perishable materials in the wagon and no waterproof covering . . .” The old woman nodded a stringy white head. “Well, that’s very kind of you, I must say . . . All right, Fenian, put the horse in the barn and come here and bring in that little package under the seat . . . I was just saying to my young friend here that I was sure that some good samaritan lived in this house who would take in two weary wayfarers.” “Come inside, mister . . . maybe you’d like to set beside the stove and dry yourself. Come inside, mister-er?” “Doc Bingham’s the name . . . the Reverend Doctor Bingham,” Fainy heard him say as he went in the house.
He was soaked and shivering when he went into the house himself, carrying a package of books under his arm. Doc Bingham was sitting large as life in a rocking chair in front of the kitchen stove. Beside him on the wellscrubbed deal table was a piece of pie and a cup of coffee. The kitchen had a warm cosy smell of apples and bacon grease and lamps. The old woman was leaning over the kitchen table listening intently to what Doc Bingham was saying. Another woman, a big scrawny woman with her scant sandy hair done up in a screw on top of her head, stood in the background with her red-knuckled hands on her hips. A black and white cat, back arched and tail in the air, was rubbing against Doc Bingham’s legs.
“Ah, Fenian, just in time,” he began in a voice that purred like the cat, “I was just telling . . . relating to your kind hostesses the contents of our very interesting and educational library, the prime of the world’s devotional and inspirational literature. They have been so kind to us during our little misfortune with the weather that I thought it would be only fair to let them see a few of our titles.”
The big woman was twisting her apron. “I like a mite o’ readin’ fine,” she said, shyly, “but I don’t git much chanct for it, not till wintertime.”
Benignly smiling, Doc Bingham untied the string and pulled the package open on his knees. A booklet dropped to the floor. Fainy saw that it was
The Queen of the White Slaves.
A shade of sourness went over Doc Bingham’s face. He put his foot on the dropped book. “These are Gospel Talks, my boy,” he said. “I wanted
Doctor Spikenard’s Short Sermons for All Occasions
.” He handed the
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