“No, I cain’t. I cain’t. I wisht I could! You needn’t think I’s ashamed, ’cause I ain’t. Plenty of ’em git drunk, an’ I don’t keer nothin’ ’bout dat”—this in a defiant tone. “Well, why not come along, then?” “I tell you I cain’t. Don’t ax me no mo’. It ain’t on my account I won’t go. It’s you.” “Me! Why, I want you to go.” “I know you does, but I mustn’t. Cain’t you see that dey’d be glad to say dat—dat you was in cahoots wif me an’ you tuk yo’ dram on de sly?” “I don’t care what they say so long as it isn’t true. Are you coming?” “No, I ain’t.” He was perfectly determined, and Dokesbury saw that there was no use arguing with him. So with a resigned “All right!” he strode out the gate and up the street, thinking of the problem he had to solve. There was good in Elias Gray, he knew. It was a shame that it should be lost. It would be lost unless he were drawn strongly away from the paths he was treading. But how could it be done? Was there no point in his mind that could be reached by what was other than evil? That was the thing to be found out. Then he paused to ask himself if, after all, he were not trying to do too much,—trying, in fact, to play Providence to Elias. He found himself involuntarily wanting to shift the responsibility of planning for the youth. He wished that something entirely independent of his intentions would happen. Just then something did happen. A piece of soft mud hurled from some unknown source caught the minister square in the chest, and spattered over his clothes. He raised his eyes and glanced about quickly, but no one was in sight. Whoever the foe was, he was securely ambushed. “Thrown by the hand of a man,” mused Dokesbury, “prompted by the malice of a child.” He went on his way, finished his business, and returned to the house. “La, Brothah Dokesbury!” exclaimed Aunt Caroline, “what’s de mattah ’f yo’ shu’t bosom?” “Oh, that’s where one of our good citizens left his card.” “You don’ mean to say none o’ dem low-life scoun’els—” “I don’t know who did it. He took particular pains to keep out of sight.” “’Lias!” the old woman cried, turning on her son, “wha’ ’d you let Brothah Dokesbury go off by hisse’f fu’? Whyn’t you go ’long an’ tek keer o’ him?” The old lady stopped even in the midst of her tirade, as her eyes took in the expression on her son’s face. “I’ll kill some o’ dem damn—” “’Lias!” “’Scuse me, Mistah Dokesbury, but I feel lak I’ll bus’ ef I don’t ’spress myse’f. It makes me so mad. Don’t you go out o’ hyeah no mo’ ’dout me. I’ll go ’long an’ I’ll brek somebody’s haid wif a stone.” “’Lias! how you talkin’ fo’ de ministah?” “Well, dat’s whut I’ll do, ’cause I kin out-th’ow any of ’em an’ I know dey hidin’-places.” “I’ll be glad to accept your protection,” said Dokesbury. He saw his advantage, and was thankful for the mud,—the one thing that without an effort restored the easy relations between himself and his protégé.