But not the Miss Jinny Pickens he remembered: a frail, little old woman with bent back and brown time spots on her wrinkled cheeks, who wore shabby clothes and walked slowly, leaning on a cane. A swift sense came back to him of the Miss Jinny whose foot had tapped the floor as positively as a woodpecker’s beak against a tree; whose back had been as straight as a child’s; whose movements had been marked with crisp decisiveness; whose clothes had been magnificent. Or had they only seemed so to the ragged little boy who had never owned a pair of shoes or seen a train? Was it possible that she had been old and frail and shabby then? He couldn’t tell; but then and always she had been _Miss Jinny Pickens_, and a member of the super-supreme court which in the last analysis settled everything of importance in that countryside. No Negro in the state had ever openly crossed one of them and lived out the day. He looked with swift hope at Draper--and saw that things had changed. Something inhered in Miss Jinny that stood for power, but Draper didn’t see it. He waited there in haughty, calculating silence, watching her progress down the aisle, through contemptuous, half-closed eyes, unimpressed and unafraid. The consciousness that the issue lay solely between him and Draper grew tight about Woodie’s heart. Miss Jinny faded out for him almost before she had settled herself in the chair that someone brought from the little room behind the melodeon. And Draper, too, as soon as he began to talk again, forgot her. His voice took on the sound of something started on its way which could not be stopped--not even by the preacher himself. There had been but one rebellion in the Old Ship of Zion since he came: now was the time to stamp out any last lingering embers of it. As he slowly raised his hand and swung back into his march of words, Woodie’s vitals seemed to melt and flow downward. Despair boiled in him like vomit. “De Lawd Jesus’ll be a-waitin’! He’ll be a-settin’ on de edge er de great white throne, a-waitin’--a-waitin’ fer dat boat! An’ when He see it comin’, He’ll holler out ter de angels: ‘Hi’st up de silver spyglass ter Mah eye!’ An’ de angels’ll h’ist it. Twelve angels it’ll take ter h’ist up de silver spyglass ter His eye. “An’ den He’ll p’int de silver spyglass, an’ ef dere’s anybody on dat boat dat don’t belong--_He’ll see um! He’ll see spang through um!_ “An’ He’ll say: ‘Lean de silver spyglass erginst de throne, an’ lif’ up de speakin’ trumpet dat’s made er gol’!’ An’ de angels’ll do it. Twenty angels it’ll take ter lif’ up de speakin’ trumpet dat’s made er gol’! “An’ den de Lawd Jesus’ll put His mouth ter de speakin’ trumpet, an’ He’ll holler out loud an’ cl’are: ‘Mistah Cap’n, yer hyeh Me?’” very slowly and solemnly: “‘_Yer got er onbeliever on dat boat!_ Yer’ll have ter stop an’ go back, Mistah Cap’n, an’ lan’ um----’”