"Hit's easy to git shut of sin, away long in the beginnin'," Rasba bit his words out, "but when yo' git a long ways down into hit--Ho law!" Prebol started, caught by surprise. Then both laughed together. They could understand each other better and if Prebol felt himself being drawn in spite of his own reluctance by a new current in his life, Rasba did not fail to gratify the river man's pride by turning always to him for advice about the river, its currents and its jeopardies. "I've tripped down with all kinds," Prebol grinned as he spoke, "but this yeah's the firstest time I eveh did get to pilot a mission boat." "If you take it through in safety, do yo' reckon God will forget?" Rasba asked, and Prebol's jaw dropped. He didn't want to be reformed; he had no use for religion. He was very well satisfied with his own way of living. He objected to being prayed over and the good of his soul inquired into--but this Parson Rasba was making the idea interesting. They anchored for the night in the eddy at the head of Needham's Cut-Off Bar, and Prebol was soon asleep, but Rasba sat under the big lamp and read. He could read with continuity now; dread that the dream would vanish no longer afflicted him. He could read a book without having more than two or three other books in his lap. Sometimes it was almost as though Nelia were speaking the very words he read; sometimes he seemed to catch her frown of disapproval. The books, more precious than any other treasure could have been, seemed living things because she had owned them, because her pencil had marked them, and because she had given them all to his service, to fill the barren and hungry places in the long-empty halls of his mind. He would stop his reading to think, and thinking, he would take up a book to discover better how to think. He found that his reading and thinking worked together for his own information. He was musing, his mind enjoying the novelty of so many different images and ideas and facts, when something trickled among his senses and stirred his consciousness into alert expectancy. For a little he was curious, and then touched by dismay, for it was music which had roused him--music out of the black river night. People about to die sometimes hear music, and Parson Rasba unconsciously braced himself for the shock. It grew louder, however, more distinct, and the sound was too gay and lively to fit in with his dreams of a heavenly choir. He caught the shout of a human voice and he knew that dancers were somewhere, perhaps dancers damned to eternal mirth. He went out on the deck and closed the door on the light behind him; at first he could see nothing but black night. A little later he discovered boats coming down the river, eight or nine gleaming windows, and a swinging light hung on a flag staff or shanty-boat mast. As they drew nearer, someone shouted across the night: "Goo-o-o-d wa-a-a-ter thar?" "Ya-s-su-uh!" Rasba called back. "Where'll we come in?"