“It will all go to Gil Paston some day,” said George Graves with virtuous regret. “He’s not worth a damn.”
They had reached the top of the hill. Church Street ended levelly a block beyond, in the narrow gulch of the avenue. They saw, with quickened pulse, the little pullulation of the town.
A negro dug tenderly in the round loamy flowerbeds of the Presbyterian churchyard, bending now and then to thrust his thick fingers gently in about the roots. The old church, with its sharp steeple, rotted slowly, decently, prosperously, like a good man’s life, down into its wet lichened brick. Eugene looked gratefully, with a second’s pride, at its dark decorum, its solid Scotch breeding.
“I’m a Presbyterian,” he said. “What are you?”
“An Episcopalian, when I go,” said George Graves with irreverent laughter.
“To hell with these Methodists!” Eugene said with an elegant, disdainful face. “They’re too damn common for us.” God in three persons—blessed Trinity. “Brother Graves,” he continued, in a fat well-oiled voice, “I didn’t see you at prayer-meeting Wednesday night. Where in Jesus’name were you?”
With his open palm he struck George Graves violently between his meaty shoulders. George Graves staggered drunkenly with high resounding laughter.
“Why, Brother Gant,” said he, “I had a little appointment with one of the Good Sisters, out in the cow-shed.”
Eugene gathered a telephone pole into his wild embrace, and threw one leg erotically over its second foot-wedge. George Graves leaned his heavy shoulder against it, his great limbs drained with laughter.
There was a hot blast of steamy air from the Appalachian Laundry across the street and, as the door from the office of the washroom opened, they had a moment’s glimpse of negresses plunging their wet arms into the liquefaction of their clothes.
George Graves dried his eyes. Laughing wearily, they crossed over.
“We oughtn’t to talk like that,’Gene,” said George Graves reproachfully. “Sure enough! It’s not right.”
He became moodily serious rapidly. “The best people in this town
