Then he vented a long, low whistle, and went
on binding up Meg's jaw.
Immediately after, there was a crackling of boughs to the left and my
father's head appeared above the slope, with the red face of the
pastor behind it. We were caught.
On the harangue that followed I have no wish to dwell. My father and
the pastor pitched it in by turns, while Dick went on with his
surgery, his mouth pursed up for a soundless whistle. The
prosecution had it all its own way, and I felt uncomfortably sure
about the sentence.
But at last, to our amazement, Dick, having finished the bandaging,
let Meg go and advanced. He picked up my sketch-book.
"Gentlemen both," said he, "I've been listening respectful to your
talk about God and his wrath, and as a poor heathen I'd like to know
your idea of him. Here's a pencil and paper. Will you be kind
enough to draw God? that I may see what he's like."
The pastor's jaw dropped. My father went grey with rage. Dick stood
a pace back, smiling; and the sun glanced on the gold rings in his
ears.
"No, sirs. It ain't blasphemy. But I know you can't give me a
notion that won't make him out to be a sort of man, pretty much like
yourselves--two eyes, a nose, mouth, and beard perhaps. Now my wife
says there's points about a woman that you don't reckon into your
notion; and my dog says there's more in a tail than most men
estimate--"
"You foul-tongued poacher--" broke out my father.
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