He described it as a 'plucked chicken.'"
"I suppose that was a wild contribution from the endless political talk
of the town."
"Well, a 'plucked chicken' was not so bad. He saw also 'Bleeding Kansas.'
A 'stuck pig' that was; and more--more, but I must go."
Rivers went back to the room. "Here is your tobacco, Billy, and wait
downstairs; don't go away."
The big man turned over in bed as the clergyman entered. "Mr. Rivers. I'm
bad. I might have died. Won't you pray for me?"
Rivers hesitated, and then fell on his knees at the bedside, his face in
his hands. Peter lay still smiling, grimly attentive. As Rivers rose to
his feet, Lamb said, "Couldn't I have just a little whisky? Doctors don't
always know. I've been in this scrape before, and just a little liquor
does help and it don't do any harm. I can't think, I'm so harried inside.
I can't even pray, and I want to pray. Now, you will, sir, won't you?"
This mingling of low cunning, of childlike appeal and of hypocrisy,
obviously suggested anything but the Christian charity of reply; what
should he say? Putting aside angry comment, he fell back upon his one
constant resource, What would Christ have said to this sinful man? He
stood so long silent by the bed, which creaked as Lamb sat up, that the
man's agony of morbid thirst caught from his silence a little hope, and
he said, "Now you will, I know.
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