University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
THE CHURCH OF THE BEST LICKS.

JUST as the flame on the forestick, which Ralph
had watched so intensely, flickered and burned
low, and just as Ralph with a heavy but not quite
hopeless heart rose to leave, the latch lifted and Bud
re-entered.

“I wanted to say something,” he stammered, “but you know
it's hard to say it. I ha'n't no book-larnin' to speak of, and some
things is hard to say when a man ha'n't got book-words to say
'em with. And they's some things a man can't hardly ever say
any how to anybody.”

Here Bud stopped. But Ralph spoke in such a matter-of-course
way in reply that he felt encouraged to go on.

“You gin up Hanner kase you thought she belonged to me.
That's more'n I'd a done by a long shot. Now, arter I left here
jest now, I says to myself, a man what can gin up his gal on
account of sech a feeling fer the rights of a Flat Cricker like me,
why, dog on it, says I, sech a man is the man as can help me do
better. I don't know whether you're a Hardshell or a Saftshell,
or a Methodist, or a Campbellite, or a New Light, or a United

Brother, or a Millerite, or what not. But I says, the man
what can do the clean thing by a ugly feller like me, and stick
to it, when I was jest ready to eat him up, is a kind of a man
to tie to.”

Here Bud stopped in fright at his own volubility, for he had
run his words off like a piece learned by heart, as though afraid
that if he stopped he would not have courage to go on.

Ralph said that he did not yet belong to any church, and he
was afraid he couldn't do Bud much good. But his tone was
full of sympathy, and, what is better than sympathy, a yearning
for sympathy.

“You see,” said Bud, “I wanted to git out of this low-lived,
Flat Crick way of livin'. We're a hard set down here, Mr.
Hartsook. And I'm gittin' to be one of the hardest of 'em. But
I never could git no good out of Bosaw with his whisky and
meanness. And I went to the Mount Tabor church oncet. I
heard a man discussin' baptism, and regeneration, and so on.
That didn't seem no cure for me. I went to a revival over at
Clifty. Well, 'twarnt no use. First night they was a man that
spoke about Jesus Christ in sech a way that I wanted to foller
him everywhere. But I didn't feel fit. Next night I come back
with my mind made up that I'd try Jesus Christ, and see ef
he'd have me. But laws! they was a big man that night that
preached hell. Not that I don't believe they's a hell. They's
plenty not a thousand miles away as deserves it, and I don't
know as I'm too good for it myself. But he pitched it at us, and
stuck it in our faces in sech a way that I got mad. And I says,
Well, ef God sends me to hell he can't make me holler 'nough
no how. You see my dander was up. And when my dander's
up, I wouldn't gin up fer the devil hisself. The preacher was so

insultin' with his way of doin' it. He seemed to be kind of glad
that we was to be damned, and he preached somethin' like
some folks swears. It didn't sound a bit like the Christ the
little man preached about the night afore. So what does me
and a lot of fellers do but slip out and cut off the big preacher's
stirrups, and hang them on to the rider of the fence, and then
set his hoss loose! And from that day, sometimes I did, and
sometimes I didn't, want to be better. And to-day it seemed to
me that you must know somethin' as would help me.”

Nothing is worse than a religious experience kept ready to be
exposed to the gaze of everybody, whether the time is appropriate
or not. But never was a religious experience more appropriate
than the account which Ralph gave to Bud of his Struggle in
the Dark. The confession of his weakness and wicked selfishness
was a great comfort to Bud.

“Do you think that Jesus Christ would—would—well, do you
think he'd help a poor, unlarnt Flat Cricker like me?”

“I think he was a sort of a Flat Creeker himself,” said Ralph,
slowly and very earnestly.

“You don't say?” said Bud, almost getting off his seat.

“Why, you see the town he lived in was a rough place. It
was called Nazareth, which meant `Bushtown.”'

“You don't say?”

“And he was called a Nazarene, which was about the same as
`backwoodsman.”'

And Ralph read the different passages which he had studied at
Sunday-school, illustrating the condescension of Jesus, the stories
of the publicans, the harlots, the poor, who came to him. And
he read about Nathanael, who lived only six miles away, saying
“Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?”

[ILLUSTRATION]

THE CHURCH OF THE BEST LICKS.

[Description: 556EAF. Page 124. In-line engraving of three boys standing in a room, with a country landscape visible outside.]

“Just what Clifty folks says about Flat Crick,” broke in Bud.

“Do you think I could begin without being baptized?” he
added presently.

“Why not? Let's begin now to do the best we can, by his
help.”

“You mean, then, that I'm to begin now to put in my best licks
for Jesus Christ, and that he'll help me?”

This shocked Ralph's veneration a little. But it was the sincere
utterance of an earnest soul. It may not have been an orthodox
start, but it was the one start for Bud. And there be those who
have repeated with the finest æsthetic appreciation the old English
liturgies who have never known religious aspiration so sincere

as that of this ignorant young Hercules, whose best confession
was that he meant hereafter “to put in his best licks for Jesus
Christ.” And there be those who can define repentance and faith
to the turning of a hair who never made so genuine a start for
the kingdom of heaven as Bud Means did.

Ralph said yes, that he thought that was just it. At least,
he guessed if there was something more, the man that was
putting in his best licks would be sure to find it out.

“Do you think he'd help a feller? Seems to me it would be
number one to have God help you. Not to help you fight other
folks, but to help you when it comes to fighting the devil inside.
But you see I don't belong to no church.”

“Well, let's you and me have one right off. Two people that
help one another to serve God make a church.”

I am afraid this ecclesiastical theory will not be considered
orthodox. It was Ralph's, and I write it down at the risk of
bringing him into condemnation.

But other people before the days of Bud and Ralph have discussed
church organization when they should have been doing
Christian work. For both of them had forgotten the danger that
hung over the old basket-maker, until Shocky burst into the
school-house, weeping. Indeed, the poor, nervous little frame
was ready to go into convulsions.

“Miss Hawkins —”

Bud started at mention of the name.

“Miss Hawkins has just been over to say that a crowd is going
to tar and feather Mr. Pearson to-night. And—” here Shocky
wept again. “And he won't run, but he's loaded up the old
flintlock, and says he'll die in his tracks.”