Free Journeyman by Erskine Caldwell Page A

it.”
    “I thought you might. That’s why I walked up.”
    “You’re hell on Georgia dew, now, aint you, preacher?” Tom laughed. His red face shook with mirth. “You’re the drinkingest preacher I ever saw in all my life.”
    “Corn whisky is a man’s drink,” Semon said. “And I’m a man. I reckon that’s why I like it so much.”
    “You just wait till I send for some,” Tom told him, “It won’t take long to get it.”
    He walked off immediately, calling the Negro. Semon sat heavily on the ground, leaning back against the willow and fanning himself in the shade.
    Tom came back, urging Semon to get up.
    “We’ll get in the car and be ready to leave as soon as that darky gets back. It won’t take him long. He’s only got to go down to the cow shed in the pasture a little way.”
    Semon pushed himself to his feet and followed Tom to the barn, where the automobile was standing in the sun. They got in and Tom started the motor.
    “Make much time with Lorene last night?” Tom asked, nudging Semon with his elbow. “It didn’t use to take long to do that. Not after she made up her mind to leave, anyway. But I don’t reckon she’s changed much in a year or two. She still looks the same to me.”
    Semon understood then that Lorene knew what she was talking about when she had said that Tom would not fall into their scheme. Semon set that idea definitely aside.
    Frank, the colored man, brought the jug and set it in the back of the car. He had spilled a little of the liquor on the outside when he had filled it hurriedly from the keg, and the fumes came up like flame out of the rear seat. Semon sniffed the odor greedily. He was ready to go back to the Horey place.
    The car made good time through the deep sand. Tom did not bother to slow down when he came to an unusually deep bed of sand; he opened the throttle wider. Once the car leaped almost over the ditch, but Tom did not slacken his rate of speed. He kept on going, sometimes not even looking at the road ahead. Semon was relieved when they reached Clay Horey’s.
    “Are you aiming to preach at the schoolhouse Sunday?” Tom asked him as they stepped out of the car.
    “I am, I am,” Semon stated resolutely.
    “What are you aiming to preach about?”
    “Oh, various things,” Semon said. “This, that, and the other.”
    “I reckon you’ve got such a lot of sermons all made out that all you have to do is just call them up, and they’re all ready to be said.”
    “That’s right,” Semon replied shortly, watching the jug as it was lifted out of the back seat.
    Tom held up the gallon jug, shaking it slightly.
    “The drinks are on me, preacher. Just help yourself.”
    Semon pushed his finger through the glass handle and drew the jug closer.
    “I’ll down my share,” he said; “and there’s enough for others who like it, too. Everybody ought to get his fill today.”
    “There’s more where that comes from. And more in the making. I never let myself run short this time of the year.”
    While they were drinking, they saw Lorene run out on the porch and look down the road. A moment later she was running down the path towards them, and they turned and saw Clay coming up the road from McGuffin.
    “Here comes Clay back now,” Semon said, watching Lorene.
    “It didn’t take him long,” Tom said; “but I reckon he got tired of loafing around town on a week-day. If it was Saturday he wouldn’t have left McGuffin till midnight.”
    Clay turned into the yard and drove towards the barn without speaking to them. He looked as if he were in a hurry to get under the shed.
    Lorene ran after him, and she got there just as Clay was walking from the car.
    “Where’s Vearl?” Lorene asked excitedly.
    Clay walked to the house as though he had not heard her. She ran and caught up with him, pulling his arm.
    “Where’s Vearl, Clay?”
    They had reached the porch by that time, and Tom came through the hall carrying several tumblers.
    “Vearl?” Clay said,