Chapter 5

‘Oh—I can tell,’ snickered the beggar. ‘Some of them try to pretend they’re going somewhere else, but I can spot ’em. Take yourself now. I know you. You’re the Big Fisherman, that doesn’t hold with the Synagogue and curses religion. But what business brings you out here, on your way up the hill? You’re not carrying any fish and there’s none to be had where you’re going. You want to have a look at this Carpenter, same as everybody else. Heh! Heh!’

‘If you are so interested in this miracle-working Carpenter,’ growled Simon, ‘why don’t you show him that stinking arm? Maybe he would heal it for you. But perhaps you don’t want it healed.’

‘The fellow is a fraud and a blasphemer!’ The beggar rattled his cup and made a wry face. ‘Three pennies! And the Big Fisherman owns three ships! It isn’t enough to buy a measure of leeks!’

Simon muttered a curse and strode angrily away, the beggar calling after him, ‘It won’t do you any good to climb that long hill, I tell you! He’ll be gone. You’ll be meeting all the other fools on their way back.’

The Big Fisherman had left the town behind him now and the highway was stiffly rising. He had been walking rapidly, stomping along still angry over his encounter with the impudent beggar. The dirty, insolent beast should be locked up as a public nuisance. However, he was a canny fellow; you had to say that much for him. He knew where Simon was bound for, even when Simon hadn’t clearly decided on it himself. The impertinence of the filthy rascal! Simon had a notion to turn about and retrace his steps, just to show the beggar he had been wrong in his surmise; but then he might think that Simon had decided to take his advice. Simon wasn’t in the habit of taking advice from beggars—or anyone else, for that matter.

The afternoon was hot and the Big Fisherman was not accustomed to climbing steep grades. He sat down in the shade of a wayside tree to rest and get his breath. He must be growing old. Sooner or later, men did grow old. Their muscles got flabby, and their lungs and their hearts—yes, and their heads, too. An old man got more and more testy, surly, quarrelsome, cantankerous, like an old dog; like old Zebedee, who was always saying the wrong thing, making himself ridiculous. Fortunately for Simon, he wasn’t that old yet. He didn’t pick quarrels. No man should be blamed for defending his beliefs.

Well—what had happened had happened: it was too late to do anything about that now. Johnny had walked out in a huff and wasn’t likely to make the first move toward a reconciliation; and, naturally, the wilful boy wouldn’t expect his boss to hunt him up—and coax him to come back. There’d be no living with the youngster after that: he’d think he was an admiral or something.

No; the only sure cure for Johnny’s folly was the exposure of this Carpenter as an unscrupulous mountebank…Simon rose, wincing, and plodded on, every step an effort…The Carpenter must be pretty sure of himself, expecting people to climb a mountain to find him.

The sun was all but setting when Simon’s aching legs brought him over the shoulder of the plateau. There he paused uncertainly, amazed at the size of the crowd. Johnny had guessed there might have been as many as a hundred out here yesterday. There were more than that today. He sauntered slowly forward toward the closely packed, silent, attentive multitude, wishing he might make himself invisible. It would be very annoying if he were recognized and a rumour spread that he had been seen there. It would be useless to explain his reason for coming. What if Johnny should see him? Simon walked slowly, softly, and stood at the rear of the crowd. No one paid the slightest attention to him. He felt somewhat less uneasy. And presently he left off thinking about himself at all.