Chapter 5

There was some restlessness in the multitude now. What the Carpenter was saying was reasonable enough, thought Simon, but it would just go in one ear and out the other. You couldn’t change human nature very much…Take Johnny, for instance. He was probably in this crowd and listening to this good counsel. But—do you suppose the stubborn youngster would take it to heart—and apologize? Of course he wouldn’t!…It wasn’t much wonder that the Carpenter looked lonely. If he really practised what he taught, people would think him a queer one. Friendship with the man would be embarrassing.

The Carpenter had stopped speaking now and there was a perceptible stir in the crowd. It shifted its weight to the other leg, straightened its back, and stretched its neck for a better view.

A tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man stood forward from the pack and faced the Carpenter. He had a small boy in his arms. Whatever happened then, it was done so quickly that Simon could only guess that the child had received some attention; for the man who carried him turned away, apparently satisfied, and was making his escape through the craning multitude. There was much jostling, the crowd swarming about the man, blocking his way. The little boy was crying shrilly.

Simon impulsively went into action. Reviewing it later on his way home, he could not decide whether he had elbowed his way savagely into the mob because of his indignation at the people’s rudeness, and a desire to rush to the man’s defence, or to satisfy his own curiosity; but, whatever inspired him to plunge through the crowd, he made a success of it, thrusting a shoulder and a knee, tugging at collars, elbowing ribs, pulling hair, tramping on feet, until he had mowed a swath to the defenceless man in the centre of the congestion.

‘Stand back!’ he shouted. ‘Make way there!’ Planting the heels of his open hands on the nearest chins, Simon cleared a path. Presently he and the rescued were out in the open, and almost alone; for the crowd seemed reluctant to follow. The child’s frightened cries had subsided to convulsive sobs.

‘Thank you, friend,’ murmured the exhausted man. He lowered the boy to the ground.

‘No, no, grandfather!’ pleaded the little fellow. ‘It hurts! Lift me up!’

‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Simon.

‘A crooked foot. Born that way. I heard of this Jesus and hoped he might heal the child. I carried him—all the way from Sepphoris.’

‘That’s a long tramp.’ Simon peered down at the foot. ‘Apparently it hasn’t done the lad any good.’

‘Are you a believer in this man?’ inquired Justus soberly.

‘No, I’m not. We’ve been hearing many strange stories about him—over in Tiberias. I came out to see. My name is Simon.’

‘Mine is Justus, Barsabas Justus…Now, Jonathan, see if you can’t stand on the lame foot. Grandfather will not let you fall. Try it, my boy.’