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Chapter 6
Theynailed’emup,an’ittookalongtime.Iseen—butIain’ta-goin’totell.Idon’ttelllies.Youaskdadan’maifItelllies.He’dwhalethestuffin’outofmeifIdid.Ask’m.”
Andthereatnotanotherwordcouldthemissionarygetfromme,eventhoughhebaitedmewithmorephotographsthatsentmyheadwhirlingwitharushofmemory-picturesandthaturgedandtickledmytonguewithspatesofspeechwhichIsullenlyresistedandovercame.
“HewillcertainlymakeagoodBiblescholar,”themissionarytoldfatherandmotherafterIhadkissedthemgood-nightanddepartedforbed.“Orelse,withthatimagination,he’llbecomeasuccessfulfiction-writer.”
Whichshowshowprophecycangoagley.IsithereinMurderers’Row,writingtheselinesinmylastdays,or,rather,inDarrellStanding’slastdayseretheytakehimoutandtrytothrusthimintothedarkattheendofarope,andIsmiletomyself.IbecameneitherBiblescholarnornovelist.Onthecontrary,untiltheyburiedmeinthecellsofsilenceforhalfadecade,Iwaseverythingthatthemissionaryforecastednot—anagriculturalexpert,aprofessorofagronomy,aspecialistinthescienceoftheeliminationofwastemotion,amasteroffarmefficiency,apreciselaboratoryscientistwhereprecisionandadherencetomicroscopicfactareabsoluterequirements.
