Oddly enough, the old man was talkative for a change. He had been reading a book, the same book, for over a year now. It was called In Tune with the Infinite. He wondered if George or I had ever read it. George avoided the issue, but gave me a sidelong glance which meant—Take the lead!
Since we had to talk, I felt we might just as well make an evening of it on a subject dear to the old man’s heart. I began by pretending that I wasn’t certain I had understood everything the author meant to convey. The old man was pleased by this show of modesty. He probably had understood very little himself, if the truth were known.
I had a friend once. I began, who could explain all manner of things. He carried this very book about with him night and day, wherever he went. George knows who I mean, don’t you George?
Sure, says George, you mean Abercrombie.
(There was no such person, of course.)
Yes, that’s the name.
He lisped a bit, didn’t he? said George.
No, he limped.
The old man signalled to get on with the story. He didn’t care what the man’s name was nor whether he limped or stuttered.
I met him out in California, about three years ago, it was. He was studying to be a minister of the gospel then. I say then, because he discovered a gold mine shortly after we met and he forgot all about God pretty quick.
Didn’t he meet with an accident? says George.
No, that was his brother—or his half-brother, rather.
The old man didn’t relish George’s interruptions, I could see that plainly. I decided to make haste.
It was at the edge of the Mojave Desert we happened to meet, I continued. I had been looking for a job with the borax people. Abercrombie says to me: ‘You don’t want a job, Henry, what you need is to find God. I’ve come to help you.’ He called me Henry, mind you, though I had never told him my name. He says: ‘I had a dream about you back in Barstow the other night. I knew you were in trouble, so I came just as quickly as I could.’ His talk made me just a little uneasy. I had never before met anyone who had second sight or who could communicate telepathically. I thought at first he might be spoofing me. But he was dead serious, as I soon discovered.
You say he had this book with him? the old man asked, looking somewhat puzzled.
Yes sir … it was by Ralph Waldo Trine, wasn’t it?
That’s right, said the old man. Go on now, I’m interested.
I hardly know where to begin, I faltered. Seems like so many things happened at once.
Take your time, said the old man, this is very interesting indeed. Mom, let’s have some more of that coffee, will you—and another cut of cheese cake.
I was glad to have a breather because I actually didn’t know what was coming next. I had started a story without any idea of how it would end. I had expected George Marshall to fill in, to help me over the humps.
As I was saying, we were alone out there in the desert. He had come to me in the middle of the night, and he was standing there talking to me as if he had known me all his life. In fact, I might say that he seemed to know me better than my most intimate friends. He kept saying, ‘You’re in trouble, let me help you.’ Now the strange thing is I didn’t know I was in trouble, not any special trouble, at any rate. All I wanted was a job, and that wasn’t so difficult. But the next day I realized that he knew what he was talking about, because in the afternoon I got a telegram from a friend of mine saying my mother was very ill and that I should return at once. I didn’t have more than a couple of dollars in my pocket. Of course, Abercrombie knew what was in the telegram—I didn’t have to read it aloud to him. ‘What’ll I do?’ I says, and he answers: ‘Get down on your knees and pray!’ So I got down, and he got down too, right beside me, and we prayed a long time. I immediately felt better, I must say. It was as though a load had been lifted off me. That very evening a stranger knocked at our door. He was a cattle man from Wyoming. He wanted to know if we could put him up for the night. Well, we got to talking and before long he too knew all about my circumstances. We went to bed and the next morning this stranger pulls me aside. ‘How much would it take to get you back home?’ he asks me straight off. I was flabbergasted. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Here, take this,’ he says, and he shoves two bills in my hand. They were two fifty dollar bills. ‘I guess that’ll see you through,’ he says, giving me a warm, friendly smile. I’ll pay you back as soon as
I can,’ I said gratefully. ‘Don’t worry about that, son,’ he says, ‘I’ve got more than I need. Take it and give it to somebody else in need when the time comes.’
When he left, Abercrombie says to me: Your prayer was answered. Never doubt again. I’m going back to Barstow. If you’re ever in need again, send for me.’
‘But where and how?’ I asked.
‘Send out a call, that’s all. I’ll get it wherever you are. Just believe.’
About six months later I was in trouble again. This time over a woman. I was desperate. And then suddenly I remembered Abercrombie’s words, and I sent out a call. Three days later he showed up at my home—all the way from Colorado.
The old man leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his head buried in his hands. That is remarkable, Henry, he said. And did he help you the second time?
He did indeed, I answered. I didn’t have to do a thing, except pray. This time, when he left, Abercrombie says to me: ‘You’ll never have to send for me again, Henry. By now you must realize that it is not I who has the power but God. Trust in Him and your prayers will be answered. I’ll probably never see you again—but I’ll always be near you, in spirit.’ And I never did see him again. But, as he said, I know he’s always near. I’d know it if he were to die. for instance.
Well, George, says the old man, what have you to say for yourself? Did you ever have an experience like that?
No, says George, but I’d like to ask Hen a question. He turned to me with a perfectly straight face, and said: Isn’t it true, Hen, that this Abercrombie was a jail-bird once?
(Pure invention, of course, but I had to take it up.)
Yes, I replied, he had been m prison for ten years on a charge of manslaughter. I never knew whether he was guilty or not.
But how did he happen to commit the crime?
I had to think fast.
He was convicted of killing a man in self-defense. There were no witnesses.
But didn’t Abercrombie have a strange reputation—before the killing?
Ye-e-s, I admitted, not knowing what George’s next move might be.
Did it ever strike you, Hen, that Abercrombie was a bit queer? I don’t mean crazy, but he must have had a loose tile. Didn’t you tell me once that he believed he could fly?
Yes, he did say that—once. But he never repeated it. He wasn’t boasting, either, when he said it. He was telling me of the extraordinary powers God sometimes grants us mortals when we have need of His protection. That isn’t so queer, is it?
Maybe not, Hen … but there were other things.
Like what?
You said he could see in the dark, like a cat, that he heard things other people couldn’t possibly hear, that he had a phenomenal memory. I think you said once that he claimed to have two fathers. What did he mean by that?
This last really stumped me. I had to admit I couldn’t answer the question.
Listen, Hen, there were a lot of things about Abercrombie that were shady. I never said anything at the time, because you believed in him so implicitly. You said before that he discovered a gold mine. Are you dead sure of that?
No, I said, I heard that from his half-brother.
Who was a notorious liar, says George quickly. The old man signified that he wasn’t taking kindly to George’s grilling.
But Hen’s gullible, George insisted. He believes anything and everything.
Belief is God-like, said the old man curtly. But it’s got to be within reason, said George. One can’t believe anything and everything!
George, said the old man, you’re like your father. You’re a doubting Thomas.
Now, now, said George’s aunt, don’t say things like that!
I will too! said the old man, thumping the table with his fist. George’s father is a good man, but he has no faith. He never did have any—not an ounce. He’ll die in sin, like he was born. The old man’s wrath was rising. He’s been good to me, said George stubbornly, not because he cared about his father, but just to make the old man angrier.
That doesn’t matter, said the old man, it’s his duty to treat you right, he
