What is it, Abe?

UNCLE ABE.

It's purty brash o' me to be askin', but--Mista Beelah, fur do Lawd's
sake give me that thar devil--pictuh!

BEELER.

What do _you_ want with it?

UNCLE ABE.

Want to hang it up in my ole cabin.

_His tone rises to one of eager pleading._

Mars Beelah, you give it to me! For Gawd's sake, say Ole Uncle Abe kin
have it, to hang up in his ole cabin.

BEELER.

Well, if you feel as strong as that about it, Abe, take it along.

UNCLE ABE.

_As he unpins it with feverish eagerness._

Thank ye, Mistah Beelah, thank ye. I'll wo'k fur ye and I'll slave fur
ye, long as the worl' stan's. Maybe it ain't goin' to stan' much longer
aftah all. Maybe de chariot's comin' down in de fiery clouds fo' great
while. An' what'll yo' ole Uncle Abe be doin'? He'll be on his knees
'fore a big roarin' fire, singing hallelujah, an' a-jammin' red-hot
needles right plum' frough dis heah black devil's breas' bone! I'se got
him now! I'll fix'm.

_Shakes his fist at the print, as he goes toward the kitchen._

Put yo' black spell on the Lawd's chosen, would ye? I'se got ye. I'll
make ye sing, "Jesus, my ransom," right out'n yo' ugly black mouf!

_Exit._

BEELER.

There's a purty exhibition for this present year o' grace! Thinks our
friend Pan there has bewitched the healer.

MARTHA.

Maybe he has!

BEELER.

Thought you said Rhody done it.

MARTHA.

Same thing, I reckon, by all that you tell about that Panjandrum and
his goin's on!

BEELER.

Nonsense!

MARTHA.

If you're so wise, why do _you_ think Michaelis petered out?

BEELER.

Couldn't stand the strain. Bit off more'n he could chaw, in the healin'
line.--Never looked at Rhody.

MARTHA.

Looked at her till he couldn't see nothin' else, in heaven or earth or
the other place.

BEELER.

You're dead wrong. I tell you he never looked cross-eyed at Rhody, nor
Rhody at him. Doctor's more in her line.--By the way, did you give the
Doctor a snack to stay his stomach?

MARTHA.

Done nothin' but feed him all night long. Seems to be mighty exhaustin'
work to tend a sick baby.

BEELER.

Does he think it'll live?

MARTHA.

Not likely. But he thinks he will, if fed reg'lar.--What do you call
that trance the baby's in?

BEELER.

Doctor calls it comy. Spelled it out for me: c-o-m-a, comy.

_Beeler goes out on the porch and disappears. Martha continues her
task of tidying up the room. Michaelis ent