Short Stories
THE APOSTATE
by Jack Lo nd on
Now I wake me up to work;
I pray the Lord I may not shirk.
If I should die before the night,
I pray the Lord my work's all right.
Amen.
"If you don't git up, Johnny, I won't give you a bite to eat!"
The threat had no effect on the boy. He clung stubbornly to
sleep, fighting for its oblivion as the dreamer fights for his
dream. The boy's hands loosely clenched themselves, and he
made feeble, spasmodic blows at the air. These blows were in-
tended for his mother, but she betrayed practised familiarity in
avoiding them as she shook him roughly by the shoulder.
"Lemme 'lone!"
It was a cry that began, muffled, in the deeps of sleep, that
swiftly rushed upward, like a wail, into passionate belligerence,
and that died away and sank down into an inarticulate whine. It
was a bestial cry, as of a soul in torment, filled with infinite pro-
test and pain.
But she did not mind. She was a sad-eyed, tired-faced wom-
an, and she had grown used to this task, which she repeated eve-
ry day of her life. She got a grip on the bed-clothes and tried to
strip them down; but the boy, ceasing his punching, clung to
them desperately. In a huddle, at the foot of the bed, he still re-
mained covered. Then she tried dragging the bedding to the
floor. The boy opposed her. She braced herself. Hers was the su-
perior weight, and the boy and bedding gave, the former instinc-
tively following the latter in order to shelter against the chill of
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