Now David, it seemed, was home to stay; and on fair days it was his habit to stroll slowly down the hill, with bent head, apparently in deep meditation. Persons meeting him did not venture to speak, nor did he lift his eyes. Doubtless he was too busy with his own thoughts to take any account of them.
It was not surprising, therefore, that Hannah's neighbours should have been amazed the first time David stopped beside her white picket fence to engage the Big Fisherman in what seemed to be a serious, man-to-man conversation. And this happened again and again, usually of a late afternoon when Simon had returned from his work. Sometimes Hannah joined them, presumably at David's suggestion. It was all very mysterious.
But while this friendship between Simon the uncouth and David the refined was incomprehensible to the Bethsaidans, whose social status was approximately level, it was not so unaccountable as it seemed; for though aristocracy might shudder at the thought of contamination with persons a notch or two lower in the social scale, it was willing to unbend pleasantly for those who, everybody knew, had no rating at all—and would not be expecting an invitation to dinner.
In this case, however, there was still better reason for the friendship of the lawyer and the fisherman. The seed of it had been sown many years before, when Simon, a self-conscious, ragged, immensely overgrown youngster, had regularly delivered fish at the Zadoks' kitchen door. David, his senior by a decade, occasionally encountered him on a garden path and stopped to feel his bulging muscles in about the same careless manner with which he tousled the ears of his dog; and Simon would grin and mumble 'Yes, sir' to David's playful comments on the astounding number of his freckles and the prodigious size of his bare feet. And then David had gone away to school in Athens; absent for five years. Returning, he had joined an eminent law firm in Caesarea, then rapidly becoming a metropolis, and was seen only rarely, briefly, in Bethsaida. At wide-spaced intervals Simon passed him. David would nod and smile, absently.
Even after arriving at something like dignity in his lowly occupation, Simon had continued personally to deliver choice fish to a few important patrons: to the Tetrarch's palace, of course, and to the Zadok mansion, and—for a while—to Jairus' beautiful villa, though latterly he had given that up; it was too far.
Now that David, slightly stooped and grey, had come home for good, Simon often saw him sauntering about on the grounds. One day they met. Without any preliminary greeting, David said, 'Still peddling fish, eh? Surely you should have found a better job by now.'
Simon was offended, but kept his temper.
'I do have a better job, sir. I do not peddle fish. True, I still select them carefully for you and bring them myself to your house—and to the Tetrarch—but I could easily send them.'
If Simon had thought to flatter his customer by mentioning that the House of Zadok and the Villa of the Tetrarch were somehow of the same standing in his esteem, he was quickly set right about that. David's lip curled unpleasantly.
'So—that abominable drunkard eats fish, eh?' he muttered. 'I had supposed he lived exclusively on beverages.'
Simon didn't care to risk a comment on this seditious speech, but he nodded perfunctorily; and David, dismissing the subject with a flick of his fingers, said, 'You're doing well, then. Perhaps you own a market.'
Simon's lips twitched with a grin that hinted at something better than a market.
'No, sir. I am still a fisherman, but I own my ships and have a score and ten men in my employ.'
'That is very good,' commented David. 'I am glad you have prospered. I dare say you have a home—and family.'
Simon explained briefly about that, and David was respectfully sympathetic. After a little pause, he remarked, 'Perhaps you have some office in the Synagogue, now that you have done so well in business.'
'No, sir,' replied Simon almost bluntly. 'I have no time for the Synagogue.'
'You mean—you are not religious?' inquired David, surprised.
'Well, sir . . .' Simon shifted his weight, deliberating a reply. 'I believe in the God of our fathers—who made the world—and gives us our life—and the sunshine, rain and harvests. I do not believe that He takes any notice of our small doings—or cares whether we roast calves and lambs in His honour.'
'Very well spoken,' said David soberly. 'You are thoughtful. . . . I bid you good-day.'
That brief conversation had marked the beginning of an acquaintance that was ripening to a friendship. There were frequent talks thereafter, Simon encouraged to speak his mind freely and David nodding his approval. Even when Simon had ventured quite beyond his depth and it was obvious that he didn't know what he was talking about, David—in need of diversion—would slowly nod his head and smile.
Then came the visits at the fence, which brought all that section of Bethsaida to the window. And one afternoon David consented to come into the yard and sit down with Simon in the shade of the tall cypress, and Hannah brought them cups of pomegranate juice.
* * * * * *
The early morning haze had lifted now. The sun had scented the old tarred ropes and softened the pitch in the deck-seams. The sailors worked in silence, deftly spreading open the frayed cords of the net and weaving into them the new twine.
Simon straightened his back, scratched his bushy head with his awl, and shaded his sweating brow for keener observation of the dory that was slowly approaching from the docks. His face lighted up. Other eyes followed his inquisitively.
'Who's that with John?' mumbled Andrew.
'I don't recognize him,' said Simon. 'Some youngster wanting a job maybe.'
'Looks like a tramp,' thought James.
'That would be John—all over,' remarked old Zebedee, from the adjacent deck of
The Rachael,
'always bringing home a lost dog to feed.'
'Well—he might do worse,' rumbled Simon deep in his throat. 'Go forward, Thad, and toss him a rope.'
Work on the net was resumed without much enthusiasm, all of them curious to see what sort of passenger John had picked up. But, whoever the stranger was, the Big Fisherman would doubtless approve of his coming aboard. Anything that Johnny did was agreeable with Simon. Every member of the crew took that for granted.
Sometimes newcomers to the fleet were a bit annoyed over the skipper's partiality toward this absent-minded youth, but they soon accepted it without jealousy; for nobody could help liking him. Johnny was shamelessly lazy. On warm afternoons when everybody else was diligently fishing, Johnny could be found lying flat on his back staring up into the sky. If Simon teasingly queried for a report on what he saw in the white clouds today he would raise his arm and dreamily finger a pattern of a dome, a tower, a bridge, a city; or perhaps a winged angel.
'You're not much good as a fisherman, Johnny,' Simon would say, 'but it's worth something to see pictures in the sky.'
It is doubtful, however, whether Simon would have tolerated any such indolence had that been the boy's only distinction. In emergencies he was amazingly industrious, resourceful, and courageous. In fair weather, when the sails were hoisted or reefed, the crew had to step over him while he indifferently viewed their labours through half-closed eyes. Let there be a storm, Johnny astonished them with his seamanship. If a ravelled rope fouled a pulley high on the main-mast in the midst of a howling gale, everybody knew that the drenched sailor inching his way up the swaying ratlines was Johnny the dreamer.
Perhaps Simon loved the boy for his reckless bravery, perhaps for his visions in the white clouds, perhaps for both of these disparate talents; but whatever may have been the grounds of his affection it was sincere and ever on display. Nor was it a one-sided devotion. Simon was Johnny's hero. It was a relationship that gave something of fragrance to an occupation much in need of it.
Now John and his unrecognized companion—a ragged youth of his own age—were climbing over the forward rail. Waving a hand, he led the diffident stranger into the little galley in the forecastle.
'Feeding him, no doubt,' guessed Andrew. 'He certainly looked hungry.'
'Johnny missed his calling,' said Simon. 'He should have been a public almoner.'
'It would have increased the taxes,' remarked old Zebedee. 'The boy has no regard for money.'
'No—Johnny will never be rich,' said Simon, 'but he will always have friends.'
'And they will have him to bury sometime,' muttered Zebedee.
'You wouldn't expect him to bury himself,' said Simon.
They all chuckled a little at this, but gave full attention as John appeared from the galley and came slowly aft, their curiosity about his movements whetted by the fact that he had been absent since noon yesterday. Stepping with the carefulness of a cat he walked across the big net and sat down beside Simon, who edged over to make room. They all put down their work and waited for explanations.
'Camel-boy,' said John, tipping his head toward the galley. 'Hasn't had anything to eat for a couple of days; very tired. I found him sitting on the dock. He looked as if he had been crying; face all smeared and dirty. He said he had run away from a caravan bound for Damascus on the coast road, because they beat and starved him.'
'You showed him where to wash—and gave him some food?' inquired Simon. He took up the net again as a hint to the crew, and they bent over their work. John nodded—and smiled.
'I never saw anyone eat before,' he remarked to Simon; 'not like this boy. The poor chap must be hollow all the way to his heels.'
'Did you question him?' asked Simon.
'No—I thought I'd let you do that. He may be from the south. He speaks Aramaic—the Judaean kind; only down south further, maybe.'
'Well—we'll see,' rumbled Simon absently. Leaning closer, he asked in a low voice, 'Did you go out there, yesterday, as you intended?'
John nodded dreamily, averting his eyes; then shook his head.
'Well?' snapped Simon, with a sudden impatience that widened his audience. 'Did you go—or didn't you?'
Again John nodded, slowly lifted cloudy eyes, entreatingly shook his head, and tapped his hand gently on the Big Fisherman's knee, as if begging that his story might be deferred until he could tell it in private. But this signal for secrecy, now that the crew had become interested in the pantomime, nettled Simon.
'And did you find this cracked Carpenter who has turned vintner—and makes wine out of water?'
The crews of the three ships were leaning forward now, wide-eyed with curiosity and frankly amused at the discomfiture of the skipper's pet. And when John still remained silent, crestfallen, Simon went on with his ridicule.
'I suppose the Carpenter urged all the poor farmers and shepherds to band together and storm the Roman fort with flails and pitchforks.'
This brought a laugh. Everybody had heard Simon's savagely expressed opinions of the rumours afloat concerning the Carpenter from Nazareth, and it would be prudent to share his contempt. The Big Fisherman appreciated this loyal acceptance of his views and gave his men another occasion for a guffaw. Turning toward John, he said:
'Perhaps you saw the Carpenter turn a field of rocks into a pasture full of fat sheep! Speak up, lad! You were bent on going out to see the Carpenter—and I gave you the day off. Tell us, now, what did you make of him?'
'I—I don't know,' said John thickly. He compressed his lips and shook his bent head. Presently he straightened, faced Simon with an expression of utter bafflement, and repeated lamely, 'I don't know, sir. It's all very strange.'
'Hmm; so I gather,' muttered Simon. 'And what was so strange about it—the man or his talk or his tricks? Can't you tell us? Or are we too stupid to understand?'
'Please give me time, Simon.' John seemed to be speaking from a distance. 'The whole thing is mysterious. I can't think straight today. Let me tell you about it—a little later.' He lowered his tone until it was inaudible to any but Simon, and added, 'But I won't expect you to believe it.'
'Humph!' grunted Simon.
At this juncture the tension was eased. The emaciated camel-boy—in a tattered and grimy brown tunic and trousers, easily recognized as the garb of a caravan lackey, ambled slowly toward them. Uncertain what to do with himself, he halted and leaned against a capstan. Simon beckoned to him and the net was relaxed for his crossing. Obedient to the master's invitation, he sat down on what was left of the tiller-seat. The crew looked him over without visible prejudice.
'Did you have something to eat, son?' The Big Fisherman's voice was friendly.
The newcomer nodded gratefully, and said in a husky tone inaudible to any but the master and John, 'You are very kind, sir.'
'That was John's doing,' chuckled Simon, apparently anxious to set himself right with his offended favourite, who sat demurely reflecting on the ridicule he had suffered. 'Johnny attends to the feeding of visitors. . . . So—you're lost, maybe. Well—don't worry too much. You look as if you needed a rest. Where have you been sleeping lately—in haystacks?'
'No, sir; under the hedges along the roadside. They don't want you sleeping in their haystacks.'
'They can't be much blamed for that,' commented Simon. 'Tramps are always breaking down their berry-bushes and grapevines—and frightening the cattle. . . . What's your name, boy?'
'Joseph.'
'I suppose they call you Joe.'
'Y-yes, sir. That—and a lot of other things lately.'
Simon acknowledged this grim little pleasantry with an appreciative grin. Evidently the ragged waif was not stupid.
'Where are you from, Joe?' he asked, kindly.
'Far south, sir; near the Dead Sea.'
'Idumea, maybe?'
The boy nodded tardily, his reluctance being quite understandable; for no one had ever been heard to boast that he was a native of Idumea. Simon's lips tightened involuntarily and he regarded the youngster with a frown, but instantly relented as he looked into the drooping eyes.
'I suppose you know, son, that we Jews don't have much to do with Idumeans.'
'But Idumeans are Jews, sir,' meekly protested the boy.