Simpson had some little skill with his pencil—­a real love for drawing was one of the instincts which his austere obsessions had crushed out of him.  He revolved several styles in his mind, decided at length on the simplest, and drew his designs on a ragged scrap of wrapping paper, while the carpenter, leaning down from his chair by the door, watched him, smoking, and now and then fingering the leather pouch about his neck.  Simpson, looking up occasionally to see that his sketch was understood, could not keep his eyes away from the pouch—­whatever it was, it was not a scapular.  He did not ask about it, though he wanted to; curiosity, he had heard, should be repressed when one is dealing with barbarians.  But he knew that that was not his real reason for not asking.

“But it is easy,” said the carpenter, picking up the paper and examining it.  “And the seats of the chairs shall be of white hide, is it not?”

Simpson assented.  He did not leave the shop at once, but remained seated on the threshold, following his usual policy of picking up acquaintances where he could.

“M’sieu’ is a priest?” the old man asked, squinting at he filled the cocoanut pipe again and thrust it between his ragged yellow teeth.

“Not a priest.  A minister of the gospel.”

“Quoi?” said the carpenter.

Simpson saw that he must explain.  It was difficult.  He had on the one hand to avoid suggesting that the Roman Church was insufficient—­that denunciation he intended to arrive at when he had gained firmer ground with the people—­and on the other to refrain from hinting that Haytian civilization stood in crying need of uplift.  That also could come later.  He wallowed a little in his explanation, and then put the whole matter on a personal basis.

“I think I have a message—­something new to say to you about Christ.  But I have been here a week now and have found none to listen to me.”

“Something new?” the carpenter rejoined.  “But that is easy if it is something new.  In Hayti we like new things.”

“No one will listen to me,” Simpson repeated.

The carpenter reflected for a moment, or seemed to be doing so.

“Many men come here about sunset,” he said.  “We sit and drink a little rum before dark; it is good against the fever.”

“I will come also,” said Simpson, rising.  “It is every evening?”

“Every evening.”  The carpenter’s right hand rose to the pouch which was not a scapular and he caressed it.

“Au revoir,” said Simpson suddenly.

“’Voir,” the carpenter replied, still immobile in his chair by the door.