Spencer's Mountain by Jr. Earl Hamner

there, did you?”
    Clay rose up and threw his soaking wet arm around his new-found friend.
    â€œSon,” he said, “you’re too good to lose. Come on, I’m goen to escort you to the Baptist parsonage myself.”
    ***
    The parsonage had been spotless since four in the afternoon. Now it was close to six o’clock and the ladies were morethan anxious to go home and prepare supper for their men, but not one of them was of a mind to leave without greeting the new preacher when he arrived.
    There were several conjectures about what might have happened to him, but not one of the ladies had the ingenuity to guess that the fault was Clay Spencer’s.
    When the sound of a car approached they would look up eagerly; when one finally stopped in front of the parsonage the entire membership of the Ladies Aid Society rushed up to the window and concealed themselves behind one of the white lacy window curtains they had installed that afternoon.
    The arrival of the new minister would have been dramatic enough had he merely stepped out of the car and walked up to the front door. But the way in which he was to arrive was to furnish conversation for the next ten to fifteen years. In the first place, the ladies were astonished to see Clay Spencer step out of the car. Walking almost as if he were sober, which he nearly was by this time, Clay made his way around to the other side of the car. He opened the door, eased something out that had been slouched against it and threw it over his shoulder. Unaware that any eyes rested on him, Clay started for the parsonage carrying the inert body of the new Baptist minister. When he opened the front door he found himself staring into a circle of female faces.
    â€œGood Lord, Clay, what’s happened?” cried Lucy Godlove.
    â€œHe’s all right,” said Clay. “He’s just…” He had started to tell them the preacher’s real condition, but he realized that he must not. “He’s all right,” he said. “He just run into somethen.”
    A chorus of sympathetic voices offered suggestions that somebody go after the doctor, that the preacher be put in bed, and that he ought to be kept warm. As the ladies pressed closer to offer aid they realized that Clay had been drinking.
    â€œClay,” said Lucy, “you are in no condition to take care of him. Put him down here and we’ll do for him.”
    â€œI’ll just take him up to his bed if you’ll show me the way, Miss Lucy,” said Clay, backing away.
    â€œThat preacher is liable to have infernal injuries,” declaredLucy. “You can’t tell what’s broke inside him there and you ought not to be moven him around.”
    â€œHe’ll be all right. All he needs is a little sleep,” insisted Clay, practically dancing around the room to keep the persistent Lucy from detecting the liquor on the preacher’s breath. The activity began to rouse the preacher. He struggled up out of Clay’s arms and assumed an unsteady upright position on the floor. Silence had fallen in the room which was broken only when one of the women sneezed.
    â€œBless you,” said the minister with a friendly smile.
    Lucy Godlove’s suspicion had become aroused and she stepped forward, put her face up close to the preacher’s face and drew in a deep breath. She turned to the other members of the Ladies Aid Society and announced in a whisper of disbelief, “He’s dead drunk.”
    The ladies withdrew like a flock of hens discovering a rattlesnake in their midst. They reassembled on the road in front of the house and stood looking back at the parsonage in outrage.
    Gradually it dawned on the preacher what had happened.
    â€œGod in Heaven,” he exclaimed.
    â€œIt’s a good thing for you He’s on your side,” observed Clay, “You’re goen to need Him.”
    ***
    The regular Sunday morning service at the Baptist church was not