"The houses was about right here, and there was more trees, lots of
trees, and lots of grass, and lots of goats. I can see 'em now, an' two
boys drivin' 'em. An' right here is a lot of men walkin' behind one man.
An' over there"--I pointed to where I had placed my village--"is a lot of
tramps. They ain't got nothin' on exceptin' rags. An' they're sick.
Their faces, an' hands, an' legs is all sores."

"He's heard the story in church or somewhere--you remember, the healing
of the lepers in Luke," the missionary said with a smile of satisfaction.
"How many sick tramps are there, my boy?"

I had learned to count to a hundred when I was five years old, so I went
over the group carefully and announced:

"Ten of 'em. They're all wavin' their arms an' yellin' at the other
men."

"But they don't come near them?" was the query.

I shook my head. "They just stand right there an' keep a-yellin' like
they was in trouble."

"Go on," urged the missionary. "What next? What's the man doing in the
front of the other crowd you said was walking along?"

"They've all stopped, an' he's sayin' something to the sick men. An' the
boys with the goats 's stopped to look. Everybody's lookin'."

"And then?"