The Country of the Blind

Everybody was laughing.  Even the prophet of the Lord whom the Wicked Man had tortured had a smile on his face.  The Wicked Man was really such a preposterous little fellow.

“And then,” read the Recording Angel, with a smile that set us all agog, “one day, when he was a little irascible from over-eating, he—­”

“Oh, not that,” cried the Wicked Man, “nobody knew of that.

“It didn’t happen,” screamed the Wicked Man.  “I was bad—­I was really bad.  Frequently bad, but there was nothing so silly—­so absolutely silly—­”

The angel went on reading.

“O God!” cried the Wicked Man.  “Don’t let them know that!  I’ll repent!  I’ll apologise…”

The Wicked Man on God’s hand began to dance and weep.  Suddenly shame overcame him.  He made a wild rush to jump off the ball of God’s little finger, but God stopped him by a dexterous turn of the wrist.  Then he made a rush for the gap between hand and thumb, but the thumb closed.  And all the while the angel went on reading—­reading.  The Wicked Man rushed to and fro across God’s palm, and then suddenly turned about and fled up the sleeve of God.

I expected God would turn him out, but the mercy of God is infinite.

The Recording Angel paused.

“Eh?” said the Recording Angel.

“Next,” said God, and before the Recording Angel could call the name a hairy creature in filthy rags stood upon God’s palm.