"'My name is Jones,' says the gent in the black coat, when he gets
settled back an' the stage is goin', I an' I'm an exhortin'
evangelist. I plucks brands from the burnin'.'
"'I'm powerful glad to know it,' says Texas, who likes talk. 'Them
games of chance which has vogue in this yere clime is some various,
an' I did think I shorely tests 'em all; but if ever the device you
names is open in Wolfville I overlooks the same complete.'
"'Pore, sinkin' soul!' says the black-coat gent to the female; 'he's
a-flounderin' in the mire of sin. Don't you know,' he goes on to
Texas, 'my perishin' friend, you are bein' swept downward in the
river of your own sinful life till your soul will be drowned in the
abyss?"
"'Well, no,' says Texas, 'I don't. I allows I'm makin' a mighty dry
ford of it.'
"'Lost! lost! lost!' says the black-coat gent, a-leanin' back like
he's plumb dejected that a-way an' hopeless. 'It is a stiff-necked
gen'ration an' sorely perverse a lot.'
"The stage jolts along two or three miles, an' nothin' more bein'
said. The black-coat gent he groans occasionally, which worries
Texas; an' the two infants, gettin' restless, comes tumblin' over
onto Cherokee an' is searchin' of his pockets for mementoes.
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