His
tone was as of one half sullen, half hurt, and as he jerked his
thumb toward the hotel behind us, it was a gesture full of scorn.
"Thar's folks thar, takin' 'em up an' down, horns, hide, tallow, an'
beef, who ain't worth heatin' a runnin'-iron to brand."
"What's the trouble?" I inquired, as I organized for comfort with my
back against the elm-tree which shadowed us.
"No trouble at all," replied my old friend sourly, "leastwise
nothin' poignant. It's that yoothful party in the black surtoot who
comes pesterin' me a moment ago about the West bein', as he says, a
roode an' irreligious outfit."
"He's a young preacher," I explained. "Possibly he was moved by an
anxiety touching your soul's welfare."
"Well, if he's out to save souls," retorted the old gentleman, "he
oughter whirl a bigger loop. No, no, he won't do,"he continued,
shaking his head with an air of mournful yet resentful decision,
"this yere gent's too narrow; which his head is built too much the
shape of a quail-trap. He may do to chase jack-rabbits an' sech, but
he's a size too small for game like me. Save souls, says you! Why,
if that onp'lite young person was to meet a soul like mine comin' up
the trail, he'd shorely omit what to do entire; he'd be that
stampeded.
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