"It's a fine
little town and I'm glad to be good, but crimp my hair if I don't feel
lonesome at times. I should like to exchange reminiscences
occasionally. I hope you'll stay."
"It's a pleasant man who keeps the corner cellar," says Ag, "but his
whiskey has the flavour of old rags. Now my throat----"
"Don't say a word," says the deacon, drawin' a small half-gallon flask
out of his clothes. "Do the snake-swallowin' act to your hearts'
content, gentlemen, and remember there's just simply barrels more where
that comes from. And now," says he, when the gurgling stopped, "let's
go in and see the fun. Them's awful innocent, good-hearted folk, boys.
I tell you straight, it works in through my leather to see 'em play."
We stepped where we could look at them; happy-faced mothers, giggling
and happy little kids, and pretty girls--lots of 'em. And it lit
through my hide, too.
"I s'pose you kin explain, Mr. Jones?" says the deacon, punchin' Ag in
the ribs.
"Explain?" says Ag, proud. "Appoint me custodian of the bottle, and I
hereby agree to explain anything: why brother Paris left us so
completely, what became of Charley Ross, who struck Billy Patterson,
where are the ships of Tyre, or any other problem the mind of man can
conjure, from twice two to the handwriting on the wall."
"Forrud, march," says the deacon simply, and we j'ined them kind and
gentle people under the Christmas tree.
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