“'No more I shouldn't yours. Speaking of which,' I says, 'what is your job?'
“And he was stumped too. He was, for a fact.
“'I don't know as I could describe it. It's not that kind,' he says.
“'Complicated?'
“'Yes.'
“'Well,' I says, 'I shouldn't want to try it. I'd mean all right, but it wouldn't go.' I says, 'There was a man died up here at the city jail last year, and Sol Sweeney, the jailor, he was going to call in a clergyman on the case as being in that line. But then Sweeney thinks, “I can talk it. I've heard 'em.” Well, Sweeney's got an idea his intellectuals are all right anyhow. Being a jailor, he says, he's got the habit of meditation. So he starts in.”
“Bill, you've been a bad lot.”
“Yep.”
“There ain't no hope for you, Bill.”
“No,” says Bill, “there ain't.”