“Glenn Marley.”
“Oh!” Wade Powell dropped his feet to the floor and sat upright. “Are you Preacher Marley’s son?”
Marley did not like to hear his father called “Preacher,” and when he said that he was the son of Doctor Marley, Powell remarked:
“I’ve heard him preach, and he’s a damn good preacher too, I want to tell you.”
Marley warmed under this profane indorsement. He had always, from a boy, felt somehow that he must defend his father’s position as a preacher from the world, as with the little world of his boyhood and youth he had always had to defend his own position as the son of a preacher.
“Yes, sir, he’s a good preacher, and a good man,” Powell went on. He had taken a cigar from his pocket and was nipping the end from it with his teeth. He lighted it, and leaned back comfortably again to smoke, and then in tardy hospitality he drew another cigar from his waistcoat pocket and held it toward Marley.
“Smoke?” he said, and then he added apologetically, “I didn’t think; I never do.”
Marley declined the cigar, but Powell pressed it on him, saying:
“Well, your father does, I’ll bet. Give it to him with Wade Powell’s compliments. He won’t hesitate to smoke with a publican and sinner.”
Marley smiled and put the cigar away in his pocket.