Uncommercial (who has been burning to get at the Prophet Joe Smith, and seems to discover an opening). Faith in—!
Mormon Agent (far too many for Uncommercial). Well.—In anything!
Similarly on this same head, the Uncommercial underwent discomfiture from a Wiltshire labourer: a simple, fresh-coloured farm-labourer, of eight-and-thirty, who at one time stood beside him looking on at new arrivals, and with whom he held this dialogue:
Uncommercial. Would you mind my asking you what part of the country you come from?
Wiltshire. Not a bit. Theer! (exultingly) I’ve worked all my life o’ Salisbury Plain, right under the shadder o’ Stonehenge. You mightn’t think it, but I haive.
Uncommercial. And a pleasant country too.
Wiltshire. Ah! ’Tis a pleasant country.
Uncommercial. Have you any family on board?
Wiltshire. Two children, boy and gal. I am a widderer, I am, and I’m going out alonger my boy and gal. That’s my gal, and she’s a fine gal o’ sixteen (pointing out the girl who is writing by the boat). I’ll go and fetch my boy. I’d like to show you my boy. (Here Wiltshire disappears, and presently comes back with a big, shy boy of twelve, in a superabundance of boots, who is not at all glad to be presented.) He is a fine boy too, and a boy fur to work! (Boy having undutifully bolted, Wiltshire drops him.)
Uncommercial. It must cost you a great deal of money to go so far, three strong.