"This is the most extraordinary conversation I ever listened to," said
Mr. Striker. "You evidently take me for a—"
"I take you for Joe Striker; and if you keep on, I'll take you to jail," said the sheriff; with emphasis. "Now, you tell me who's got those stakes and who's your trainer, and I'll put an end to the whole thing."
"You seem to imagine that I am a pugilist," said Mr. Striker. "Let me inform you, sir, that I am a clergyman."
"Joe," said the sheriff, shaking his head, "it's too bad for you to lie that way—too bad, indeed."
"But I am a clergyman, sir—pastor of the church of St. Sepulchre.
Look! here is a letter in my pocket addressed to me."
"You don't really mean to say that you're a preacher named Joseph
Striker?" exclaimed the sheriff, looking scared.
"Certainly I am. Come up stairs and I'll show you a barrelful of my sermons."
"Well, if this don't beat Nebuchadnezzar!" said the sheriff. "This is awful! Why, I mistook you for Joe Striker, the prize-fighter! I don't know how I ever—A preacher! What an ass I've made of myself! I don't know how to apologize; but if you want to kick me down the front steps, just kick away; I'll bear it like an angel."
Then the sheriff withdrew unkicked, and Mr. Striker went up stairs to finish his Sunday sermon. The sheriff talked of resigning, but he continues to hold on.
* * * * *