The road agent, being now satisfied that he had sure enough struck a genuine parson, turned in disgust and remarked as he went away:
“Oh, pray away all night, if you like, and be d—— d!”
But this little incident, like many others which often occur among the parsons, has a sequel.
Some four years later, in Sacramento City, the parson and some of his acquaintances were enjoying themselves as miners usually do when visiting the large cities in the barroom of one of the hotels. During the course of the evening, a well-dressed man, who seemed to be serving in some capacity in the hotel, took him by the arm to one side, and asked him if he ever lived up on the toll-road a few miles above Placerville. The parson replied that he did, and that his residence was in a cañon near the road, where he was at present mining. The man then asked:
“You were a minister some four or five years ago, were you not?”
“Why, no, I wern’t at all; they only called me parson because I looked so much like one. But say, stranger, why do you ask me these questions?”
“Well, because when that road agent demanded your money, you remember you said you were a preacher, and got right down in the dust to pray.”
“Yaas, I know that; but you see that chap got the drop on me, and as I had no weapon with me I was bound to save about $250 that I had in my pocket.”
“Well,” says the man, “and you did it well, too.”
“Why,” Yank asks.