“Look here,” said Ben, suddenly stopping. “Are you going to tell of me?”
“That you were so uncivil as to put your hands on my throat, Ben?—I haven’t decided.”
“Not that I care a ——!” muttered Ben. “But Jane”—
“I shall never mention any circumstance of this—rather unpleasant evening—which would bring Miss Granite’s name into publicity,” replied the preacher quickly. “She is a good, modest girl. She should be sheltered and cared for. You might better toss a woman off Ragged Rock—as you intended to do by me—than to turn the gossip of Windover loose upon her.”
“It is a hell of a town, if you come to that,” said Ben with calm conviction.
“She is much too good for you, Ben Trawl,” remarked Bayard quite politely, as if he were offering the other a glass of lemonade.
“Lord!” groaned Ben, writhing under the minister’s manner. “Don’t you suppose that’s the worst on’t?”
“I think I’ll cut across here towards the hotel,” observed Bayard pleasantly. “We seem to have talked out, for this time. Good-night, Ben.”
“Say,” said Ben, “why don’t you spout temperance to me? Why ain’t you talked religion? Why ain’t you set out to convert me? I give you chance enough!”
“You are an intelligent man,” replied the preacher; “you know what you are about. I don’t waste sacred powder on useless shot.”