"What are you, anyhow," chided Blinky, sneeringly. "Are you a cowboy or a preacher?"
Lem felt a warm sting rise to his cheeks, as he fixed his eyes inquiringly upon Blinky's insolent face.
"What else could he be," interposed a new arrival, "but a preacher? He ain't no convict—the Captain jest sent fer him. He's goin' to live here amongst us and reform a lot of you bad guys."
At this juncture, still another convict came up, bearing a blue cotton shirt and a pair of prison trousers over his arm.
"Is this the new duck?" he queried.
"Duck—duck," echoed Blinky. "Ain't ye got no manners? I'm ashamed of ye—ain't ye got no respect for a preacher? This is Brother Silsand—he got a call—here."
"Oh, excuse me. Well, Brother Silsand, you'll carry these elegant pants and this fancy shirt on your arm when Last Time comes to escort you to the beach. When you come back, you'll feel like a gentleman sure enough."
Other men were attracted, and now a little group clustered around the bench, all eyes turned upon Lem, as though he were some strange animal. And all in turn contributed their jest calculated to furnish fun for the others.
"Here comes Brizz now," announced Blinky. "Ha, there, Brizz—I brought your clippers down. Pipe this guy's hair—you'll never git that reaped twixt this and sun-down. Say, Shorty, you been bellerin' for a mattress ever since I knowed ye—now's yer chance—rake this pretty hair up as fast as Brizz mows it, and feed it to that hungry tick of yourn. I'll bet my plug Saturday to three matches that the bell won't wake ye up."
At this moment, Brizz, a heavy man with a ponderous paunch, crowded in and took the clippers out of Blinky's hand. Brizz was the official reception room barber.