“There ain’t no wind so fierce that it don’t blow you some good,” he philosophized, as with deliberation he scratched a match on his trouser-leg. “I’d never hoped to see Jim Fox stand up to that city feller the way he did.”
“What did you think of the whole thing, anyway, Cap’n?”
“Well, so far as I could get the drift, I’d think that there theology stuff would be purty dry picking. But it was mighty interesting 50 the way you met up with ’em at every p’int. I was real ’feared that Jim Fox would get aboard their band-wagon when he see the way things was going against you.”
The minister nodded.
“And the way the Means feller washed his hands! Wa’n’t that good as a show, and then getting up and preaching like Gabriel afterward? Mack, you ain’t got no idea what he made me think of, have you?”
“Not in the least. What?”
“I heard a preacher tell a yarn once about a pilot washing his hands in hell. It struck me queer about there being a river in hell. If it’s as hot down there as I’ve heard it described, you’d think the surroundings would sizzle her up. But that’s what the preacher said about this pilot, whose last name I rec’lect was Pontyhouse. His stay was to be purty tolerable long with his Satanic majesty. I’ve always felt sorry for that chap, seemed kind of lonely, but as I figger it out he’s going to have company one of these hot days.”
Mr. McGowan looked up.
“You just bet he is. I knew that Means 51 chap afore he took to religion, and if he’s slated for heavenly bliss I’m going to put in my papers for the other place, alongside the scrubbing pilot.”
“You mean–––”