Silas (turning, and presenting brush like a pistol). Look out for paint. (Mother steps back.) I beg your pardon; but, if there is any thing in my personal appearance that leads you to suspect my jacket needs dusting, a gentler application of the duster might save the dustor some strength, and the dusteed much wind. Hang it! you nearly took away my breath.
Mother. Served you right. Who are you? Where did you come from? What's that daub?
Silas (aside). Daub! shade of Michael Angelo! (Aloud.) Madam, I am a missionary.
Mother. Good gracious! A parson. Why didn't you say so before? Settled?
Silas. No. (Rubs shoulders.) I thought I was just now.
Mother. Where do you hail from, parson?
Silas. Switcham, Vt. That answers your second interrogatory. The third I will save you the trouble of repeating by announcing the fact that the daub, as you are pleased to call my etching, is the good tidings I am ordained to proclaim. That's one of my sermons; and sermons in stones, though not original with me, have at least the merit of brevity to recommend them.
Mother. "Busted's Balm." Are you Busted?
Silas. No; but I shall be if you ask any more questions.