"Innocent and pure as the flower of the field," sneered Pritchen, quoting the missionary's own words.
Scarcely had he ceased when Keith, throwing discretion to the wind, leaped upon him, and with one blow sent him reeling back over a small bench standing near. Regaining his feet as quickly as possible, with a terrible oath, Pritchen rushed for his antagonist, only to go down again before that clinched sledge-hammer fist. This time he did not attempt to rise, but lay on the floor, giving vent to the most blood-curdling oaths. Keith towered above him, awaiting his further movement.
"Lie there, then, you serpent!" he cried, spurning him with his foot. "It's your natural position, anyway."
An exclamation of surprise from Perdue caused him to glance quickly around, and the sight which met his gaze was one never to be forgotten. Over the chest stood the saloonkeeper, holding in his hand a well-filled moose-skin poke, which he had just lifted from the bottom of the box.
"Is that yours, Tim?" he asked.
"Yes," came the reply. "Don't you see my initials, 'T. F.' worked in the poke? I did it myself, and could swear to it anywhere."
"And what's this?" exclaimed Mickie O'Toole, holding up another poke, which was empty. "See, and here are letters, too, 'K. R.', so, Tim, you're not the only one who's been pinched."
"Maybe the parson kin throw some light on the subject," and Perdue turned towards the missionary with a malicious light in his eye.
But Keith did not answer. He stood as if rooted to the floor. What did it all mean? Was he dreaming? He placed his hand to his forehead. No, no, it was no dream, but a terrible reality. A base, cowardly trick had been imposed upon him; he felt sure of that.
"God help me!" he inwardly groaned. "What am I to do?"