Wallace crept into bed beside his communicative bedfellow in silence. He didn't know how to deal with such spirits.
"Say!" called Herman suddenly, as they were about to go to sleep, "you ain't got no picnic, old man."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Wait till you see Cyene Church. Oh, it's a daisy snarl."
"I wish you'd tell me about it."
"Oh, it's quiet now. The calmness of death," said Herman. "Well, you see, it came this way. The church is made up of Baptists and Methodists, and the Methodists wanted an organ, because, you understand, father was the head center, and Mattie is the only girl among the Methodists who can play. The old man has got a head like a mule. He can't be switched off, once he makes up his mind. Deacon Marsden he don't believe in anything above tuning forks, and he's tighter'n the bark on a bulldog. He stood out like a sore thumb, and dad wouldn't give an inch.
"You see, they held meetings every other Sunday. So dad worked up the organ business and got one, and then locked it up when the Baptists held their services. Well, it went from bad to worse. They didn't speak as they passed by—that is, the old folks; we young folks didn't care a continental whether school kept or not. Well, upshot is, the church died out. The wind blew the horse sheds down, and there they lie—and the church is standing there empty as an—old boot—and——" He grew too sleepy to finish.
Suddenly a comical idea roused him again. "Say, Stacey—by Jinks!—are you a Baptist?"
"Oh, Peter! ain't that lovely?" He chuckled shamelessly, and went off to sleep without another word.