The doctor threw back his head and shouted with fresh appreciation of his story, and Fairchilds joined in sympathetically.
"Well, did he die unconverted?" he asked the doctor.
"You bet! Reverend he sayed afterwards, that in all his practice of his sacred calling he never had knew such a carnal death-bed. Now you see," concluded the doctor, "I tended ole Adam fur near two months, and that's where I have a hold on his son the school-directer."
He laughed as he rose and stretched himself.
"It will be no end of sport foiling Jake Getz!" Fairchilds said, with but a vague idea of what the doctor's scheme involved. "Well, doctor, you are our mascot—Tillie's and mine!" he added, as he, too, rose.
"What's THAT?"
"Our good luck." He held out an objectionably clean hand with its shining finger-nails. "Good night, Doc, and thank you!"
The doctor awkwardly shook it in his own grimy fist. "Good night to you, then, Teacher."
Out in the bar-room, as the doctor took his nightly glass of beer at the counter, he confided to Abe Wackernagel that somehow he did, now, "like to see Teacher use them manners of hisn. I'm 'most as stuck on 'em as missus is!" he declared.