“I take it, sir, that you are a stranger?”
“Hey?” inquired the American, cupping one hand about his ear.
The clergyman raised his voice:
“I assume, sir, that you are not a resident of these parts?”
“Nope,” said the American. “I hail from Wyoming. It’s durned good State, too—best in the Union. You ought to come out there some time, Elder, and give us the once-over.”
“Eh—quite so,” said the reverend gentleman. “Then,” he continued, “since you are newly-come to this place it must seem to you, even as it does to those of us who dwell in these cloistered and holy precincts, that the music of our glorious bells comes floating down to one almost like the voice of the Almighty Himself, seeking through the medium of their old brazen throats to communicate the message of peace on earth, goodwill to man, to us His children here below.”
“Which?” inquired the visitor, inclining his head somewhat.
“Er—what I meant to say,” stated the clergyman, “was that one must carry away from here, after hearing our chimes, the conviction in his soul that really he has been in communication with Deity itself—that the voices of the angels have cried out to him. Er—is it not so, my friend?”
The American shook his head.
“I’m sorry, parson,” he said regretfully, “but them damn bells is makin’ so much noise I can’t hear a word you say!”