“But, Baggs,” reasoned the barkeeper, “perhaps he’s been a preacher—you’d better not throw away a chance.”
“Don’t care if he has,” whispered Baggs; “he don’t look like any of the prayin’ people mother used to know.”
The would-be petitioner took his rebuff considerably to heart, and began, in a low and rapid voice, an argument with himself upon the duration of the state of grace. The Enders listened but indifferently, however; the dying man was more interesting to them than living questions, for he had no capacity for annoyance. The barkeeper scratched his head and pinched his brow, but, gaining no idea thereby, he asked:
“Do you know the right man, Baggs?”
“Not here, I don’t,” gasped the sufferer; “not the right man.”
The emphasis on the last word was not unheeded by the bystanders; they looked at each other with as much astonishment as Enders were capable of displaying, and thrust their hands deep into the pockets of their pantaloons, in token of their inability to handle the case. Baggs spoke again.
“I wish mother was here!” he said. “She’d know just what to say and how to say it.”
“She’s too far away; leastways, I suppose she is,” said the barkeeper.
“I know it,” whispered the wounded man; “an’ yet a woman——”
Baggs looked inquiringly, appealingly about him, but seemed unable to finish his sentence. His glance finally rested upon Brownie, a man as characteristic as himself, but at times displaying rather more heart than was common among Enders. Brownie obeyed the summons, and stooped beside Baggs. The bystanders noticed that there followed some whispering, at times shame-faced, and then in the agony of earnestness on the part of Baggs, and replied to by Brownie with averted face and eyes gazing into nowhere.