The barkeeper looked puzzled. He was a public-spirited man, whose heart and pocket were open to people in real trouble, but for prayers he had never been asked before, and, was entirely destitute of them. He felt relieved when one of his customers—a leaden-visaged man, with bulbous nose and a bad temper—advanced toward the wounded man, raised one hand, threw his head back a trifle, and exclaimed:
"Once in grace, always in grace. I've been there, I know. Let us pray."
The victim waived his hand impatiently, and faintly exclaimed:
"You won't do; somebody that's better acquainted with God than you are must do it."
"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.