Throughout the sermon Archie B. kept the young Hillites in a paroxysm of smirks.
Elder Butts' legs were brackets, or more properly parentheses, and as he preached and thundered and gesticulated and whined and sang his sermon, he forgot all earthly things.
Knowing this, Archie B. would crawl up behind his father and thrusting his head in between his legs, where the brackets were most pronounced, would emphasize all that was said with wry grimaces and gestures.
No language can fittingly describe the way Elder Butts delivered his discourse. The sentences were whined, howled or sung, ending always in the vocal expletive—“ah—ah.”
When the elder had finished and sat down, Archie B. was sitting demurely on the platform steps.
Then the latest Scruggs baby was brought forward to be baptised. There were already ten in the family.
The Bishop took the infant tenderly and said: “Sister Scruggs, which church shall I put him into?”
“'Piscopal,” whispered the good Mrs. Scruggs.
The Bishop looked the red-headed young candidate over solemnly. There was a howl of protest from the lusty Scruggs.
“He's a Cam'elite,” said the Bishop dryly—“ready to dispute a'ready”—here the young Scruggs sent out a kick which caught the Bishop in the mouth.