“Every Sunday is the Lawd's, Jeb Mullins—profane it not.”
“Well, mebbe He'll loan me this un, parson. You lambasted me afore all Happy Valley last Sunday an' now I'm a-goin' to lick you fer it.” The parson's eye gleamed faintly and subsided.
“I'm on my way to preach the word of God, Jeb Mullins.”
“You'll git thar in time, parson. Git off yo' hoss!”
“I've got my broadcloth on, Jeb Mullins, an' I don't want to muss it up—wait till I come back.”
“You can take it off, parson, or brush off the dust atterwards—climb off yo' hoss.” Again the parson's eye gleamed and this time did not subside.
“I reckon you'll give me time to say a prayer, Jeb Mullins!”
“Shore—you'll need it afore I git through with ye.”
With a sigh the parson swung offside from Jeb, dexterously pulling a jackknife from his trousers-pocket, opening it, and thrusting it in the high top of his right boot. Then he kneeled in the road with uplifted face and eyes closed:
