“No! No! I hain’t! cider’s good; good for the blood. Will take a glass, if you please.”
“Not here you won’t,” says I firmly.
“I’ll take a glass if you please, I said,” says he, speakin’ up kinder loud. “Cider’s good; good for the blood.”
Says I: “It will be good for your blood if you get out of this house as quick as you can. And I would love to know,” says I, lookin’ at him keenly over my specks, “what you are here for, anyway.”
“I am here in the cause of—cider’s good for the blood. Will take a drink.”
Says I: “You start out of this house, or I’ll call Josiah.”
“I come, and I’m workin’ for the cause of religion, if you please—and I’ll take a glass of it, if you please.”
He’d make a sort of a drunken bow, every word or two, and smiled sort o’ foolish, and winked long, solemn winks.
Says I sternly: “You act as if you was a workin’ for the cause of religion.”
“Apple-cider’s good. Hain’t apples religious, easy entreated? Hain’t apples peacible, long sufferin’? Will take a drink, if you please.”