"I'm f'm old Shelby."
"What's your father's religious denomination?"
"Him? Oh, he's a blacksmith."
"No, no—I don't mean his trade. What's his religious denomination?"
"Oh—I didn't understand you befo'. He's a Freemason."
"No, no; you don't get my meaning yet. What I mean is, does he belong to any church?"
"Now you're talkin'! Gouldn't[sic] make out what you was a-tryin' to git through yo' head no way. B'long to a church! Why, boss, he's be'n the pizenest kind of a Free-will Babtis' for forty year. They ain't no pizener ones 'n' what he is. Mighty good man, pap is. Everybody says that. If they said any diffrunt they wouldn't say it whar I wuz—not much they wouldn't."
"What is your own religion?"
"Well, boss, you've kind o' got me thar—and yit you hain't got me so mighty much, nuther. I think 't if a feller he'ps another feller when he's in trouble, and don't cuss, and don't do no mean things, nur noth'n' he ain' no business to do, and don't spell the Saviour's name with a little g, he ain't runnin' no resks—he's about as saift as if he b'longed to a church."
"But suppose he did spell it with a little g—what then?"