"Yes, I went, and all I got was an insult for my pains. She's a she-dev—I beg your pardon, sir; it would serve me right if the Almighty struck me dumb with a stroke like hers, only hers don't affect her speech any, Aileen says—I guess her tongue's insured against shock for life, but it hadn't ought to be, sir, not after the blasphemy it's uttered. But I ain't the one to throw stones, not after what I've just said in your presence, sir, and I do beg your pardon, I know what's due to the clo—"
The train, rounding the curve, whistled deafeningly.
Father Honoré grasped both Octavius' hands; held them close in a firm cordial grip; looked straight into the small brown eyes that were filled with tears, the result of pure nervousness.
"We men understand each other, Mr. Buzzby; no apology is necessary—let me have your prayers while I am away, I shall need them—good-bye—" He entered the car.
Octavius Buzzby lifted his hat and stood bareheaded on the platform till the train drew out.