“Wal, it ’pears to be a tol’able free sort o’ rileegun anyhow. Kind o’ Turk, aint it?”
“Nothing of the kind. It has nothing in common with the doctrines of Mohammedanism.”
“But whar did you get it, Josh Stebbins? Who gin it to you?”
“You remember the man I brought over here last fall?”
“Sartint I do. Young he wur—Brig Young, I think, you called him.”
“The same.”
“In coorse, I remember him well enough; but I reckon our Marian do a leetle better. He tried to spark the gurl, an’ made fine speeches to her; but she couldn’t bar the sight o’ him for all that. Ha! ha! ha. Don’t ye recollex the trick that ar minx played on him? She unbuckled the girt o’ his saddle, jest as he wur a-goin’ to mount, and down he kim—saddle, bags, and all—cawollup to the airth! ha! ha! Arter he wur gone, I larfed till I wur like to bust.”
“You did wrong, Hickman Holt, to encourage your daughter in her sauciness. Had you known the man—that man, sir, was a prophet!”
“A prophet!”
“Yes—the greatest perhaps the world ever saw—a man in direct communication with the Almighty himself.”