The clergyman raised his hand, and there was a look of pain on his pale face.
“I wish you wouldn’t swear,” he said, gently. “Be calm, and tell me just what you mean.”
The farmer looked ashamed of himself, and probably would have answered in a quiet way if another man who was standing near had not put in:
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Judson. Let him rave. If he’s such a fool that he can’t make money, it’s not your fault, and he has no business to complain to you.”
“But,” said Mr. Judson, “he makes a serious charge——”
The farmer did not hear this, for he was angry almost beyond his control, “mad clean through,” as the saying is in that part of Colorado.
He did not hear, because he broke in violently:
“I’ve been swindled, robbed, do you hear? and you’re just as much to blame as if you’d been the only one in the scheme. You wear the clothes of a preacher, but, by thunder! you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and you deserve to be shot on the spot. If you want to keep that pious skin of yours whole, you’d better not come around Hank Low’s way.”
“But, Mr. Low, listen to me,” the clergyman begged.