“Otherwise,” Ogden suggested, “it might be reported that you were enemies of religion.”
“That's about it,” said the Judge. “I can get on with most people. But elephants depress me.”
So we named the Doctor “Jumbo,” and I departed to my quarters.
At the bunk house, the comments were similar but more highly salted. The men were going to bed. In spite of their outward decorum at the service, they had not liked to be told that they were “altogether become filthy.” It was easy to call names; they could do that themselves. And they appealed to me, several speaking at once, like a concerted piece at the opera: “Say, do you believe babies go to hell?”—“Ah, of course he don't.”—“There ain't no hereafter, anyway.”—“Ain't there?”—“Who told yu'?”—“Same man as told the preacher we were all a sifted set of sons-of-guns.”—“Well, I'm going to stay a Mormon.”—“Well, I'm going to quit fleeing from temptation.”—“that's so! Better get it in the neck after a good time than a poor one.” And so forth. Their wit was not extreme, yet I should like Dr. MacBride to have heard it. One fellow put his natural soul pretty well into words, “If I happened to learn what they had predestinated me to do, I'd do the other thing, just to show 'em!”
And Trampas? And the Virginian? They were out of it. The Virginian had gone straight to his new abode. Trampas lay in his bed, not asleep, and sullen as ever.
“He ain't got religion this trip,” said Scipio to me.
“Did his new foreman get it?” I asked.
“Huh! It would spoil him. You keep around that's all. Keep around.”
Scipio was not to be probed; and I went, still baffled, to my repose.
No light burned in the cabin as I approached its door.