Turning to the clerical individual, Bob added in a low tone:
“Won’t you hev a drink, parson, jist fer yer stomick’s sake, an’ good-fellowship?”
“No; I never drink; it becometh not my cloth,” answered Uriah Bristow in a sepulchral tone.
“Never rastle tanglefoot? Why, pard, yer doesn’t know what is healthy. Then hev a smoke?”
“I never use the intoxicating and damning weed.”
“Ther dickens! What do yer do, pard, ter make yer cheerful?”
“I am never cheerful.”
“You look it. There, landlord, lead him in to ther hash bar. I’ll bet he kin git away with viands, or he ain’t like ther parsons as uster come ter my old mammy’s home when I were a kid. Jerusha; ther chickens uster skip, ther sheeps bleat, ther turkeys gobble, an’ pigs squeal whenever they saw ’em comin’, fer they knowed thar was ter be eatin’ done.”
The landlord came to the rescue and led the doleful preacher and his deeply veiled daughter into the house; which they left an hour after in an ambulance, drawn by two large mules, to follow the western-bound train.
Behind the ambulance were hitched two splendid horses, which the parson had purchased for himself and daughter, to enable them to vary the long ride by horseback exercise, and in the vehicle were many little things to add to their comfort. To the captain of the train, Lew Simpson, Parson Bristow brought a letter of introduction from the general in command of that department.