“Well, no,” replied the missionary, “not exactly. You’re not a very lovable object to look at just now. Nevertheless, I am anxious about your soul at first sight. I can’t tell how it is, but so it is.”
“Come, now,” said Ned, becoming suddenly stern. “I don’t believe in your religion, or your Bible, or your prayin’ and psalm-singin’. I tell you plainly, I’m a infidel. But if you can say anything in favour o’ your views, fire away; I’ll listen, only don’t let me have any o’ your sing-songin’ or whinin’, else I’ll kick you down the trap-door and down the stair an’ up the court and out into the street—speak out, like a man.”
“I will speak as God the Holy Spirit shall enable me,” returned the missionary, without the slightest change in tone or manner.
“Well, then, sit down,” said Ned, pointing to the only chair in the room, while he seated himself on the rickety table, which threatened to give way altogether, while the reckless man swung his right leg to and fro quite regardless of its complainings.
“Have you ever studied the Bible?” asked the missionary, somewhat abruptly.
“Well, no, of course not. I’m not a parson, but I have read a bit here and there, an’ it’s all rubbish. I don’t believe a word of it.”
“There’s a part of it,” returned the visitor, “which says that God maketh his rain to fall on the just and on the unjust. Do you not believe that?”
“Of course I do. A man can’t help believin’ that, for he sees it—it falls on houses, fields, birds and beasts as well.”
“Then you do believe a word of it?”
“Oh! come, you’re a deal too sharp. You know what I mean.”