“Of course we all started in to grin again, and the parson looked like a proper goat. But still he took no notice—kept as mum as you please, though; I guess if it’d been me, that drunk’d have got a back hander across the mouth and kicked off the train by the Con’ at the next station.
“Beggar got tickled with the fun he was causing, and he kept on repeating this conviction of his over and over again like a parrot; but, as the parson took not a bit of notice, he shut up for a bit and dozed off to sleep—much to our relief. We were getting a bit fed up with him. Then it was ‘Mister’ Parson made a darned bad break. He began fumbling in his pockets for something—a penknife, if I remember—to cut the leaves of a magazine. Well, his gloves seemed to hamper him, so he took them off and I got a good look at his hands. They—like his mug—didn’t fit in with his dress at all. Pretty rough-looking mitts, that it was very evident had recently done heavy manual work—all grimed up, with black broken nails and hard callosities on the palms.
“Still I hung fire—for his cloth always demands a certain amount of respect. He might have been working in his garden, I argued to myself. I didn’t want to make any fool break by humiliating a, p’r’aps, perfectly innocent man and a gentleman on mere suspicion, and without any positive proof. While I was twisting things over in my mind, the brakeman came through, calling: ‘Baker’s Lake! Baker’s Lake!’ And presently the train began to slow down. Parson began to gather all his belongings together as if he was going to get off there. I was ‘between the devil and the deep sea’—properly. For it was a case of ‘Going! going!’ and the next minute it’d be ‘Gone!’ with me, p’r’aps, for the goat instead of him.
“But just then Providence, in the shape of the drunk, settled all my doubts for me at the eleventh hour. The brakeman calling out the name of the station, and the parson rustling around with his traps, had combined to wake this beggar up, and he started in to sing again. He quite brightened up at the sound of his own music—takes another swig at his bottle and, squinting at our reverend friend, starts in again with his old parrot squawk:
“‘I don’t believe in Heaven, mister! I don’t believe in Heaven!’
“Parson stands up and reaches for his bag off the rack.
“‘Don’t you?’ he says, showing his teeth in a nasty sort of grin. ‘Don’t you? Well, then—you can go to H—l!’
“That fixed it—absolutely. I jumped up and followed my ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ down the aisle and out onto the platform.
“‘Just a minute, please,’ I said. ‘I’m a sergeant of the Mounted Police. I don’t think there’s any doubt about you.’ And I collared him.
“For answer, he dropped his bag on the instant and closed with me—desperate—tried to trip me up. Oh, I tell you, he sure was some handful. Well, he wouldn’t give in, quiet, and I began to get mad at the way he was scuffling with me, so I let go of him and broke away for a second. Then I came in on him quick and flopped him out with an uppercut and a back-heel—and as he keeled over his hat flew off and I saw the scar on the top of his bald block. Regular entertainment for the people on the train and the platform. They were wondering what the deuce was up when they saw us scrapping and rolling around there. I shoved the steels on him and took him back next train.”