“How’d you happen to quit church on his account?” sez I.
“He was only a curate, when I first knew him,” sez Horace.
“He’s a curate yet,” sez I. “I tried one of his cures myself, lately; an’ it worked like a charm.” I turned my head away so ’at Horace wouldn’t guess ’at he was the cuss I had tried it on.
“A curate hasn’t nothin’ to do with doctorin’,” sez Horace. “A curate is only the assistant of the regular preacher which is called a rector. The curate does the hard work an’ the rector gets the big pay.”
“That’s the way with all assistants,” sez I; “so don’t bother with any more details. Why did you quit goin’ to church?”
“I quit because he quit,” sez Horace.
“What did he quit for,” sez I; “just to bust up the church by drawin’ your patronage away from it?”
“He quit on account of a girl,” sez Horace; an’ then I stopped my foolishness, an’ settled down to get the story out of him. Here I’d been wonderin’ for years about Friar Tuck; an’ all those weeks I had been with Horace I had never once thought o’ tryin’ to see what he might know.
[CHAPTER THIRTEEN—AN UNEXPECTED CACHE]
Humans is the most disappointin’ of all the animals: when a mule opens his mouth, you know what sort of a noise is about to happen, an’ can brace yourself accordin’; an’ the same is true o’ screech-owls, an’ guinea-hens an’ such; but no one can prepare for what is to come forth when a human opens his mouth. You meet up with a professor what knows all about the stars an’ the waterlines in the hills an’ the petrified fishes, an’ such; but his method o’ bein’ friendly an’ agreeable is to sing comic songs like a squeaky saw, an’ dance jigs as graceful as a store box; while the fellow what can sing an’ dance is forever tryin’ to lecture about stuff he is densely ignorant of.