[CHAPTER FOURTEEN—HAPPY’S NEW AMBITION]
Ol’ Tank Williams allus maintained that I had a memory like the Lord; but this ain’t so. What I do remember, I actually see in pictures, just like I told you; but what my memory chooses to discard is as far out o’ my reach as the smoke o’ last year’s fire. I’ve worked at my memory from the day I was weaned, not bein’ enough edicated to know ’at the proper way is to put your memory in a book—and then not lose the book. I’ve missed a lot through not gettin’ on friendly terms with books earlier in life; but then I’ve had a lot o’ fun with my memory to even things up.
This part about the Friar, though, isn’t a fair test. Horace’s vestry-man friend was what is known as a short-hand reporter. Short-hand writin’ is merely a lot o’ dabs and slips which’d strain a Chinaman; but Horace said it was as plain to read as print letters, and as fast to write as spoke words. Hugo took it down right as it was given; and Horace had a copy which I made him go over with me until I had scratched it into the hardest part o’ my memory; and now it is just the same as if I had seen it with my own eyes—me knowin’ every tone in the Friar’s voice, and the way his eyes shine; yes, and the way his jaws snap off the words when he’s puttin’ his heart into a thing.
Horace sat thinkin’, before he started on with his tale; and I sat watchin’ his face. It was just all I could do to make out the old lines which had give me the creeps a few weeks before. Now, it had a fine, solid tan, the eyes were full o’ fire, and he looked as free from nerves as a line buckskin. The Friar sez we’re all just bits o’ glass through which the spirit shines; and now that I had cleaned Horace up with my nerve treatment, the’ was a right smart of spirit shinin’ out through him, and I warmed my hands at it. He simply could not learn to roll a cigarette with one hand; but in most things, he was as able a little chap as ever I took the kinks out of.
“I’m sorry I didn’t belong to that vestry,” sez Horace, after a bit. “When I look back at all the sportin’ chances I’ve missed, I feel like kickin’ myself up to the North Pole and back. From now on I intend to mix into every bloomin’ jambaree ’at exposes itself to the vision of my gaze. I’m goin’ to ride an’ shoot an’ wrestle an’ box an’ gamble an’ fight, and get every last sensation I’m entitled to—but I’ll never have another chance at a vestry-meetin’ like the one I’m about to tell you of.
“You saw how toppy Carmichael got this afternoon; so you can guess purty close how he looked when he lined up this vestry.”
“Oh, I’ve seen the Friar in action,” sez I; “and you can’t tell me anything about his style. All you can tell is the details. So go to ’em without wastin’ any more time.”
“How comes it you call such a man as him Friar Tuck?” asked Horace, who allus was as hard to drive as an only son burro.
“Well, I don’t approve of it,” sez I, “and I kicked about it to the Friar; but he only laughed, and said ’at one name was as good as another. A bettin’ barber over at Boggs give it to him for admonishin’ a gambler from Cheyenne.”
“Was he severe?” asked Horace.