“I’m Shorty McCabe,” says I.
“Oh!” says he. “It seems to me I’ve heard——”
“Nothing like bein’ well advertised,” says I. “Now, how about you—and this?” With that I points to the specimen in the cast offs, that was givin’ an imitation of a flytrap. It was a little crisp, I admit; but I’m gettin’ anxious to know where I stand.
The minister lifts his eyebrows some, but proceeds to hand out the information. “My name is Hooker,” says he,—“Samuel Hooker.”
“Preacher?” says I.
“Ye-es, a poor one,” says he. “Where? Well, in the neighborhood of Mossy Dell, Pennsylvania.”
“Out in the celluloid collar belt, eh?” says I. “This ain’t a deacon, is it?” and I jerks my thumb at the fish eyed one.
“This unfortunate fellow,” says he, droppin’ a hand on the object’s shoulder, “is one of our industrial products. His name is Kronacher, commonly called Dummy.”
“I can guess why,” says I. “But now let’s get down to how you two happen to be loose on the seventh floor of the Perzazzer and so far from Mossy Dell.”
The Reverend Sam says there ain’t any great mystery about that. He come on here special to have a talk with a party by the name of Rankin, that he understood was stoppin’ here.