“No, not very long.”
“Fine town. Lots of business.”
“You betcha. And some nice little dames there, too.”
The little man snickered. “There are, eh? Well, say, you better give me some addresses. I make that town once a month and, by golly, I ain’t picked me out a skirt yet. But it’s a good town. Lot’s of money there.”
“Yes-sir, that’s a fact. Good hustling town. Quick turnover there, all right. Lots of money in Babylon.”
“Though they do tell me,” said the little man, “there’s one of these preacher-factories there.”
“Is that a fact!”
“Yump. Say, Brother, this’ll make you laugh. Juh know what I thought when I seen you first—wearing that black suit and writing things down? I thought maybe you was a preacher yourself!”
“Well—”
God, he couldn’t stand it! Having to be so righteous every Sunday at Schoenheim—Deacon Bains everlastingly asking these fool questions about predestination or some doggone thing. Cer’nly had a vacation coming! And a sport like this fellow, he’d look down on you if you said you were a preacher.