“‘H’are you,’ sais I, ‘Elder, to-day? Which way are you from?”
“‘From the General Christian Assembly, sais he, ‘to Goose Creek. We had a “most refreshin’ time on’t.” There was a great “outpourin’ of the spirit.”’
“‘Well, that’s awful,’ says I, ‘too. The magistrates ought to see to that; it ain’t right, when folks assemble that way to worship, to be a-sellin’ of rum; and gin, and brandy, and spirits, is it?’
“‘I don’t mean that,’ sais he, ‘although, p’rhaps, there was too much of that wicked traffic too, I mean the preachin’. It was very peeowerful; there was “many sinners saved.”
“‘I guess there was plenty of room for it,’ sais I, ‘onless that neighbourhood has much improved since I knowed it last.’
“‘It’s a sweet thing,’ sais he. ‘Have you ever “made profession,” Mr. Slick?’
“‘Come,’ sais I to myself, ‘this is cuttin’ it rather too fat. I must put a stop to this. This ain’t a subject for conversation with such a cheatin’, cantin’, hippocrytical skunk as this is. Yes,’ sais I, ‘long ago. My profession is that of a clockmaker, and I make no pretension to nothin’ else. But come, let’s water our hosses here and liquor ourselves.’
“And we dismounted, and gave ‘em a drop to wet their mouths.
“‘Now,’ sais I, a-takin’ out of a pocket-pistol that I generally travelled with, ‘I think I’ll take a drop of grog;’ and arter helpin’ myself, I gives the silver cover of the flask a dip in the brook, (for a clean rinse is better than a dirty wipe, any time), and sais I, ‘Will you have a little of the “outpourin’ of the spirit?” What do you say, Elder?’
“‘Thank you,’ sais he, ‘friend Slick. I never touch liquor, it’s agin our rules.’