He paused, looked me over, and began again:
"You're a preacher, ain't you?"
"I am," I replied.
"Well, then, here's news you'll enjoy. We're all thinking of joining the church—us fellows in the camps. Funny, ain't it? The gospel sharks are in the tall timber and are getting bags of game that would shame a pot hunter. The cloth has donned overalls and is preaching at us. Savvy, Preacher?—we've actually got so civilized that they're preaching at us God-forsaken lumberjacks. How does that strike you for news?"
He paused to see the effect this intelligence was having on me, then continued:
"The sermons we get are the real thing. No sun-proof paint on them, no 'by-your-leave,' but the straight goods, the pure stuff—chips, bark and timber. Everything we get is government sealed, punk proof, top-loaded and headed for the landing—which is us. It all comes our way and we hold our noses and take the medicine. What party do you happen to hitch to?"
"Denomination?" I asked, "I am a Presbyterian."
"Good! So am I. I don't happen to belong yet, but if they keep on hewing to the line, I'll have to join—or hike. Our Sky Pilot, Frank Higgins, belongs to your crowd. Probably you know him?"
"I have known him a long time," I replied.
"Shake! If you're a friend of his you'll do. He's onto his job, and if this keeps up, the guy that splashes ink on the church roll will be kept busy adding our names. There's my train."