"This is only about eight miles from the town where I live," answered the gentleman, who now seated himself near them with his back against a tree, "I know the paths through here fairly well, for I come this way several times through the summer. But this will be my last trip for the season, and I'm giving a little more time to it on that account. I've taken it somewhat leisurely to-day."
He was a delicate-looking, middle-aged man, with a mild voice and a kind face.
"You're a drummer for a publishing house, I take it?" said Growler, nodding toward the books in the strap. "I've just been wondering where you'd find any buyers in these infernal woods."
The gentleman laughed. "No," said he, "this is my regular route; but I'm not a commercial traveler in any sense. I'm a pastor at a town near here, and I go out to these mountain families to hold services every few weeks."
"You don't mean you foot it through these bushes and among these wildcats to preach to the mountaineers!" exclaimed Growler in astonishment.
"Certainly I do. These poor people would never hear the sound of the gospel if some one did not take it to them. They have souls to be saved, my friend. I feel it is my duty to carry the word to them. As for the wildcats," he continued, smiling, "I have my rifle. Besides the government offers a small bounty for every wildcat."
"Oh, yes, I see. You combine business with pleasure and have your wildcat bounty to pay expenses as you go along—or else keep it for pin-money," and Growler laughed good-humoredly at his own fun.
"You're the parson from St. Thomas, I judge," said Cheery.
The gentleman bowed, and said he was the pastor of that little church.
"I've heard of your mission work, and I understand you've done a great deal of good among the mountain whites."