“I hardly know, brother Dole,” he said. “It's all owin' to what profanity is an' what it hain't. I don't know that I ever used but one word out o' the general run, an' that is 'dem.' I don't believe thar's any more harm in sayin' 'dem' than 'scat,' ur gruntin' when thar's no absolute call fer it. I don't know as anybody knows what it means. I don't. I've axed a number o' times, but nobody could tell me, so I knowed it wasn't patented anyway. Fer a long time I 'lowed nobody used it but me. I met a feller from up in Yankeedom that said 'darn,' an' another from out West that said 'dang,' so I reckon they are all three in a bunch.”
At this juncture some one in the rear of the church laughed out, and the entire congregation turned its head. It was Pole Baker. He was red in the face, had his big hand pressed tightly over his mouth, and was bent over the bench towards the open doorway. Abner's eyes sparkled with appreciative merriment as he saw him, but he did not permit himself to smile. Dole could not hide his irritation, for Pole's unalloyed enjoyment had communicated itself to some of the less rigid members, and he felt that the reply which was stinging his tongue would fall less forcefully than if the incident hadn't happened.
He held up his hand to invoke silence and respect. “I believe such a word, to say the least, is unbecoming in a Christian, and I think the membership will back me up in it.”
“I don't look at it that away,” argued Abner. “I'd be above takin' the Lord's name in vain, but a little word that nobody cayn't find no fault with or tell its origin shorely is different.”
“Well, that 'll be a matter to decide by vote.”
Dole paused a moment and then introduced another topic.
“A report has gone round among the members that you said that red-handed murderer who killed a man over in Fannin' an' was hung, an' passed on without a single prayer fer pardon to his Maker—that he'd stand a chance fer redemption. In all my experience I've never heerd sech a dangerous doctrin' as that, brother Daniel—never, as I myself hope to be redeemed.”
“I said he'd have a chance—I thought,” said Abner. “I reckon I must 'a' got that idee from what Jesus said to the thief on the cross. You see, brother Dole, I believe the Almighty gives us all equal chances, an' I don't believe that feller in Fannin' had as good a opportunity to git his heart saftened as the feller did that was dyin' right alongside o' the great Redeemer o' the world. Nobody spoke a kind word to the Fannin' man; on the contrary, they was hootin' an' spittin' at 'im night an' day, an' they say the man he killed had pestered 'im all his life. Scriptur' says we ort to forgive a man seventy times seven, an' that is four hundred an' ninety. Why they didn't make it even five hundred I never could tell. An' yet you-uns try to make folks believe the Lord that made us, frail as we are an' prone to sin, won't forgive us once ef we happen to die sudden. Shucks! that doctrine won't hold water; it's hide-bound an' won't stretch one bit. It seems to me that the trouble with yore—”
“We haven't time to listen to a speech on the subject,” interrupted the preacher, whose anger was inflamed by hearing Pole Baker sniggering. “If thar is anybody else that has anything to say we'd be glad to hear from 'em.”
Then Mrs. Bishop rose, wiping her eyes. She was pale and deeply agitated. “I jest want to ax you all to be lenient with my pore brother,” she began, her thin voice cracking under its strain. “I've predicted that he'd bring disrepute down on us with his ready tongue an' odd notions. I've tried an' tried to stop 'im, but it didn't do a bit o' good.”