Part 26 (1/2)

Then I told the Friar what our bet was, expectin' o' course that he'd back me up; but what did he do but say 'at Horace was right as far as the stars was concerned. This tickled Horace a lot, an' he began to crow over me until I concluded to test the Friar; so I sez to Horace that his religion havin' been endorsed by the Friar himself, I'd become a Greek the first chance I had.

Horace didn't take any trouble to hide his satisfaction, an' he began to expound upon the beauty, an' the art, an' the freedom of the Greek religion at a great rate.

”They certainly was free,” I sez, ”an' easy too, an' I don't deny 'at they might 'a' been some weight in art an' beauty; but, confound 'em, they didn't know as much about bears as I know about e-lectricity. I'd just like to see Zeus himself go up into the Tetons in the early spring, to hunt for Big Dippers. I'll bet the first hungry grizzly he'd come across would set him right on the bear question.”

This was a good opener, an' in about two shakes, the Friar an' Horace had locked horns. Horace was a crafty, sarcastic, cold-blooded little argufier; while the Friar was warm an' eager an' open as the day. It was one o' the best gabbin' matches I have ever started.

They dealt mostly in names I had never heard of before, although once in a while they'd turn up one a little familiar on account of Horace havin' told me some tale of it. The Friar knew as much about these things as Horace did; but he called 'em myths, an' said while they didn't mean anything when took literal, they had great historical value when regarded merely as symbols. He said that I-oh-the human maid which Zeus had turned into a cow-was nothin' but the moon, an'

that Argus of the hundred eyes was simply the sky full o' stars; and that the old G.o.d which ate up his children was nothin' but time.

I didn't really understand much of what they said; but I did enjoy watchin' 'em bandy those big words about. We all use a lot o' words we don't understand; but as long as they sound well an' fill out a gap it don't much matter. These two, though, seemed to understand all the words they used, an' I was highly edified.

As they talked, an' I kept watchin' the Friar's face, I learned somethin': the Friar had been mighty lonesome with only us rough fellers to talk with, an' had been hungerin' for just such a confab as this to loosen up his subsoil a little.

Every now an' again, I'd cast an eye up to the stars; an' while I didn't know the religious names of 'em, I knew how to tell time by 'em; an' I knew 'at those two would have a turn when they remembered to look at their watches. It was full one o'clock when the conversation came to its first rest, an' then the Friar recalled what I had said when I had dismounted; so he up an' asked Horace point-blank what he had had to do with makin' Horace quit the church.

Horace was minded to sidestep this at first by intimatin' that I was not responsible for what I said; but he finally came across and told the Friar that he had give up that church for about the same reason that the Friar himself had. This set the Friar back purty well on his haunches, an' put him on the defensive. He had hammered Horace freely before, but now when he conscientiously tried to defend the gang he had left, and also excuse himself for leavin', he had some job on his hands.

I thought Horace had him when he compared the Golden Age of Greece an'

Plato's Republic with the Dark Ages, which was a stretch of years when the Christian religion about had its own way; but the Friar admitted that what he called economical interests had put a smirch on the church durin' the Dark Ages, an' then he sailed into the Golden Age of Greece, showin' that slavery was the lot of most o' the decent people durin' that period. When I fell asleep, they were shakin' their fists friendly at one another, about Plato's Republic, which I found out afterwards was only a made-up story.

Bein' edicated is a good deal like bein' a good shot in a quiet community-once in a long while it's mighty comfortin', but for the most part it's nothin' but shootin' at a target.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PEACE TO START A QUARREL

It was broad day when I woke up-that is, the sun was beginnin' to rise-an' the fire had dwindled to coals, the breeze had begun to stir itself, an' I was consid'able chilly. I saw the Friar's nose stickin'

out o' one side of his tarp an' Horace's nose stickin' out the other, an' I grinned purty contentedly.

My experience is, that quarrelsome people usually get along well together an' make good company; but sad, serious, silent, polite folks is about the wearin'est sort of an affliction a body can have about.

I once heard a missionary preach about what a n.o.ble thing it was to control the temper. He must have been a good man, 'cause he was unusual solemn an' wore his hair long an' oily; but he only looked at one side o' the question. I've known fellers who had such good control o' their tempers that after they'd once been put out o' humor over some little thing, they could keep from bein' good tempered again for a year. And then again, when a feller keeps too tight a holt on his temper, his hands get numb, an' his temper's liable to shy at some silly thing an' get clear away from him.

What I liked about both the Friar an' Horace was, 'at they hadn't froze up all their feelin's. It was possible to get 'em stirred up about things, an' this allus struck me as bein' human; so I was glad to see Horace warmin' his feet in the small o' the Friar's back, an' I whistled a jig under my breath while gettin' breakfast.

They grumbled consid'able when I rousted 'em out; but by the time they had soused their heads in the crick, they were in good humor again; an' hungry! Say! Ever since I'd give him his treatment, Horace had had an appet.i.te like a stray dog; while the Friar allus was a full hand at clearin' tables, except on his one off-day a week. I gave the Friar a wink just as Horace splashed into his third cup o' coffee, an' sez: ”Friar, you should have seen this creature when he first came out here. His muscles had all turned to fat, so that he could hardly wobble from one place to another, an' he was so soft that when he'd lie down at night, his nerves would stick into him an' keep him awake.

Now, if it wasn't for that fringy thing he wears on his face, he'd look almost exactly like a small-sized human.”

The only come-back Horace made was to start to sing with his mouth full o' cornbread an' bacon. This was more 'n any one could stand, so I tipped him over backward, an' asked the Friar which way he was headin'.

The Friar's face went grave at once; and then he began to post me up on Olaf the Swede. I had heard some rumors that summer, but hadn't paid much heed to 'em. It now turned out that the Friar and Olaf had struck up friendly affiliations; so he was able to give me all the details.

Badger-face had a disposition like a bilious wolf, and when he was denied the satisfaction o' jerkin' Olaf out o' this world, he had turned to with earnest patience to make Olaf regret it as much as he did. Olaf could stand more 'n the youngest son in a large family o'

mules, but he had his limitations, the same as the rest of us; so when he saw that Badger was engaged in makin' the earth no fit place for him to habitate, he began to feel resentful.

When a boss is mean, he is still the boss and he don't irritate beyond endurance; but a foreman is nothin' but a fellow worker, after all; so when he gets mean, he's small and spidery in his meanness; and I reckon 'at Olaf was justified in tryin' to unjoint Badger-face, thorough and complete.