Part 37 (1/2)

Bosco was a regular town with twenty or thirty houses, a post office, two general stores, three saloons, an' all such things; and right on a good stage road runnin' north an' south. We stopped with the meat-market undertaker, 'cause they didn't think it quite respectable for the Friar to live off the profits of the liquor traffic; though the Friar allus said 'at he had a heap more respect for a square saloon-keeper 'n for a sneaky drygoods merchant.

s.h.i.+ndy Smith was the saloon-keeper, an' Bill Duff was the undertaker.

Duff was the absent-mindedest man I ever got intimate with, an' about drove his wife to distraction, she bein' one o' these hustlers who never make a false move. He had the idee that bein' an undertaker took away his license to laugh, so he allus walked on his toes an'

disported as solemn a face as nature would allow; but nature had intended him for a butcher, an' had made his face round and jowly.

Whenever he didn't have anything else to do, he used to sit down an'

practice lookin' solemn. He'd fix his eyes on the ceilin', clasp his hands across his stomach, pull up his eyebrows, droop his mouth, an'

look for all the world like a man dyin' o' the colic.

He was so absent-minded that he'd raise his cup to take a drink of coffee, forget what he had started to do, an' like as not pour it over his flapjacks for syrup. He started to engineer a funeral once with his butcher's ap.r.o.n on, and they told all sorts of stories about him which was shockin' to an extent; though his wife kept such a sharp eye on him, that I don't believe more 'n half of 'em. Still it wasn't any sort o' business for an absent-minded man to be in.

It was an uncertain business. Of course all lines o' trade in a thinly settled country go by fits an' starts; but his was worst of all.

Sometimes he'd have as many as three funerals a month, and at others it would take him six weeks to sell out a beef carca.s.s. A feller who had a spite again' him started the story 'at he soaked his meat in embalmin' fluid, an' then if they came an extra special rush in both lines of his business at the same time, he'd-but then his wife kept such a skeptical eye on him, 'at I don't believe a word of these stories, an' I'm not goin' to repeat 'em. The worst I had again' him was that he was so everlastin' careless. I lay awake frettin' about his carelessness till I couldn't stand it a second longer; and then I rolled up half the beddin' an' started to sleep on the side porch.

”Where you goin'?” sez the Friar.

”This here Bill Duff is too absent-minded an' forgetful for me,” sez I.

”What do ya mean?” sez the Friar.

”Well,” sez I, ”I don't want to make light o' sacred things, nor nothin' like that; but Bill Duff's got somethin' stored up in this room which should 'a' been a funeral three weeks ago, and I intend to sleep outside.”

The Friar chuckled to himself until he shook the whole house; but it wasn't no joke to me; so I shunted the beddin' out on the roof o' the porch, which was flat, and prepared to take my rest where the air was thin enough to flow into my nostrils without sc.r.a.pin' the lid off o'

what Horace called his ol' factory nerve.

As soon as the Friar could recover his breath, he staggered to the window, an' sez: ”That's nothin' but cheese, you blame tenderfoot.

Limburger cheese is the food Bill Duff is fondest of, and he has four boxes of it stored in this room.”

”Then,” sez I, comin' in with the beddin', ”I'll sleep in the bed, an'

the cheese can sleep on the porch; but hanged if I'll occupy the same apartment with it.” I set the cheese out on the porch-it was the ripest cheese in the world, I reckon-and it drew all the dogs in town before mornin'. After they found it was above their reach, I'm convinced they put up the best fight I ever listened to.

It took a long time for the memory o' that cheese to find its way out the window; and I lay thinkin' o' the Friar's work, long after he had drifted off himself. He wasn't squeamish about small things, the Friar wasn't, and this was one of his main holts. When we had got ready to eat that night, Mrs. Duff had tipped Bill a wink to ask the Friar to say blessin'. Bill was in one of his vacant spells, as usual, so he looked solemn at the Friar, and sez: ”It's your deal, Parson.” Now, a lot o' preachers would 'a' gone blue an' sour at that; but the Friar never blinked a winker.

Then after supper, all the young folks o' that locality had swooped in to play with him. This winnin' o' young folks was a gift with the Friar, and it used to warm me up to watch him in the midst of a flock of 'em. He showed 'em all kinds o' tricks with matches an' arithmetic numbers, an' taught 'em some new games, and then he put up a joke on 'em. He allus put up one joke on 'em each visit.

This time he puts a gla.s.s of water under his hat, looks solemn, and sez 'at he can drink the water without raisin' the hat. They all bet he can't, and finally he goes into a corner, makes motions with his throat, and sez he is now ready to prove it. Half a dozen rush forward and lift the hat, and he drinks the water, and thanks 'em for liftin'

the hat for him so he could drink the water an' make his word good.

Some folks used to kick again' him and say he was worldly; but his methods worked, an' that's a good enough test for me. He took out the shyness an' the meanness an' the stupidity, and gave the good parts a chance to grow; which I take it is no more again' religion than the public school is. Why, he even taught 'em card tricks.

He could take a deck of cards and turn it into a complete calendar, leap year and all; and then he could turn it into a bible, showin'

easy ways to learn things, until a feller really could believe 'at cards was invented by the early Christians who had to live in caves, as some claim. All the time he was playin' with 'em, he was smugglin'

in wise sayin's with his fun, pointin' out what made the difference between deceivin' for profit, and deceivin' for a little joke, tellin'

'em how to enjoy life without abusin' it-Why, he even went so far as to say that if a feller couldn't be religious in a brandin' pen he couldn't be religious in a cathedral-which is a two-gun church with fancy trimmin's.

By the time he had expanded the young folks and made 'em easy and at home, the older ones had arrived; and then he held a preachin'. The whole outfit joined in with the singin', and when he began to talk to 'em every eye in the room was glistenin'. You see, he knew them and their life; and they knew him and his. He had nursed 'em through sickness, he had tended their babies, he had helped to build their cabins an' turn 'em into homes; so the words flowed out of his heart and into theirs without any break between. This was the Friar and this was his work-but I can't put it into a story.

The' was a no-account cuss by the name o' Jim Stubbs who lived-if ya could call it livin'-at Boggs; and the Friar induced him to go along on one of his trips. When Jim came back he was a made-over man, and every one asked him if he had religion. ”h.e.l.l, no,” sez Jim, tryin' to be independent, ”I ain't got religion; but a feller catches somethin'