He's a ugly customer, not more'n
thirty, but he's consecrated, an' had ruther rake a sinner over the
coals of repentance 'an eat fried chicken, an' he's a Methodist
preacher, too. He's nearly six foot an' a half high an' as slim as a
splinter; he lets his hair run long an' curls it some. He's as dark as
a Spaniard, an' his face shines like he eats too much grease an' sweats
it out through the pores uv his skin.
"Well, he seed me a-lookin' at Mis' Dawson, when she went to devil you,
an' he bent over to me an' sez he: 'Sister Bradley, what ails that
woman anyhow?'
"'What ails her?' sez I. 'What'd you ax that fer, Brother Tim?'
"'She don't do nat'ral,' sez he. 'I've been talkin' to 'er about 'er
speritual welfare ever sence I set down heer, an' she won't say one
word. She ain't a bit like the gineral run o' old women; an' what's
more, she hain't doin' one bit o' exhortin' that I kin see. I don't
know whether she's in the vineyard or not.'
"Then, John Westerfelt, I jest come out an' tol' 'im about 'er. Of
course I never give no names; but I made 'im see what ailed her, an' I
never seed a man look so interested.
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