(Opie Read: “The Kentucky Colonel.”)
I followed, as nearly as possible, the roads I had pursued upon coming
into the country, and reached the ferry where the peculiar old fellow
had asked me to pray with him.
He still wore an expression of dejection, but, as we were crossing, a
mischievous light of recognition shone in his eyes.
“Wall, parson,” said he, “I have had a mighty tough time sence you was
along here--have had a powerful fight.”
“Whom did you fight?”
“A feller knowed in this here neighborhood as Satan.”
“Did you whip him?”
“Wall, kain’t say that I did. Choked him putty well one time, thought
I had him foul, but he riz with me and used me powerful rough. I tried
agin the next day, but he jumped straddle uv me, hooked his fingers
in my mouth, socked his spurs in my flanks ’an rid me all over the
cermunity.”
“You have decided, I suppose, not to fight him again?”
“Wall, I ain’t lookin’ for him. Ef he comes my way an’ tromps’ on me
I’ll hit him, but I ain’t goin’ out on narry nuther still hunt atter
him. Have you drawed many folks inter the church sence you went by
here?”
“Not many.”
“Don’t reckon they are ripe enough ter be shuck offen the trees down
whar you was.”
“Hardly.”
“Tell you what you mout do. You might pray with me a little jest fur
luck.”
“No, I’m still in a hurry.”
“You won’t git another chance ter pray with as lively a man as I am.”
“I suppose not.”
“Ain’t you got a bottle in that kyarpet-bag?”
“No.”
“Look an’ see.”
“I know I haven’t.”
“Wall” (with a disappointed sigh, as we touched the other side), “here
we air. I oughter charge you double price.”
“Why so?”
“Becaze you ain’t got no fun in you. Good-by.”