"How's things down at the gospel shop?" said one. "Look as ef you'd been
wrastlin' with the Sperit, Jack!"
"Old man must hev exhorted pow'ful," said another, glancing at his
disordered Sunday attire.
"Ain't be'n hevin' a row with Polly? I'm told she slings an awful left."
Jack, instead of replying, poured out a dram of whiskey, drank it,
and putting down his glass, leaned heavily against the counter as he
surveyed his questioners with a sorrow chastened by reproachful dignity.
"I'm a stranger here, gentlemen," he said slowly "ye've known me only a
little; but ez ye've seen me both blind drunk and sober, I reckon ye've
caught on to my gin'ral gait! Now I wanter put it to you, ez fair-minded
men, ef you ever saw me strike a parson?"
"No," said a chorus of sympathetic voices. The barkeeper, however, with
a swift recollection of Polly and the Reverend Withholder, and some
possible contingent jealousy in Jack, added prudently, "Not yet."
The chorus instantly added reflectively, "Well, no not yet.
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