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“I dunno,” he said, “I don’t never bother much about religion, so I don’t!”

In Dr. Horne’s office that week the subject of the revival came up while Mauney was having his hand dressed.

“Some queer people here in this one-horse town!” mused Horne. “Do you remember George Pert who died a couple or three years ago?”

“Lived down by the toll-gate?”

“That’s him. Lazy as twelve pigs. Use to lie abed till noon. Wife kept a market garden. Never paid his doctor’s bills. Yes, sir! George Pert! He got a cancer of the bowel, poor devil. Sick. Pretty far gone. I went in one day and found preacher Squires sitting by the bed. ‘Well, Mr. Pert,’” (Horne’s voice assumed an amusing clerical solemnity) “‘Are you trusting in the Lord?’ George nods his head. ‘Yes’ says he, ‘I’m so sartin o’ salvation, that if only one person in Beulah is going to heaven I know it’s me!’

“They’re a nosey bunch, here!” Horne continued, as he wound a bandage on Mauney’s hand. “Self-satisfied! Let your light so shine—good! But don’t focus your light into a red-hot spot to burn out your neighbor’s gizzard. Last night Steve Moran came into the office and sat down. ‘Doctor’ says he, ‘I just came in to see if your feet were resting on the Rock.’ Says I, ‘Steve, you blackguard, you owe me five dollars from your wife’s last confinement, fifteen years ago. If you don’t go to hell out o’ here, you’ll be resting in a long black box!’”