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Behind this pious-looking individual came a young girl with a wealth of golden hair peeping out from beneath her nunlike headdress and heavy black veil.

“This are Parson Uriah Bristow, landlord, and his darty, whom he calls Rebecca. They is goin’ West as missionaries ter convart ther red heathen from ther bernightedness. So fill ’em with provender, fer we didn’t stop fer breakfast. Then hunt ther parson up a hearse o’ some kind ter travel West with, fer he’s got ther dust ter pay fer it.”

Turning to the clerical individual, Bob added in a low tone:

“Won’t you hev a drink, parson, jist fer yer stomick’s sake, an’ good-fellowship?”

“No; I never drink; it becometh not my cloth,” answered Uriah Bristow in a sepulchral tone.

“Never rastle tanglefoot? Why, pard, yer doesn’t know what is healthy. Then hev a smoke?”

“I never use the intoxicating and damning weed.”

“Ther dickens! What do yer do, pard, ter make yer cheerful?”

“I am never cheerful.”

“You look it. There, landlord, lead him in to ther hash bar. I’ll bet he kin git away with viands, or he ain’t like ther parsons as uster come ter my old mammy’s home when I were a kid. Jerusha; ther chickens uster skip, ther sheeps bleat, ther turkeys gobble, an’ pigs squeal whenever they saw ’em comin’, fer they knowed thar was ter be eatin’ done.”