“Joe,” said the sheriff, looking at him with a benign smile, “you play it pretty well.  Anybody’d think you were innocent as a lamb.  But it won’t work, Joseph—­it won’t work, I tell you.  I’ve got a duty to perform, and I’m going to do it; and I pledge you my word, if you and Dingus don’t knock off now, I’ll arrest you and send you up for ten years as sure as death.  I’m in earnest about it.”

“What do you mean, sir?” asked Mr. Striker, fiercely.

“Oh, don’t you go to putting on any airs about it.  Don’t you try any strutting before me,” said the sheriff; “or I’ll put you under bail this very afternoon.  Let’s see:  how long were you in jail the last time?  Two years, wasn’t it?  Well, you go fighting with Dingus and you’ll get ten years sure.”

“You are certainly crazy!” exclaimed Mr. Striker.

“I don’t see what you want to stay at that business for, anyhow,” said the sheriff.  “Here you are, in a snug home, where you might live in peace and keep respectable.  But no, you must associate with low characters, and go to stripping yourself naked and jumping into a ring to get your nose blooded and your head swelled and your body hammered to a jelly; and all for what?  Why, for a championship!  It’s ridiculous.  What good’ll it do you if you’re champion?  Why don’t you try to be honest and decent, and let prize-fighting alone?”

“This is the most extraordinary conversation I ever listened to,” said Mr. Striker.  “You evidently take me for a—­”

“I take you for Joe Striker; and if you keep on, I’ll take you to jail,” said the sheriff; with emphasis.  “Now, you tell me who’s got those stakes and who’s your trainer, and I’ll put an end to the whole thing.”

“You seem to imagine that I am a pugilist,” said Mr. Striker.  “Let me inform you, sir, that I am a clergyman.”

“Joe,” said the sheriff, shaking his head, “it’s too bad for you to lie that way—­too bad, indeed.”

“But I am a clergyman, sir—­pastor of the church of St. Sepulchre.  Look! here is a letter in my pocket addressed to me.”

“You don’t really mean to say that you’re a preacher named Joseph Striker?” exclaimed the sheriff, looking scared.

“Certainly I am.  Come up stairs and I’ll show you a barrelful of my sermons.”

“Well, if this don’t beat Nebuchadnezzar!” said the sheriff.  “This is awful!  Why, I mistook you for Joe Striker, the prize-fighter!  I don’t know how I ever—­A preacher!  What an ass I’ve made of myself!  I don’t know how to apologize; but if you want to kick me down the front steps, just kick away; I’ll bear it like an angel.”

Then the sheriff withdrew unkicked, and Mr. Striker went up stairs to finish his Sunday sermon.  The sheriff talked of resigning, but he continues to hold on.

* * * * *