a ugly customer, not more’n thirty, but he’s consecrated, an’ had ruther rake a sinner over the coals of repentance ‘an eat fried chicken, an’ he’s a Methodist preacher, too.  He’s nearly six foot an’ a half high an’ as slim as a splinter; he lets his hair run long an’ curls it some.  He’s as dark as a Spaniard, an’ his face shines like he eats too much grease an’ sweats it out through the pores uv his skin.

“Well, he seed me a-lookin’ at Mis’ Dawson, when she went to devil you, an’ he bent over to me an’ sez he:  ’Sister Bradley, what ails that woman anyhow?’

“‘What ails her?’ sez I.  ‘What’d you ax that fer, Brother Tim?’

“‘She don’t do nat’ral,’ sez he.  ‘I’ve been talkin’ to ’er about ’er speritual welfare ever sence I set down heer, an’ she won’t say one word.  She ain’t a bit like the gineral run o’ old women; an’ what’s more, she hain’t doin’ one bit o’ exhortin’ that I kin see.  I don’t know whether she’s in the vineyard or not.’

“Then, John Westerfelt, I jest come out an’ tol’ ’im about ’er.  Of course I never give no names; but I made ‘im see what ailed her, an’ I never seed a man look so interested.  ‘Sister Bradley,’ sez he, rubbin’ his hands, when I got through, ‘I’m going to wade in an’ get hold o’ that woman’s soul.’

“‘Well,’ sez I, ‘you may have to wade purty fur an’ dive consider’ble, fer she’s about the toughest snag you ever struck.’

“‘I’m a-goin’ to have ‘er soul,’ sez he, an’ he laughed.  ’I’d ruther make that sort of a struggle for the Lord ‘an to put out a burnin’ house, ur keep a pizen snake frum bitin’ a baby.  You watch my smoke.  Is she a-comin’ back heer?’

“’I kin bring ‘er back,’ sez I, ’fer right this minute I’d ruther see that woman a shoutin’ convert ‘n to have a meal sack full o’ gold dollars.’

“‘Well,’ sez he, sorter jokin’ like, ’you fetch ‘er heer an’ set ’er down whar she wus a minute ago, an’ I’ll put a plaster on ’er back that’ll make ‘er think she’s shoutin’ whether she is or not.’

“Well, I went to whar she was outside an’ tol’ ’er Brother Mitchell wanted to see ’er.  ‘I jest ain’t a-goin’ a step,’ sez she, ’so I ain’t,’ an’ she looked sorter suspicious.

“‘Well, I don’t railly see how yo’re goin’ to help yorese’f, Mis’ Dawson,’ sez I.  ‘Goodness knows yo’re showin’ mighty little int’rust in the meetin’ anyways.  Looks like you wouldn’t insult one of the most saintly men we got by turnin’ yore back on ’im.  Mebby he wants to ax about startin’ a meetin’ over yore way.  You’d better go.’

“That settled it; I took ‘er back an’ set ‘er down by him, an’ he begun to git in his work.  I never knowed a man called to preach could be so mealy-mouthed.  He begun—­you see I was next to him an’ could ketch ev’ry word, although thar was jest a regular hullabaloo o’ shoutin’ an’ singin’ goin’ on all about—­he begun by goin’ over his own family trouble, an’ I wanted to laugh