Well! they can have
him. I'll never split on him, but I could tell them some things
about Tom Barrett that would soil his surplice--at least in my
opinion, but you never can be sure when even religious people will
make a hero out of a rogue.
The first time I ever saw him he came into "Jake's" one night,
quite late. We were knocked clean dumb. "Jake's" isn't the place
you would count on seeing a clerical-cut coat in.
It's not a thoroughly disreputable place, for Jake has a decent
enough Indian wife; but he happens also to have a cellar which has
a hard name for illicit-whiskey supplies, though never once has the
law, in its numerous and unannounced visits to the shanty, ever
succeeded in discovering barrel or bottle. I consider myself a
pretty smart man, but Jake is cleverer than I am.
When young Barrett came in that night, there was a clatter of hiding
cups. "Hello, boys," he said, and sat down wearily opposite me,
leaning his arms on the table between us like one utterly done out.
Jake, it seemed, had the distinction of knowing him; so he said
kind of friendly-like,
"Hello, parson--sick?"
"Sick? Sick nothing," said Barrett, "except sick to death of this
place. And don't 'parson' me! I'm 'parson' on Sundays; the rest of
the six days I'm Tom Barrett--Tom, if you like.
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