who was prepared to back up anything
The Pilot would venture to say. Bill, who had not witnessed The Pilot's
performance in the pitcher's box, but had only Hi's enthusiastic
report to go upon, still preserved his judicial air. It is fair to say,
however, that there was no mean-spirited jealousy in Bill's heart even
though Hi had frankly assured him that The Pilot was "a demon," and
could "give him points." Bill had great confidence in Hi's opinion upon
baseball, but he was not prepared to surrender his right of private
judgment in matters theological, so he waited for the sermon before
committing himself to any enthusiastic approval. This service was an
undoubted success. The singing was hearty, and insensibly the men fell
into a reverent attitude during prayer. The theme, too, was one that
gave little room for skepticism. It was the story of Zaccheus, and
story-telling was Moore's strong point. The thing was well done.
Vivid portraitures of the outcast, shrewd, converted publican and the
supercilious, self-complacent, critical Pharisee were drawn with a few
deft touches. A single sentence transferred them to the Foothills and
arrayed them in cowboy garb. Bill was none too sure of himself, but
Hi, with delightful winks, was indicating Bruce as the Pharisee, to the
latter's scornful disgust. The preacher must have noticed, for with a
very clever turn the Pharisee was shown to be the kind of man who likes
to fit faults upon others. Then Bill, digging his elbows into Hi's ribs,
said in an audible whisper:

"Say, pardner, how does it fit now?"

"You git out!" answered Hi, indignantly, but his confidence in his
interpretation of the application was shaken. When Moore came to
describe the Master and His place in that ancient group, we in the
Stopping Place parlor fell under the spell of his eyes and voice, and
our hearts were moved within us. That great Personality was made
very real and very winning. Hi was quite subdued by the story and the
picture. Bill was perplexed; it was all new to him; but Bruce was mainly
irritated. To him it was all old and filled with memories he hated to
face. At any rate he was unusually savage that evening, drank heavily
and went home late, raging and cursing at things in general and The
Pilot in particular--for Moore, in a timid sort of way, had tried to
quiet him and help him to his horse.

"Ornery sort o' beast now, ain't he?" said Hi, with the idea of
comforting The Pilot, who stood sadl