tion
and the missionary were known also as the Reverend Ezra Badgley, who,
on his own declaration, in times past had "a call" to preach, and in the
far East had served as local preacher, then probationer, then went on
circuit, and now was missionary in a district of which the choice did
credit to his astuteness, and gave room for his piety and for his holy
rage against the Philistines. He loved a word for righteous mouthing,
and in a moment of inspiration pagan and scandal came to him. Upon these
two words he stamped, through them he perspired mightily, and with
them he clenched his stubby fingers--such fingers as dug trenches, or
snatched lewdly at soft flesh, in days of barbarian battle. To him all
men were Pagans who loved not the sound of his voice, nor wrestled with
him in prayer before the Lord, nor fed him with rich food, nor gave him
much strong green tea to drink. But these men were of opaque stuff, and
were not dismayed, and they called him St. Anthony, and with a prophetic
and deadly patience waited. The time came when the missionary shook
his denouncing finger mostly at Pretty Pierre, who carefully nursed his
silent wrath until the occasion should arrive for a delicate revenge
which hath its hour with every man, if, hating, he knows how to bide the
will of Fate.

The hour came. A girl had been found dying on the roadside beyond the
Fort by the drunken doctor of the place and Pierre. Pierre was with her
when she died.

"An' who's to bury her, the poor colleen"? said Shon McGann afterwards.

Pierre musingly replied: "She is a Protestant. There is but one man."

After many pertinent and vigorous remarks, Shon added, "A Pagan is it,
he calls you, Pierre, you that's had the holy water on y'r forehead,
and the cross on the water, and that knows the book o' the Mass like the
cards in a pack? Sinner y' are, and so are we all, God save us! say I;
and weavin' the stripes for our backs He may be, and little I'd think of
Him failin' in that: but Pagan--faith, it's black should be the white
of the eyes of that preachin' sneak, and a rattle of teeth in his
throat--divils go round me!"

The half-breed, still musing, replied: "An eye for an eye, and a tooth
for a tooth--is that it, Shon?" "Nivir a word truer by song or by book,
and stand by the text, say I. For Papist I am, and Papist are you; and
the imps from below in y'r fingers whip poker is the game; and outlaws
as they call us both--you for what it doesn't concer