once and told us that he wasn't,
but allowed that he was a blood relation.

Elder Hoover was a Methodist off the tip of the sirloin. There weren't
any evasions or generalities or metaphors in his religion. The lower
layers of the hereafter weren't Hades or Gehenna with him, but just
plain Hell, and mighty hot, too, you bet. His creed was built of sheet
iron and bolted together with inch rivets. He kept the fire going under
the boiler night and day, and he was so blamed busy stoking it that he
didn't have much time to map out the golden streets. When he blew off it
was super-heated steam and you could see the sinners who were in range
fairly sizzle and parboil and shrivel up. There was no give in Doc; no
compromises with creditors; no fire sales. He wasn't one of those elders
who would let a fellow dance the lancers if he'd swear off on waltzing;
or tell him it was all right to play whist in the parlor if he'd give up
penny-ante at the Dutchman's; or wink at his smoking if he'd quit
whisky.

Josh knew this, so he kept away from the camp-meeting, though the Elder
gunned for him pretty steady for a matter of five years. But one summer
when the meetings were extra interesting, it got so lonesome sitting
around with the whole town off in the woods that Josh sneaked out to the
edge of the camp and hid behind some bushes where he could hear what was
going on. The elder was carrying about two hundred and fifty pounds, by
the gauge, that day, and with that pressure he naturally traveled into
the sinners pretty fast. The first thing Josh knew he was out from under
cover and a-hallelujahing down between the seats to the mourners' bench.
When the elder saw what was coming he turned on the forced draft. Inside
of ten minutes he had Josh under conviction and had taken his pipe and
plug away from him.

I am just a little inclined to think that Josh would have backslid if he
hadn't been a practical joker, and a critter of that breed is about as
afraid of a laugh on himself as a raw colt of a steam roller. So he
stuck it out, and began to take an interest in meal time. Kicked because
it didn't come eight or ten times a day. The first thing he knew he had
fatted up till he filled out his half suit and had to put it away in
camphor. Then he bought a whole suit, living-skeleton size. In two weeks
he had strained a shoulder seam and looked as if he was wearing tights.
So he retired it from circulation and moved up a size. That one was a