speaking on behalf of a
church mission, and asking for support of the cause, he had created a
great impression by his stern denunciation of the ungodly life in
Barnriff, and his flowery laudation of those who allowed themselves to
respond to the call of "religion."

On that occasion he said with all the dignity and consequence of his
position at the moment--

"It ain't your dogone dollars we want. It's your souls. D'you git
that? An' when we've sure got 'em wot'll we do with 'em, you ast? Wal,
I don't guess we're doin' a cannibal line o' business. Nor ain't we
goin' to stuff 'em an' set 'em up as objec's o' ridicool to the ungodly
hogs wot wallers in the swill o' no adulteratin' son-of-a-moose of a
dealer in liver pizen. No, gents, that ain't us. We're goin' to save
'em. An' I personal guarantees that savin' racket goes. Did I hear any
mangy son-of-a-coyote guess he didn't believe no such guarantee? No,
an' I guess he best not. I'm a man of peace, as all knows in this yer
city, but I'd hate to try an' shut out a blizzard in winter by
stuffin' that gopher's perforated carkis under the doorjamb when I was
thro' with it. I say right here we're out to save carkises--I mean
souls. An', say, fellers, jest think. Gettin' your souls saved for a
few measly cents. Ain't that elegant? No argyment, no kickin'. Them
souls is jest goin' to be dipped, an' they'll come up white an' shinin'
out of the waters of righteousness a sight cleaner than you ever got
your faces at Christmas, washin' in Silas Rocket's hoss trough, even
when his hoss soap was plenty. Think of it, fellers, and I speak
speshul to you whiskey souses wot ain't breathed pure air sence you
was let loose on the same gent's bowel picklin' sperrit. You'll get
right to Meetin' on Sundays with your boots greased elegant, an' your
pants darned reg'lar by your wimmin-folk wot's proud of yer, an' don't
kick when you blow into a natty game o' 'draw.' You'll have your kids
lookin' up at your fancy iled locks, an' your bow-tie, an' in their
little minds they'll wonder an' wonder how it come your mouths ain't
drippin' t'baccer juice, an' how they ain't got cow-hided 'fore the
breakfast they mostly have to guess at, an' how it come you're leadin'
them, 'stead o' them leadin' you, an' how their little bellies is
blown out with grub like a litter o' prize hogs. Think of it, fellers,
an' pass up your measly cents. It ain't the coin, it's the sperrit we
want, an' when I think of all