A buckskin bronco shot past the window, and in a few
moments there appeared at the door the Old Timer. He was about to stride
in when the unusual sight of a row of men sitting solemnly with hymn
books in their hands held him fast at the door. He gazed in an amazed,
helpless way upon the men, then at the missionary, then back at the men,
and stood speechless. Suddenly there was a high, shrill, boyish laugh,
and the men turned to see the missionary in a fit of laughter. It
certainly was a shock to any lingering ideas of religious propriety they
might have about them; but the contrast between his frank, laughing face
and the amazed and disgusted face of the shaggy old man in the doorway
was too much for them, and one by one they gave way to roars of
laughter. The Old Timer, however, kept his face unmoved, strode up to
the bar and nodded to old Latour, who served him his drink, which he
took at a gulp.
"Here, old man!" called out Bill, "get into the game; here's your deck,"
offering him his book. But the missionary was before him, and, with very
beautiful grace, he handed the Old Timer a book and pointed him to a
seat.
I shall never forget that service. As a religious affair it was a dead
failure, but somehow I think The Pilot, as Hi approvingly said, "got in
his funny work," and it was not wholly a defeat.
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