Don't worry if it feels queer to you
at first--you'll get used to it. Why, I quit cussin', myself, when
everything seems so dum' quiet. Sounds like the whole works had stopped
to listen to a fella. Swearin' ain't so hefty then. Sort of outdoor
stage fright, I reckon. Say, do you believe preachin' ever did much
good?"
"Sometimes I've thought it did."
"I seen a case once," began Overland reminiscently. "It was Toledo
Blake. He was a kind of bum middleweight scrapper when he was workin' at
it. When he wasn't trainin' he was a kind of locoed heavyweight--stewed
most of the time. It was one winter night in Toledo. Me and him went
into one of them 'Come-In-Stranger' rescue joints. 'Course, they was
singin' hymns and prayin' in there, but it was warmer than outside, so
we stayed.
"After a while up jumps the foreman of that gospel outfit. His foretop
was long, and he wore it over one ear like a hoss's when the wind is
blowin'.
"He commenced wrong, I guess. He points down the room to where me and
Toledo was settin', and he hollers, 'Go to the ant, you slugger!
Consider her game and get hep to it,' or somethin' similar.
"That word 'slugger' kind of jarred Toledo. He jumps up kind of mad.
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