Morning, surely, at last.
We had stopped at a station. Two men had got into the car, and had
taken seats in the one vacant section, yawning occasionally and
conversing in a languid, perfunctory sort of way. They sat
opposite each other, occasionally looking out of the window, but
always giving the strong impression that they were tired of each
other's company. As I looked out of my curtains at them, the One
Man said, with a feebly concealed yawn:--
"Yes, well, I reckon he was at one time as poplar an ondertaker ez
I knew."
The Other Man (inventing a question rather than giving an answer,
out of some languid, social impulse): "But was he--this yer
ondertaker--a Christian--hed he jined the church?"
The One Man (reflectively): "Well, I don't know ez you might call
him a purfessin' Christian; but he hed--yes, he hed conviction. I
think Dr. Wylie hed him under conviction. Et least that was the
way I got it from HIM."
A long, dreary pause. The Other Man (feeling it was incumbent upon
him to say something): "But why was he poplar ez an ondertaker?"
The One Man (lazily): "Well, he was kinder poplar with widders and
widderers--sorter soothen 'em a kinder, keerless way; slung 'em
suthin' here and there, sometimes outer the Book, sometimes outer
hisself, ez a man of experience as hed hed sorror.
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