it was no maverick. Just what particular kind of religion the old
man had I don't know, but I should say he was a homeopath on a
guess. He looked it. 'Twas a comfort to see him coming down the
street, his old face shining in his white hair like a shrivelled
pink apple in a snowdrift, God-blessing everything in sight--good,
bad, or indifferent. He had something pleasant to say to all. We
was quite friends, and every once in a while we'd have a chin about
things.

"'Are you keeping straight, Red?' he'd ask when we parted.

"'Um,' I'd say, 'I'm afraid you'd notice a bend here and there, if
you Slid your eyes along the edge.'

"'Well, keep as straight as you can; don't give up trying, my boy,'
he'd tell me, mighty earnest, and I'd feel ashamed of myself clear
around the corner.

"I knew the old man would do me a favour if it could be done, so I
pulled out easy in my mind.

"First place, I stopped at the doctor's, because I felt they might
fix up the marrying business some other time, but if a leg that's
broke in the upper joint ain't set right, you can see a large
dark-complected hunk of trouble over the party's left shoulder for
the rest of his days. The doctor was out, so I left word for him
what was wanted, and to be ready when I got back, and pulled for
Father Slade's. The old gentleman had the rheumatism, and he
groaned when I come in. Rheumatism's no disease for people who
can't swear.