b-b-bats), I've got something better'n a California g-g-gold mine."

"Better get Dave Corson," said the village wag from the rear of the
crowd, and up went a wild shout of laughter.

"Who's D-D-Dave Corson?" asked the doctor.

"Quaker preacher. Young feller 'bout twenty years old."

"Can he t-t-talk?"

"Talk! He kin talk a mule into a trottin' hoss in less'n three minutes."

"He's my man!" exclaimed the doctor, at which the crowd laughed again.

"What the d-d-deuce are you laughing at?" he asked, turning upon them
savagely, his loud voice and threatening manner frightening those who
stood nearest, so that they instinctively stepped back a pace or two.

"No offence, Doc," said one of them; "but you couldn't get him."

"Couldn't get him! Why couldn't I g-g-get him?"

"He's pious."

"Pious! What do _I_ care?"

"Well, these here pious Quakers are stiff in their notions. But you kin
jedge fer yourself 'bout his talkin', fer there's goin' ter be an
appinted Quaker meetin' to-morrow night, and he'll speak. You kin go an'