"What bothers me," said Jim to himself, "is, that the Lord lets one set
of people that is happy, make it so thunderin' rough for another set of
people that is onhappy. An' there's another thing that bothers me," he
said, continuing his audible cogitations. "How do they 'xpect a feller
is goin' to git well, when they put 'im where a well feller'd git sick?
I vow I think that poor old creetur that wanted me to kill her is
straighter in her brains than any body I seen on the lot. I couldn't
live there a week, an' if I was a hopeless case, an' know'd it, I'd hang
myself on a nail."

Jim saw his host across the road, and went over to him. Mr. Buffum had
had a hard time with his pipes that morning, and was hoarse and very red
in the face.

"Jolly lot you've got over there," said Jim. "If I had sech a family as
them, I'd take 'em 'round for a show, and hire Belcher's man to do the
talkin'. 'Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and see how a Christian can treat
a feller bein'. Here's a feller that's got sense enough left to think
he's in hell. Observe his wickedness, gentlemen, and don't be afraid to
use your handkerchers.'"

As Jim talked, he found he was getting angry, and that the refractory
hair that covered his poll began to feel hot. It would not do to betray
his feelings, so he ended his sally with a huge laugh that had about as
much music and heartiness in it as the caw of a crow. Buffum joined him
with his wheezy chuckle, but having sense enough to see that Jim had
really been pained, he explained that he kept his paupers as well as he
could afford to.

"Oh, I know it," said Jim. "If there's anything wrong about it, it don't