a-tramplin' on that there expensive carpet we both of us hauled free of
charge last September. There's Doc Philipps and Tony and Grandma
Wentworth and any number of good friends of mine in there. And do you
think I want to shame them and insult them by coming into their church,
disturbing the doings? You just let things be and when Mrs. Evans is
up and around again she'll go like she always does when she's got
enough vittles cooked up for us men folks. I'm a miserable, no-account
drunk, that's what I am, Billy Evans, and I ain't no proper person to
send on an errand to the Lord. Why, church ain't for the likes of
me--it's--it's--"

But at this point language failed Hank entirely, and the enormity of
the proposed undertaking once more sweeping over him, Hank searched for
his bandanna and wiped the beads of cold sweat from around his mouth
and the back of his stringy neck.

Billy was silent. He knew that Hank was right and that he had asked an
impossible service of his faithful helper. Still there in the morning
sun glistened the green grove and through the holiness of the spring
morning tolled the old church bell. So Billy rose and walked slowly
and a little sadly up the narrow path. And Hank walked up with him.

It was in silence that they sat down to their late breakfast. But in
the act of swallowing his tenth cornmeal pancake dripping with maple
syrup Hank had a sudden inspiration. The misery in his face gave place
to a grim determination.

"Billy," he offered remorsefully, "I can't go to church for you, but
I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go to the dentist's and have these
bad teeth fixed that Doc and Mrs. Evans and you have been at me about.