'Are you a clergyman?' said Waring, inspecting him with
curious eyes.
'If you doubt it, look at this,' said the little man; and he brought
out a clerical suit of limp black cloth, and a ministerial hat much
the worse for wear. These articles he suspended from a nail, so that
they looked as if a very poor lean divine had hung himself there. Then
he sat down, and took his turn at staring. 'I do not bury the dead,'
he remarked after a moment, as if convinced that the two shabby
hunters before him could have no other errand.
Waring was about to explain, but old Fog stopped him with a glance.
'You are to come with us, sir,' he said courteously; 'you will be well
treated, well paid, and returned in a few days.'
'Come with you! Where?'
'Never mind where; will you come?'
'No,' said the little blanket-man, stoutly.
In an instant Fog had tripped him up, seized a sheet and blanket from
the bed, bound his hands and feet with one, and wrapped him in the
other. 'Now, then,' he said shouldering the load, 'open the door.'
'But the Mormons,' objected Waring.
'O, they like a joke, they will only laugh! But if, by any chance,
they show fight, fire at once,' replied the old man, leading the way.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98