"What is your own religion?"
"Well, boss, you've kind o' got me, there - and yit
you hain't got me so mighty much, nuther. I think 't
if a feller he'ps another feller when he's in trouble,
and don't cuss, and don't do no mean things, nur noth'n'
he ain' no business to do, and don't spell the Saviour's
name with a little g, he ain't runnin' no resks - he's
about as saift as he b'longed to a church."
"But suppose he did spell it with a little g - what then?"
"Well, if he done it a-purpose, I reckon he wouldn't
stand no chance - he OUGHTN'T to have no chance, anyway,
I'm most rotten certain 'bout that."
"What is your name?"
"Nicodemus Dodge."
"I think maybe you'll do, Nicodemus. We'll give you
a trial, anyway."
"All right."
"When would you like to begin?"
"Now."
So, within ten minutes after we had first glimpsed this
nondescript he was one of us, and with his coat off
and hard at it.
Beyond that end of our establishment which was furthest
from the street, was a deserted garden, pathless,
and thickly grown with the bloomy and villainous "jimpson"
weed and its common friend the stately sunflower.
In the midst of this mournful spot was a decayed and aged
little "frame" house with but one room, one window, and no
ceiling - it had been a smoke-house a generation before.
Nicodemus was given this lonely and ghostly den as a bedchamber.
