An’ the stars is so many, an’ so wonderful far off, an’ so wee an’ queer an’ perfeckly solemn an’ knowin’, that I ’lowed I didn’t know much about heaven an’ hell, after all, an’ begun t’ feel shaky. An’ so I, too, took a look at the funny little things. I’d rather see un crawl into nuthin’ an’ think, ecod! than chaw his nails an’ look like a scared idjit from the mad-house t’ St. I didn’t like t’ see Botch took that way. He begun t’ kick his heels, an’ scratch his whisps o’ beard, an’ chaw his finger-nails. “‘Botch,’ says I, ‘twould s’prise me if she left anything out.’ “‘Botch, b’y,’ says I, for it made me feel awful bad, ‘don’t you go an’ trouble about that.’ It usual takes till after breakfast t’ find out.’ Fac’ is, Tumm,’ says he, ‘when I gets up in the mornin’ I never knows which I’m in, a state o’ grace or a state o’ sin. But I been converted, an’ I may be again. ‘I ’low you might say, an’ be near the truth, that I’m a damned backslider. “‘I isn’t converted just this minute,’ says he. I isn’t the same as I used t’ be in them old days.’ The fac’ is, Tumm,’ says he, ‘things look wonderful different t’ me now. An’ the laws o’ life,’ says he, ‘is foolishness. “‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘I don’t think no more. What’s come o’ the law o’ life? What’s come o’ all the thinkin’?’ What’s come along o’ you? Where’s the is an’ the was an’ the will be? What’s come o’ that law o’ life?’ ‘With Mad Bill Likely o’ Yellow Tail Tickle at the wheel? Botch,’ says I, ‘you’re gone mad.
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