It was Hi Kendal that announced the arrival of the missionary. I was standing at the door of my school, watching the children ride off home on their ponies, when Hi came loping along on his bronco in the loose-jointed cowboy style.
“Well,” he drawled out, bringing his bronco to a dead stop in a single bound, “he’s lit.”
“Lit? Where? What?” said I, looking round for an eagle or some other flying thing.
“Your blanked Sky Pilot, and he’s a beauty, a pretty kid – looks too tender for this climate. Better not let him out on the range.” Hi was quite disgusted, evidently.
“What’s the matter with him, Hi?”
“Why, he ain’t no parson! I don’t go much on parsons, but when I calls for one I don’t want no bantam chicken. No, sirree, horse! I don’t want no blankety-blank, pink-and-white complected nursery kid foolin’ round my graveyard. If you’re goin’ to bring along a parson, why bring him with his eye-teeth cut and his tail feathers on.”
That Hi was deeply disappointed was quite clear from the selection of the profanity with which he adorned this lengthy address. It was never the extent of his profanity, but the choice, that indicated Hi’s interest in any subject.
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