He pulled
his bleached moustache a moment; then removed his floppy old hat, and
entered.
An old-fashioned exhorting evangelist was holding forth to three
listless and inattentive sinners. A tired-looking woman sat at a
miniature portable organ. At the close of the services California John
wandered forward.
"I'm plumb busted," said he frankly, "and that's the reason I couldn't
chip in. I couldn't buy fleas for a dawg. I'm afraid you didn't win
much."
The preacher looked gloomily at a nickle and a ten-cent piece.
"Dependin' on this sort of thing to get along?" asked California John.
"Yes," said the preacher. The woman looked out of the window.
California John said no more, but went out of the building and down the
street to Austin's saloon.
"Howdy, boys," he greeted the loungers and card players. "Saw off a
minute. There's goin' to be a gospel meetin' right here a half-hour from
now. I'm goin' to hold it and I'm goin' out now to rustle a
congregation. At the close we'll take up a collection for the benefit
of the church."
At the end of the period mentioned he placed himself behind the bar and
faced a roomful of grinning men.
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