"Some of the boys here," Higgins drawled, "want to hear me preach, and if the boys would just grind their axes some other time I'd be much obliged."
"I say," Higgins proceeded, his voice rising a little, "that a good many of the boys have asked me to preach a little sermon to them; but I can't preach while one of the boys grinds his axe."
"Now, boys," Higgins went on, "most of you want to hear me preach, and _I'm going to preach_, all right; but I cant preach if anybody grinds an axe."
"Friend, back there!" Higgins called out, "can't you oblige the boys by grinding that axe another time?"
There was some tittering in the bunk-house--and the grinding went on--and the tune came saucily up from the door where the Frenchman stood. Higgins walked slowly back; having come near, he paused--then put his hand on the Frenchman's shoulder in a way not easily misunderstood.
"Keep back, boys!" an old Irishman yelled, catching up a peavy-pole. "Give the Pilot a show! Keep out o' this or I'll brain ye!"
The Sky Pilot caught the Frenchman about the waist--flung him against a door--caught him again on the rebound--put him head foremost in a barrel of water--and absent-mindedly held him there until the old Irishman asked, softly, "Say, Pilot, ye ain't goin' t' _drown_ him, are ye?" It was all over in a flash: Higgins is wisely no man for half-way measures in an emergency; in a moment the Frenchman lay cast, dripping and gasping, on the floor, and the bunk-house was in a tumult of jeering. Then Higgins proceeded with the sermon; and--strangely--he is of an earnestness and frankly mild and loving disposition so impressive that this passionate incident had doubtless no destructive effect upon the solemn service following. It is easy to fancy him passing unruffled to the upturned cask which served him for a pulpit, readjusting the blanket which was his altar-cloth, raising his dog-eared little hymn-book to the smoky light of the lantern overhead, and beginning, feelingly: "Boys, let's sing Number Fifty-six: '_Jesus, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly._' You know the tune, boys; everybody sing--'_While the nearer waters roll and the tempest still is high._' All ready, now!" A fight in a church would be a seriously disturbing commotion; but a fight in a bunk-house--well, that is commonplace. There is more interest in singing _Jesus, Lover of My Soul_, than in dwelling upon the affair afterward. And the boys sang heartily, I am sure, as they always do, the Frenchman quite forgotten.