one is very offensive;
and if you have any business with me, I'd thank you to state it at
once."

"Joe," said the sheriff, looking at him with a benign smile, "you play
it pretty well. Anybody'd think you were innocent as a lamb. But it
won't work, Joseph--it won't work, I tell you. I've got a duty to
perform, and I'm going to do it; and I pledge you my word, if you and
Dingus don't knock off now, I'll arrest you and send you up for ten
years as sure as death. I'm in earnest about it."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Mr. Striker, fiercely.

"Oh, don't you go to putting on any airs about it. Don't you try any
strutting before me," said the sheriff; "or I'll put you under bail
this very afternoon. Let's see: how long were you in jail the last
time? Two years, wasn't it? Well, you go fighting with Dingus and
you'll get ten years sure."

"You are certainly crazy!" exclaimed Mr. Striker.

"I don't see what you want to stay at that business for, anyhow," said
the sheriff. "Here you are, in a snug home, where you might live
in peace and keep respectable. But no, you must associate with low
characters, and go to stripping yourself naked and jumping into a ring
to get your nose blooded and your head swelled and your body
hammered to a jelly; and all for what? Why, for a championship! It's
ridiculous. What good'll it do you if you're champion? Why don't you
try to be honest and decent, and let prize-fighting alone?"

"This is the most extraordinary conversation I ever listened to," said
Mr. Striker. "You evidently take me for a--"

"I take you for Joe Striker; and if you keep on, I'll take you to
jail," said the sheriff; with emphasis. "Now, you tell me who's got
those stakes and who's your trainer, and I'll put an end to the whole
thing."

"You seem to imagine that I am a pugilist," said Mr. Striker. "Let me
inform you, sir, that I am a clergyman."

"Joe," said the sheriff, shaking his head, "it's too bad for you to
lie that way--too bad, indeed."

"But I _am_ a clergyman, sir--pastor of the church of St. Sepulchre.
Look! here is a letter in my pocket addressed to me."

"You don't really mean to say that you're a preacher named Joseph
Striker?" exclaimed the sheriff, looking scared.

"Certainly I am. Come up stairs and I'll show you a barrelful of my
sermons."

"Well, if this don't beat Nebuchadnezzar!" said the sheriff. "This is
awful! Why, I mistook you for Joe Striker, the prize-fighter! I don't
know how I e