Part 3

I’m conscious of a dull crash, and then perfect peace. I open my eyes, but all is darkness. I can hear somebody movin’ around, but I’m not much interested. Then a lamp is lit and I look around. I’m settin’ in what’s left of that prize machine, and behind me is a wrecked doorway. I look around, and there’s Testament Tilton, standin’ beside his pulpit, without hardly enough clothes on to flag a handcar. One eye is swelled shut and his nose looks like a pickled beet.

“We’ll open services with a prayer,” says he solemn-like. “After that I shall endeavor to explain the different scenes of our entertainment. This is Christmas Eve--the evening when peace on earth, good will to men predominates; the evenin’ when all men are meek and mild, and a little child shall lead them.”

* * * * *

I dunno how I got out of there. That busted doorway wasn’t quite big enough, ’cause both of my legs had different ideas of direction. I’m still wearin’ part of that buffalo coat, and a long string of sleigh bells trail along behind me.

I didn’t go uptown. There wasn’t anythin’ up there to interest me; so I cut across to my own shack. I found Dirty Shirt, Scenery Sims and Magpie there, and they’re a fine lookin’ lot of undertaker bait.

I just comes jinglin’ in and rubs my hands over the fire. Magpie look sad-like at me, but don’t say anythin’.

“The steer broke its neck,” says Dirty Shirt. “Jumped through a winder and landed on its head.”

“Araby died in convulsions,” says Scenery.

“And the autymobile went to church,” says I.

“Anyway, we’re all alive,” remarks Magpie.

“Nobody but a damn’ optimist would say a thing like that,” says I. “I hope you’re satisfied, Magpie.”

“Oh, shore. It accomplished what we set out to do. We’ll have a new church and a bell in the steeple.”

I helped myself to their jug, bent myself in the shape of a chair and sat down by the fire.

“Dirty Shirt,” says I, “jist why did you and Scenery start this movement for a new church? It’s a cinch neither of you got religion.

“Self-p’tection,” says Dirty. “That church looked like a saloon. Me and Scenery got drunk and got in there by mistake.”

“Ter’ble,” says Scenery. “Ter’ble mishtake. Won’t happen ’gain, y’betcha. Goin’ to have a steeple and a bell; so she’ll look and shound like that she is. Well, here’s Merry Christmas to all and peace on earth.”

I didn’t have no gun, and my fists don’t seem to be mates; so I took another drink and went huntin’ for the horse liniment, as usual.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1, 1929 issue of Adventure Magazine.]