"Big Joe," six feet, five, a tower of muscled brawn, standing on a corner, pleasantly inebriated, had watched go feebly by the tottering, palsied form of little old Bolivar Kent, our most aged and richest man.

The minister, also passing, had observed Kestril's humorous stare.
"The big fellow called to me," he was saying to Miss Caroline as I came up.

"'Parson,' said he--they all know me familiarly, madam--'Parson,' said he, 'I wish I could take all I'm worth and all old Kent is worth and put it in a bunch on the sidewalk there and then fight the old cuss for it!'" It was a favorite anecdote of the minister's, but I had never known him before to tell it to a lady on the occasion of his first call.

Miss Caroline laughed joyously as she turned to greet me.
"I can't tell you how finely I've been entertained," she said to me.
"Nor can I tell him for myself, madam," retorted the minister.

I thought indeed he spoke with an effort that made this gallantry seem not altogether baseless in fact.
"I was on the point of leaving," said the minister.
"Are you returning home, or have you more calls in the neighborhood ?" I asked, feeling just a tinge of uneasiness about his expansive manner.
"No more calls, no.