"Boh!" said Tom, "_don't_ I know?--don't make me too sick with any yer
stuff,--my stomach is a leetle riled now;" and Tom drank half a glass of
raw brandy.

"I say," said Haley, and leaning back in his chair and gesturing
impressively, "I'll say this now, I al'ays meant to drive my trade so as
to make money on 't _fust and foremost_, as much as any man; but, then,
trade an't everything, and money an't everything, 'cause we 's all got
souls. I don't care, now, who hears me say it,--and I think a cussed
sight on it,--so I may as well come out with it. I b'lieve in religion,
and one of these days, when I've got matters tight and snug, I
calculates to tend to my soul and them ar matters; and so what's the use
of doin' any more wickedness than 's re'lly necessary?--it don't seem to
me it's 't all prudent."

"Tend to yer soul!" repeated Tom, contemptuously; "take a bright lookout
to find a soul in you,--save yourself any care on that score. If the
devil sifts you through a hair sieve, he won't find one."

"Why, Tom, you're cross," said Haley; "why can't ye take it pleasant,
now, when a feller's talking for your good?"

"Stop that ar jaw o' yourn, there," said Tom, gruffly. "I can stand most
any talk o' yourn but your pious talk,--that kills me right up. After
all, what's the odds between me and you? 'Tan't that you care one bit
more, or have a bit more feelin'--it's clean, sheer, dog meanness,
wanting to cheat the devil and save your own skin; don't I see through
it? And your 'gettin' religion,' as you call it, arter all, is too
p'isin mean for any crittur;--run up a bill with the devil all your
life, and then sneak out when pay time comes! Bob!"