He was the only parson for miles around, and it kept him busy splicing couples, for a regular fever seemed to have broken out, and everybody thought of taking a mate. I asked a resident if the stories I had heard about the domine were true, and that in his wholesale business he had actually married thirty couples within an hour, that being high-water mark. "Yes, stranger," responded the boomer, "and we call him the 'torpedo-boat minister.'" "Why so?" "Because he made thirty knots an hour." By the way, I forgot to tell you several amusing things that happened while I was down in Dixie. When in Alabama, I spent some time with an old friend who owned a big plantation. Among his negro hands was his coachman, who up to that time had invariably persisted in getting in his vote, despite the plain hints of the white election officers that he would do better to stay at home. On that particular Election Day he returned home in the afternoon with a countenance that looked like it had been taking some familiarities with a buzz saw. "What's the matter, Zack?" I asked, with some solicitude. "It's this way, boss; I went up dar to the votin' place, and there wuz the county undertakah, sah, a-sittin' with a big book open 'foah him, and he sez to me right sharp like: "'What's your name?' "'Zack Taylor', I sez, humble. "'Let's see?' says the undertakah, and he turned over the leaves of the book. All of a sudden he stopped turnin' and begin to run his fingers down the page, mutterin' to himself. "'Taylor, Taylor, Taylor, Taylor--Zack.' And pretty soon he hollered out: [Illustration: ELECTION BOOTH VOTE HERE] "'Heah it iz. You black scoundrel. I dun buried you ten year ago. What you mean by tryin' to vote?' "Just then a passel of white men tuk and threw me out, and den I dun come home 'fore they could bury me again." They were having a genuine old-time revival in the darky church near by, and of course I went to see the enthusiasm. You remember it was at such a place a devout and practical old mammy was heard to shout: "Good Lawd, come down fru de roof, an' I'll pay for de shingles." I wanted to see if the affair was all it had been cracked up to be. It happened that in order that the revival spirit should be quickened, it was arranged that the preacher should give a signal when he thought the excitement was highest, and from the attic through a hole cut in the ceiling directly over the pulpit, the sexton was to shove a pure white dove, whose flight around the church and over the heads of the audience was expected to have an inspiring effect, and, as far as emotional excitement was concerned, to cap the climax. All went well at the start; the church was packed; the preacher's text was, "In the form of a dove," and as he piled up his eloquent periods the excitement was strong.