"Alright! Alright!" He complained as they stood on either side of him. "If you're aimin' to get me to my quarters, best get me up the outside way. I don't think it would be good for my image to be hauled across the saloon floor. Do you?"
"Quite right" agreed Flo, who never seemed to disagree with Hiram Priest from this day forward, and yet so often seemed to get what she wanted. "You must preserve your amour propre at all costs!"
Hitherto, Franklin Fortner had seemed to be the dominant partner of the ill assorted pair, but Hiram Priest had just received reinforcements.
"He what now?" queried Messalina as she puffed up the stairs behind the old gadger, half carrying half supporting him while Miss Whatsit Forde walked before him, leading him by one dainty hand, the other held to her stomach, making sure the nugget didn't slip out of her corsets.
They got him to his room and sat him on the bed; the creaking noise that sounded presumably that of the bed springs, rather than Hiram's own rusted joints.
"And better get that drug for me. Here's some money."
Florence took the $10 bill and passed it to Messalina.
"Please dispatch the girl to the druggist and inform her that a draught of Warner’s cordial or an equivalent anodyne should cost no more than a dollar ten, so we shall expect eight dollars ninety cents residual" she ordered the black woman with haughty precision.
"I shall assist Mr Priest in disrobing" she added.
Mrs McMahon's eyes bulged.
"Ain't you worried about yo reputation, Miss?!" she blurted.
"I should rather my reputation lie in tatters, than this fine gentleman's discomfort be extenuated by the smallest iota!" Flo pronounced airily "Now fly!"
The plump cook waddled out of the room muttering "Bless me if dat gal ain't swallered a dictionary!"
Once Messalina had made her exit, Florence turned to the old man.
"Now, let us get you out of those stuffy clothes, shall we?"
Address me as Hon. Hiram Priest, esq.
"I shall assist Mr Priest in disrobing" she added.
Mrs McMahon's eyes bulged.
Priest's eyes bulged.
"Ain't you worried about yo reputation, Miss?!" she blurted.
"I should rather my reputation lie in tatters, than this fine gentleman's discomfort be extenuated by the smallest iota!" Flo pronounced airily "Now fly!"
The plump cook waddled out of the room muttering "Bless me if dat gal ain't swallered a dictionary!"
Once Messalina had made her exit, Florence turned to the old man.
"Now, let us get you out of those stuffy clothes, shall we?"
His quarters were quite modest. There was a poster bed, a small bureau with a porcelain pitcher atop it, and a nightstand beside the bed where sat a kerosene lamp and a tattered Bible. The window across from the bed was in need of washing but, nevertheless, offered a view of the side of the sundry next door to the saloon.
Priest sat on the side of the bed proceeded to unlace his shoes.
"You know, this is quite generous of you, Miss Patterson-Forde. It was just a spell that I suffered from; nothing more. But your kindness overwhelming."
The bed squeaked and groaned as he struggled to pull his high top shoes off.
"Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us!" he spat, using Hamlet's words as an oath while, bent at the waist, he tugged.
The bed squeaked and groaned as he struggled to pull his high top shoes off.
"Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us!" he spat, using Hamlet's words as an oath while, bent at the waist, he tugged.
"Mister Priest!" Flo snapped forcefully "You will give yourself an apoplectic stroke!"
She eased him back up straight.
"Now, you will allow me to undress you. I will not take 'no' for an answer. If there is an inappropriate moment I shall... I shall avert my gaze."
She sank to her knees on the carpet beside the bed and deftly pulled his boots off, then his socks, then lifted his feet up so he naturally went into his back. She was stronger than she looked.
She then picked up a nightshirt from the back of his chair and held it up.
"Now, let's get you into this and make you comfy."
Address me as Hon. Hiram Priest, esq.
"Mister Priest!" Flo snapped forcefully "You will give yourself an apoplectic stroke!"
"Oh for pity's sake," grumbled Priest.
She eased him back up straight.
"Now, you will allow me to undress you. I will not take 'no' for an answer. If there is an inappropriate moment I shall... I shall avert my gaze."
"I should hope so, young woman," he intoned, all prurient thoughts now vanished from his mind.
She sank to her knees on the carpet beside the bed and deftly pulled his boots off, then his socks, then lifted his feet up so he naturally went into his back. She was stronger than she looked.
Priest felt weakened.
She then picked up a nightshirt from the back of his chair and held it up.
"Now, let's get you into this and make you comfy."
"That's my favorite nightshirt," Priest moaned. It's got a moth hole in it now, though."
On his back and in a fit of pique, Priest reached over to where is hat lay on the bed sheets. He picked it up and flung it off the bed to where it landed on his nightstand, sending the Bible to the floor. And, as happened either by accident or some divine intervention, the Good Book opened and out flew a French Postcard, ostensibly used as a bookmark.
The card depicted a nubile woman stepping into a bathtub. Her back is to the viewer and she is draped in a filmy white covering, though it didn't cover up the top half of her buttocks. She is looking over her shoulder at the viewer, her face with a come hither look.
On his back and staring at the ceiling, Priest didn't realize this predicament.
"Come along. Let's get this over with," he grumped.
On his back and staring at the ceiling, Priest didn't realize his predicament.
"Come along. Let's get this over with," he grumped.
Flo and her sister Pat had, at one point in their lives, had to take care of their invalid Grandfather, and the girl was more than capable of getting a man undressed and into his nightshirt. She overtly averted her gaze, of course, when his 'kidney prodder' was exposed, but her peripheral vision told her that the man, who must have only actually been in his early 50s, was not wanting in the wedding night department.
Yes, take away the stove-pipe hat and the spectacles, ignore the hair, white with worry (or an-ill spent youth) and Mr Priest was not as decrepit as one first assumed. The next thing that happened proved his virility was still, if not rampant, then a force in his life.
Flo stooped down to pick up the fallen Bible and noticed that a photograph had fallen out. Once she had goggled at it for a second or two, mouth gaping, she recovered her wits enough to bounce to the bed and sit beside him, showing him her find.
"Oh, Mister Priest, what a devout bookmark you have... it is a portrait of Pharoah's Daughter, is it not, bathing in the Nile just before finding Moses in the Bullrushes?" She had never seen such a portrait before in her life, but she flattered herself that her own derriere was as plump and shapely as the model in the carte de visite image.
