“Sandy，”says I，“I had an idea that I was going to be equal with everybody here，too，but I will let that drop.It don't matter，and I am plenty happy enough anyway.”
“Captain，you are happier than you would be，the other way.These old patriarchs and prophets have got ages the start of you；they know more in two minutes than you know in a year.Did you ever try to have a sociable improving-time discussing winds，and currents and variations of compass with an undertaker？”
“I get your idea，Sandy.He couldn't interest me.He would be an ignoramus in such things—he would bore me，and I would bore him.”
“You have got it.You would bore the patriarchs when you talked，and when they talked they would shoot over your head.By and by you would say，‘Good morning，your Eminence，I will call again'—but you wouldn't.Did you ever ask the slush-boy to come up in the cabin and take dinner with you？”
“I get your drift again，Sandy.I wouldn't be used to such grand people as the patriarchs and prophets，and I would be sheepish and tongue-tied in their company，and mighty glad to get out of it.Sandy，which is the highest rank，patriarch or prophet？”
“Oh，the prophets hold over the patriarchs.The newest prophet，even，is of a sight more consequence than the oldest patriarch.Yes，sir，Adam himself has to walk behind Shakespeare.”
“Was Shakespeare a prophet？”
“Of course he was；and so was Homer，and heaps more.But Shakespeare and the rest have to walk behind a common tailor from Tennessee，by the name of Billings；and behind a horse-doctor named Sakka，from Afghanistan.Jeremiah，and Billings and Buddha walk together，side by side，right behind a crowd from planets not in our astronomy；next come a dozen or two from Jupiter and other worlds；next come Daniel，and Sakka and Confucius；next a lot from systems outside of ours；next come Ezekiel，and Mahomet，Zoroaster，and a knifegrinder from ancient Egypt；then there is a long string，and after them，away down toward the bottom，come Shakespeare and Homer，and a shoemaker named Marais，from the back settlements of France.”
“Have they really rung in Mahomet and all those other heathens？”
“Yes—they all had their message，and they all get their reward.The man who don't get his reward on earth，needn't bother—he will get it here，sure.”
“But why did they throw off on Shakespeare，that way，and put him away down there below those shoemakers and horse-doctors and knife-grinders—a lot of people nobody ever heard of？”
“That is the heavenly justice of it—they warn't rewarded according to their deserts，on earth，but here they get their rightful rank.That tailor Billings，from Tennessee，wrote poetry that Homer and Shakespeare couldn't begin to come up to；but nobody would print it，nobody read it but his neighbors，an ignorant lot，and they laughed at it.Whenever the village had a drunken frolic and a dance，they would drag him in and crown him with cabbage leaves，and pretend to bow down to him；and one night when he was sick and nearly starved to death，they had him out and crowned him，and then they rode him on a rail about the village，and everybody followed along，beating tin pans and yelling.Well，he died before morning.He wasn't ever expecting to go to heaven，much less that there was going to be any fuss made over him，so I reckon he was a good deal surprised when the reception broke on him.”
“Was you there，Sandy？”
“Bless you，no!”
“Why？Didn't you know it was going to come off？”
“Well，I judge I did.It was the talk of these realms—not for a day，like this barkeeper business，but for twenty years before the man died.”
“Why the mischief didn't you go，then？”
“Now how you talk!The like of me go meddling around at the reception of a prophet？A mudsill like me trying to push in and help receive an awful grandee like Edward J.Billings？Why，I should have been laughed at for a billion miles around.I shouldn't ever heard the last of it.”
“Well，who did go，then？”
