I took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in.

It was "baker's bread"-- what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone.
I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry-boat, and very well satisfied.

And then something struck me.

I says, now I reckon the widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it.

So there ain't no doubt but there is something in that thing -- that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and I reckon it don't work for only just the right kind.
I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching.