“Hard times are making you rich,” said Ajax.

“My God!” he exclaimed passionately, “have I not been poor long enough?  Have I not seen my wife and children suffering for want of proper food and clothing?  If prosperity is coming my way, boys, I’ve paid the price for it, and don’t you forget it.”

His eyes were suffused with tears, and Ajax took note of it.  My brother told me later that so tender a husband and father was assuredly no cattle-thief.

Upon Christmas Day we sat at meat for nearly two hours.  Mrs. Doctor Tapper, the wife of the stout dentist of San Miguelito, was present.  Of the three Misses Skenk she had made the best match—­from a worldly point of view.  She wore diamonds; she kept two hired girls; she entertained on a handsome scale, and never failed to invite her less fortunate sisters to her large and select parties—­she was, in a word, a most superior person, and a devout church-member.  To this lady Ajax made himself mightily agreeable.

“Now really,” said she, “I do wish the doctor was here.  He does so dearly love badinage.  That, and bridgework, is his forte.”

“And why isn’t he here?” demanded my brother.

“He’s hunting our bay mare.  It broke out of the barn this morning.  I told him that I wouldn’t disappoint Alviry for an ark full of bay mares.  I knew she would count on me to help her entertain you gentlemen.”

“I hope your husband will find his mare,” said Ajax.  “We lost fifteen fat steers once, but we never found them.”

“That’s so,” observed Mr. Swiggart.  “And I wore myself out a-hunting ’em.  They was stolen—­sure.”

“The wickedness of some folk passes my understanding,” remarked Mrs. Tapper.  “Well, we’re told that the triumphing of the wicked is short, but—­good Land!—­Job never lived in this State.”

“He’d been more to home in New England,” said Laban slily.  The Skenks were from Massachusetts, the Swiggarts from Illinois.

“There’s a pit digged for such,” continued Mrs. Tapper, ignoring the interruption, “a pit full o’ brimstone and fire.  Yes, sister, I will take one more slice of the ham.  I never ate sweeter meat.  Eastern, I presume, my dear?”

“No, sister.  Laban cured that ham.  Pork-packing was his trade back east.”

Laban added:  “Boys, I hope ye like that ham.  I’ve a reason for asking.”

We assured our host that the ham was superlatively good.  Mince and pumpkin pies followed, coffee, then grace.  As we rose from the table, Laban said pleasantly, “Boys, here are some imported cigars.  We’ll smoke outside.”