In San Lorenzo we duly found Isaac Rosenbaum, who proved an optimist on the subject of bacon.  Indeed, he chattered so glibly of rising prices and better times that the packing scheme was immediately referred to his mature judgment; and he not only recommended it heartily, but offered to handle our “stuff” on commission, or to buy it outright if it proved marketable.  According to Ikey the conjunction “if” could not be ignored.  Packing bacon beneath the sunny skies of Southern California was a speculation, he said.  Swiggart, he added, ought to know what good hams were, for he bought the very best Eastern brand.

“What!” we cried simultaneously, “does Mr. Swiggart buy hams?”

Yes; it seemed that only a few days previously Laban had carefully selected the choicest ham in the store.

Ajax clutched my arm, and we fled.

“We have convicted the wretch,” he said presently.

“The wretches,” I amended.

The use of the plural smote him in the face.

“This is awful,” he groaned.  “Why, when you were away last summer, and I broke my leg, she nursed me like a mother.”

“Women throw such sops to a barking conscience.”

I was positive now that Laban had stolen the steers, and that his wife was privy to the theft.  The lie about the ham had been doubtless concocted for purposes of plunder.  The kindness and hospitality of our neighbours had been, after all, but a snare for tenderfeet.

* * * * *

We found Mrs. Skenk—­whom we had seen on arrival—­sitting on her front porch, satchel in hand, patiently awaiting us.  Ajax helped her to mount—­no light task, for she was a very heavy and enfeebled woman.  I drove.  As we trotted down the long straggling street our passenger spoke with feeling of the changes that had taken place in the old mission town.

“I’ve lived here thirty years.  Twenty mighty hard ones as a married woman; and ten tol’able easy ones as a widder.  Mr. Skenk was a saintly man, but tryin’ to live with on account o’ deefness and the azmy.  I never see a chicken took with the gapes but I think o’ Abram Skenk.  Yes, Mr. Ajax, my daughters was all born here, ‘ceptin’ Alviry.  She was born in Massachusetts.  It did make a difference to the child.  As a little girl she kep’ herself to herself.  And though I’d rather cut out my tongue than say a single word against Laban Swiggart, I do feel that he’d no business to pick the best in the basket.  Favourite?  No, sir; but I’ve said, many a time, that if Alviry went to her long home, I could not tarry here.  Most women feel that way about the first-born.  I’ve told Alviry to her face as she’d ought to have said ‘No’ to Laban Swiggart.  Oh, the suffering that dear child has endured!  It did seem till lately as if horse-tradin’, cattle-raisin’, and the butcher business was industries against which the Lord had set his face.  Sairy married an undertaker; Samanthy couldn’t