She had to smile in spite of herself.

“Mrs. John,” Bunch went on, with splendid assurance; “you should be proud of this matinee idol husband of yours, for, to tell you the truth, he’s all the goods—­he certainly is.”

Clara J. looked somewhat embarrassed, and as for me, I was away out to sea in an open boat.  I hadn’t the faintest idea what Bunch was driving at.

“You surely have a wonderful influence over him,” the lad with the blarney continued.  “A week or so ago I threw some bait at him just to test him and he didn’t even nibble.  You know, in the old days John and I often trotted in double harness to the track—­bad place for young men—­sure!”

Bunch surveyed the property with a quick glance and said, “Yes, I sent John a telegram.  ‘The two queens will be out this afternoon,’ I wired, meaning two horses that simply couldn’t lose.  ’They are good girls, so treat them white,’ I told him, meaning that he should put up his roll on them and win a hatfull; but, Mrs. John, I never touched him.  He simply ignored my telegram and sat around in the hammock all day, reading a novel, I suppose.  I apologize to you, Mrs. John, for trying to drag him away from the path of rectitude, but, believe me, I didn’t know when I sent the message that he had promised you to give the ponies the long farewell!”

Clara J. laughed with happiness, all her doubts dispersed, and said, “Oh, don’t mention it, Mr. Bunch!  I’m simply delighted to welcome you to our new home.  You have never been out here before, have you?”

Bunch glanced at me, then through the open front door in the direction of the scene of his downfall, and said, hesitatingly, “Never before, thank you, kindly!”

Good old Bunch.  He had squared me with my wife and the world—­oh, well, some day, perhaps, I’d get a chance to even up.

“John,” he said, a few minutes later, when we took a short stroll around the place.  “Now that I’ve started in to tell the whole truth I musn’t skip a paragraph.  This is a pleasant bit of property, but the solemn fact remains that I put the boots to you.  I gave you the gaff for $6,000, old friend, and it breaks my heart to tell you that I’m not sorry.  Bunch for Number One, always!”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“This farm only cost me $8,000,” he said, giving me the pitying grin.

“It cost me $14,000 and I sold it for $20,000,” I said, slowly.

We stopped and shook hands.

“Who’s the come-on?” he asked, presently.

“Uncle Peter,” I answered, “but the old boy has so much he has to kick a lot of it out of the house every once in a while, so it’s all right.”

After dinner we were all sitting on the piazza listening to a treatise from Uncle Peter on the subject of the growth and proper care of wheat cakes, or asparagus, I forget which, when suddenly the cadaverous form of the Sherlock Holmes of Jiggersville appeared before us.