“When we went down stairs we saw we was in the midst of the finest farming section we ever see.  About two miles away on a hill was a big white house in a grove surrounded by a wide-spread agricultural agglomeration of fields and barns and pastures and out-houses.

“‘Whose house is that?’ we asked the landlord.

“‘That,’ says he, ’is the domicile and the arboreal, terrestrial and horticultural accessories of Farmer Ezra Plunkett, one of our county’s most progressive citizens.’

“After breakfast me and Andy, with eight cents capital left, casts the horoscope of the rural potentate.

“‘Let me go alone,’ says I.  ’Two of us against one farmer would look as one-sided as Roosevelt using both hands to kill a grizzly.’

“‘All right,’ says Andy.  ’I like to be a true sport even when I’m only collecting rebates from the rutabag raisers.  What bait are you going to use for this Ezra thing?’ Andy asks me.

“‘Oh,’ I says, ’the first thing that come to hand in the suit case.  I reckon I’ll take along some of the new income tax receipts, and the recipe for making clover honey out of clabber and apple peelings; and the order blanks for the McGuffey’s readers, which afterwards turn out to be McCormick’s reapers; and the pearl necklace found on the train; and a pocket-size goldbrick; and a—­’

“‘That’ll be enough,’ says Andy.  ’Any one of the lot ought to land on Ezra.  And say, Jeff, make that succotash fancier give you nice, clean, new bills.  It’s a disgrace to our Department of Agriculture, Civil Service and Pure Food Law the kind of stuff some of these farmers hand out to use.  I’ve had to take rolls from ’em that looked like bundles of microbe cultures captured out of a Red Cross ambulance.’

“So, I goes to a livery stable and hires a buggy on my looks.  I drove out to the Plunkett farm and hitched.  There was a man sitting on the front steps of the house.  He had on a white flannel suit, a diamond ring, golf cap and a pink ascot tie.  ‘Summer boarder,’ says I to myself.

“‘I’d like to see Farmer Ezra Plunkett,’ says I to him.

“‘You see him,’ says he.  ‘What seems to be on your mind?’

“I never answered a word.  I stood still, repeating to myself the rollicking lines of that merry jingle, ‘The Man with the Hoe.’  When I looked at this farmer, the little devices I had in my pocket for buncoing the pushed-back brows seemed as hopeless as trying to shake down the Beef Trust with a mittimus and a parlor rifle.

“‘Well,’ says he, looking at me close, ’speak up.  I see the left pocket of your coat sags a good deal.  Out with the goldbrick first.  I’m rather more interested in the bricks than I am in the trick sixty-day notes and the lost silver mine story.’

“I had a kind of cerebral sensation of foolishness in my ideas of ratiocination; but I pulled out the little brick and unwrapped my handkerchief off it.

“‘One dollar and eighty cents,’ says the farmer hefting it in his hand.  ‘Is it a trade?’