“I hope some day to retire from business,” said Jeff Peters; “and when I do I don’t want anybody to be able to say that I ever got a dollar of any man’s money without giving him a quid pro rata for it.  I’ve always managed to leave a customer some little gewgaw to paste in his scrapbook or stick between his Seth Thomas clock and the wall after we are through trading.

“There was one time I came near having to break this rule of mine and do a profligate and illaudable action, but I was saved from it by the laws and statutes of our great and profitable country.

“One summer me and Andy Tucker, my partner, went to New York to lay in our annual assortment of clothes and gents’ furnishings.  We was always pompous and regardless dressers, finding that looks went further than anything else in our business, except maybe our knowledge of railroad schedules and an autograph photo of the President that Loeb sent us, probably by mistake.  Andy wrote a nature letter once and sent it in about animals that he had seen caught in a trap lots of times.  Loeb must have read it ‘triplets,’ instead of ‘trap lots,’ and sent the photo.  Anyhow, it was useful to us to show people as a guarantee of good faith.

“Me and Andy never cared much to do business in New York.  It was too much like pothunting.  Catching suckers in that town is like dynamiting a Texas lake for bass.  All you have to do anywhere between the North and East rivers is to stand in the street with an open bag marked, ‘Drop packages of money here.  No checks or loose bills taken.’  You have a cop handy to club pikers who try to chip in post office orders and Canadian money, and that’s all there is to New York for a hunter who loves his profession.  So me and Andy used to just nature fake the town.  We’d get out our spyglasses and watch the woodcocks along the Broadway swamps putting plaster casts on their broken legs, and then we’d sneak away without firing a shot.

“One day in the papier mache palm room of a chloral hydrate and hops agency in a side street about eight inches off Broadway me and Andy had thrust upon us the acquaintance of a New Yorker.  We had beer together until we discovered that each of us knew a man named Hellsmith, traveling for a stove factory in Duluth.  This caused us to remark that the world was a very small place, and then this New Yorker busts his string and takes off his tin foil and excelsior packing and starts in giving us his Ellen Terris, beginning with the time he used to sell shoelaces to the Indians on the spot where Tammany Hall now stands.

“This New Yorker had made his money keeping a cigar store in Beekman street, and he hadn’t been above Fourteenth street in ten years.  Moreover, he had whiskers, and the time had gone by when a true sport will do anything to a man with whiskers.  No grafter except a boy who is soliciting subscribers to an illustrated weekly to win the prize air rifle, or a widow, would have the heart to tamper with the man behind with the razor.  He was a typical city Reub—­I’d bet the man hadn’t been out of sight of a skyscraper in twenty-five years.