“Then I spreads out my tarpaulin, like the Israelites, and waits for the manna to drop.

“‘Why, no, Mr. Stubblefield,’ says the lobster-colored party in the specs and dotted pique vest; ’oblige us by accepting this ten-dollar bill until to-morrow.  Get your harness repaired and call in at ten.  We’ll be pleased to accommodate you in the matter of this loan.’

“It’s a slight thing,” says Buckingham Skinner, modest, “but, as I said, only for temporary loose change.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” says I, in respect for his mortification; “in case of an emergency.  Of course, it’s small compared to organizing a trust or bridge whist, but even the Chicago University had to be started in a small way.”

“What’s your graft these days?” Buckingham Skinner asks me.

“The legitimate,” says I.  “I’m handling rhinestones and Dr. Oleum Sinapi’s Electric Headache Battery and the Swiss Warbler’s Bird Call, a small lot of the new queer ones and twos, and the Bonanza Budget, consisting of a rolled-gold wedding and engagement ring, six Egyptian lily bulbs, a combination pickle fork and nail-clipper, and fifty engraved visiting cards—­no two names alike—­all for the sum of 38 cents.”

“Two months ago,” says Buckingham Skinner, “I was doing well down in Texas with a patent instantaneous fire kindler, made of compressed wood ashes and benzine.  I sold loads of ’em in towns where they like to burn niggers quick, without having to ask somebody for a light.  And just when I was doing the best they strikes oil down there and puts me out of business.  ‘Your machine’s too slow, now, pardner,’ they tells me.  ’We can have a coon in hell with this here petroleum before your old flint-and-tinder truck can get him warm enough to perfess religion.’  And so I gives up the kindler and drifts up here to K.C.  This little curtain-raiser you seen me doing, Mr. Pickens, with the simulated farm and the hypothetical teams, ain’t in my line at all, and I’m ashamed you found me working it.”

“No man,” says I, kindly, “need to be ashamed of putting the skibunk on a loan corporation for even so small a sum as ten dollars, when he is financially abashed.  Still, it wasn’t quite the proper thing.  It’s too much like borrowing money without paying it back.”

I liked Buckingham Skinner from the start, for as good a man as ever stood over the axles and breathed gasoline smoke.  And pretty soon we gets thick, and I let him in on a scheme I’d had in mind for some time, and offers to go partners.

“Anything,” says Buck, “that is not actually dishonest will find me willing and ready.  Let us perforate into the inwardness of your proposition.  I feel degraded when I am forced to wear property straw in my hair and assume a bucolic air for the small sum of ten dollars.  Actually, Mr. Pickens, it makes me feel like the Ophelia of the Great Occidental All-Star One-Night Consolidated Theatrical Aggregation.”