This scheme of mine was one that suited my proclivities.  By nature I am some sentimental, and have always felt gentle toward the mollifying elements of existence.  I am disposed to be lenient with the arts and sciences; and I find time to instigate a cordiality for the more human works of nature, such as romance and the atmosphere and grass and poetry and the Seasons.  I never skin a sucker without admiring the prismatic beauty of his scales.  I never sell a little auriferous beauty to the man with the hoe without noticing the beautiful harmony there is between gold and green.  And that’s why I liked this scheme; it was so full of outdoor air and landscapes and easy money.

We had to have a young lady assistant to help us work this graft; and I asked Buck if he knew of one to fill the bill.

“One,” says I, “that is cool and wise and strictly business from her pompadour to her Oxfords.  No ex-toe-dancers or gum-chewers or crayon portrait canvassers for this.”

Buck claimed he knew a suitable feminine and he takes me around to see Miss Sarah Malloy.  The minute I see her I am pleased.  She looked to be the goods as ordered.  No sign of the three p’s about her—­no peroxide, patchouli, nor peau de soie; about twenty-two, brown hair, pleasant ways—­the kind of a lady for the place.

“A description of the sandbag, if you please,” she begins.

“Why, ma’am,” says I, “this graft of ours is so nice and refined and romantic, it would make the balcony scene in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ look like second-story work.”

We talked it over, and Miss Malloy agreed to come in as a business partner.  She said she was glad to get a chance to give up her place as stenographer and secretary to a suburban lot company, and go into something respectable.

This is the way we worked our scheme.  First, I figured it out by a kind of a proverb.  The best grafts in the world are built up on copy-book maxims and psalms and proverbs and Esau’s fables.  They seem to kind of hit off human nature.  Our peaceful little swindle was constructed on the old saying:  “The whole push loves a lover.”

One evening Buck and Miss Malloy drives up like blazes in a buggy to a farmer’s door.  She is pale but affectionate, clinging to his arm—­ always clinging to his arm.  Any one can see that she is a peach and of the cling variety.  They claim they are eloping for to be married on account of cruel parents.  They ask where they can find a preacher.  Farmer says, “B’gum there ain’t any preacher nigher than Reverend Abels, four miles over on Caney Creek.”  Farmeress wipes her hand on her apron and rubbers through her specs.

[Illustration:  She is a peach and of the cling variety.]

Then, lo and look ye!  Up the road from the other way jogs Parleyvoo Pickens in a gig, dressed in black, white necktie, long face, sniffing his nose, emitting a spurious kind of noise resembling the long meter doxology.