“B’jinks!” says farmer, “if thar ain’t a preacher now!”

It transpires that I am Rev. Abijah Green, travelling over to Little Bethel school-house for to preach next Sunday.

The young folks will have it they must be married, for pa is pursuing them with the plow mules and the buckboard.  So the Reverend Green, after hesitating, marries ’em in the farmer’s parlor.  And farmer grins, and has in cider, and says “B’gum!” and farmeress sniffles a bit and pats the bride on the shoulder.  And Parleyvoo Pickens, the wrong reverend, writes out a marriage certificate, and farmer and farmeress sign it as witnesses.  And the parties of the first, second and third part gets in their vehicles and rides away.  Oh, that was an idyllic graft!  True love and the lowing kine and the sun shining on the red barns—­it certainly had all other impostures I know about beat to a batter.

[So the Reverend Green, after hesitations, marries ’em in the farmer’s parlor.]

I suppose I happened along in time to marry Buck and Miss Malloy at about twenty farm-houses.  I hated to think how the romance was going to fade later on when all them marriage certificates turned up in banks where we’d discounted ’em, and the farmers had to pay them notes of hand they’d signed, running from $300 to $500.

On the 15th day of May us three divided about $6,000.  Miss Malloy nearly cried with joy.  You don’t often see a tenderhearted girl or one that is bent on doing right.

[Illustration:  On the 15th day of May us three divided about $6,000.]

“Boys,” says she, dabbing her eyes with a little handkerchief, “this stake comes in handier than a powder rag at a fat men’s ball.  It gives me a chance to reform.  I was trying to get out of the real estate business when you fellows came along.  But if you hadn’t taken me in on this neat little proposition for removing the cuticle of the rutabaga propagators I’m afraid I’d have got into something worse.  I was about to accept a place in one of these Women’s Auxiliary Bazars, where they build a parsonage by selling a spoonful of chicken salad and a cream-puff for seventy-five cents and calling it a Business Man’s Lunch.

“Now I can go into a square, honest business, and give all them queer jobs the shake.  I’m going to Cincinnati and start a palm reading and clairvoyant joint.  As Madame Saramaloi, the Egyptian Sorceress, I shall give everybody a dollar’s worth of good honest prognostication.  Good-by, boys.  Take my advice and go into some decent fake.  Get friendly with the police and newspapers and you’ll be all right.”

So then we all shook hands, and Miss Malloy left us.  Me and Buck also rose up and sauntered off a few hundred miles; for we didn’t care to be around when them marriage certificates fell due.

With about $4,000 between us we hit that bumptious little town off the New Jersey coast they call New York.

If there ever was an aviary overstocked with jays it is that Yaptown-on-the-Hudson.  Cosmopolitan they call it.  You bet.  So’s a piece of fly-paper.  You listen close when they’re buzzing and trying to pull their feet out of the sticky stuff.  “Little old New York’s good enough for us”—­that’s what they sing.