“‘Gentlemen,’ says I, after we had rubbed noses and gathered ’round the dried-apple barrel.  ’I don’t suppose there’s another community in the whole world into which sin and chicanery has less extensively permeated than this.  Life here, where all the women are brave and propitious and all the men honest and expedient, must, indeed, be an idol.  It reminds me,’ says I, ’of Goldstein’s beautiful ballad entitled “The Deserted Village,” which says: 

   ’Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
       What art can drive its charms away? 
    The judge rode slowly down the lane, mother. 
       For I’m to be Queen of the May.’

“‘Why, yes, Mr. Peters,’ says the storekeeper.  ’I reckon we air about as moral and torpid a community as there be on the mounting, according to censuses of opinion; but I reckon you ain’t ever met Rufe Tatum.’

“‘Why, no,’ says the town constable, ’he can’t hardly have ever.  That air Rufe is shore the monstrousest scalawag that has escaped hangin’ on the galluses.  And that puts me in mind that I ought to have turned Rufe out of the lockup before yesterday.  The thirty days he got for killin’ Yance Goodloe was up then.  A day or two more won’t hurt Rufe any, though.’

“‘Shucks, now,’ says I, in the mountain idiom, ’don’t tell me there’s a man in Mount Nebo as bad as that.’

“‘Worse,’ says the storekeeper.  ‘He steals hogs.’

“I think I will look up this Mr. Tatum; so a day or two after the constable turned him out I got acquainted with him and invited him out on the edge of town to sit on a log and talk business.

“What I wanted was a partner with a natural rural make-up to play a part in some little one-act outrages that I was going to book with the Pitfall & Gin circuit in some of the Western towns; and this R. Tatum was born for the role as sure as nature cast Fairbanks for the stuff that kept Eliza from sinking into the river.

“He was about the size of a first baseman; and he had ambiguous blue eyes like the china dog on the mantelpiece that Aunt Harriet used to play with when she was a child.  His hair waved a little bit like the statue of the dinkus-thrower at the Vacation in Rome, but the color of it reminded you of the ’Sunset in the Grand Canon, by an American Artist,’ that they hang over the stove-pipe holes in the salongs.  He was the Reub, without needing a touch.  You’d have known him for one, even if you’d seen him on the vaudeville stage with one cotton suspender and a straw over his ear.

“I told him what I wanted, and found him ready to jump at the job.

“’Overlooking such a trivial little peccadillo as the habit of manslaughter,’ says I, ’what have you accomplished in the way of indirect brigandage or nonactionable thriftiness that you could point to, with or without pride, as an evidence of your qualifications for the position?’