About a month later the Baron was dining with us, and I reminded him of what he had said. He laughed, shrugging his shoulders.
"Mon cher, ze monkeys in your backwoods are more-- diable!--moch more aggr-r-ressive zan ze monkeys in ze old world."
"They pull tails there," said Ajax, "but here they pull legs as well-- eh?"
The Baron smiled ruefully, sticking out a slender, delicately formed foot and ankle.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "old man Dumble, he pull my leg."
The Dumbles were neighbours of the Baron, and their sterile acres marched with his. John Jacob Dumble's word might be as good or better than his bond, but neither was taken at par. It was said of him that he preferred to take cash for telling a lie rather than credit for telling the truth. Dumble, as we knew, had sold the Baron one horse and saddle, one Frisian-Holstein cow, and an incubator. The saddle gave the horse a sore back, the horse fell down and broke its knees, the cow dried up in a fortnight, and the incubator cooked eggs to perfection, but it wouldn't incubate them.
"I use it as a stove," said the Baron.
Next summer, when the pretty lake dried up and began to smell, we advised the Baron to take a holiday. We told him of pleasant, hospitable people in San Francisco, in Menlo, and at Del Monte, who would be charmed to make his acquaintance.
"San Francisco? Jamais, jamais de la vie!"
"Come with us to Del Monte?"