"The wickedness of some folk passes my understanding," remarked Mrs. Tapper. "Well, we're told that the triumphing of the wicked is short, but--good Land!--Job never lived in this State."
"He'd been more to home in New England," said Laban slily. The Skenks were from Massachusetts, the Swiggarts from Illinois.
"There's a pit digged for such," continued Mrs, Tapper, ignoring the interruption, "a pit full o' brimstone and fire. Yes, sister, I will take one more slice of the ham. I never ate sweeter meat. Eastern, I presume, my dear?"
"No, sister. Laban cured that ham. Pork-packing was his trade back east."
Laban added: "Boys, I hope ye like that ham. I've a reason for asking."
We assured our host that the ham was superlatively good. Mince and pumpkin pies followed, coffee, then grace. As we rose from the table, Laban said pleasantly, "Boys, here are some imported cigars. We'll smoke outside."
Having, so to speak, soaped the ways, Mr. Swiggart launched his "proposition." He wished to pack bacon. Hogs, he pointed out, were selling at two cents a pound; bacon and hams at twelve and fifteen cents. We had some two hundred and fifty hogs ready for market. These Laban wanted to buy on credit. He proposed to turn them into lard, hams, and bacon, to sell the same to local merchants (thereby saving cost of transportation), and to divide the profits with us after the original price of the hogs was paid. This seemed a one-sided bargain. He was to do all the work; we should, in any case, get the market price for the hogs, while the profits were to be divided. However, our host explained that we took all the risk. If the bacon spoiled he would not agree to pay us a cent. With the taste of that famous ham in our mouths, this contingency seemed sufficiently remote; and we said as much.
"Well, I could rob ye right and left. Ye've got to trust me, and there's a saying: 'To trust is to bust.'"
He was so candid in explaining the many ways by which an unscrupulous man might take advantage of two ignorant Britons, that Ajax, not relishing the personal flavour of the talk, rose and strolled across to the branding-corral. When he returned he was unusually silent, and, riding home, he said thoughtfully: "I saw Laban's brand this afternoon. It is 81, and the 8 is the same size as our S. His ear-mark is a crop, which obliterates our swallow-fork. Queer--eh?"
"Not at all," I replied indignantly. "It's a social crime to eat, as you did to-day, three large helpings of turkey, and then----"