"Really, my friend," said the Englishman, "Squashboro' may be as smart a place as you say, but it doesn't interest me."
"Don't it? That's because you haven't been there. We've got some smart men in Squashboro'."
"You don't say so?" said the other, in a sarcastic tone.
"There's Squire Perkins, selectman, town clerk and auctioneer. You'd ought to hear his tongue go when he auctioneers. Then there's Parson Pratt—knows a sight of Latin, Greek and Hebrew."
"Are you one of the smart men of Squashboro'?" asked the clerk, in the same tone.
"Wal, that ain't for me to say," answered Mr. Tarbox, modestly. "You never can tell what may happen, as the hen said when she hatched a lot of geese. But I'll tell you what, Mr. Englishman—"
"My name is Robinson," interrupted the other, stiffly.
"Why, howdy do, Mr. Robinson!" exclaimed Jonathan, seizing the unwilling hand of the other and shaking it vigorously. "My name is Tarbox—Jonathan Tarbox, named after my grandfather. His name was Jonathan, too."
"Really, your family history is very interesting."
"Glad you think so. But as I was sayin', when you spoke about me bein' smart, I've got up a new plow that's goin' to take the shine off all that's goin'," and he plunged his hand into his pocket.