Jeff Peters must be reminded. Whenever he is calledupon， pointedly， for a story， he will maintain that his lifehas been as devoid of incident as the longest of Trollope’snovels. But lured， he will divulge. Therefore I cast manyand divers flies upon the current of his thoughts before Ifeel a nibble.
“I notice，” said I， “that the Western farmers， in spite oftheir prosperity， are running after their old populistic idolsagain.”
“It’s the running season，” said Jeff， “for farmers， shad，maple trees and the Connemaugh river. I know somethingabout farmers. I thought I struck one once that hadgot out of the rut； but Andy Tucker proved to me I wasmistaken. ‘Once a farmer， always a sucker，’ said Andy. ‘He’sthe man that’s shoved into the front row among bullets，ballots and the ballet. He’s the funny-bone and gristle ofthe country，’ said Andy， ‘and I don’t know who we woulddo without him.’
“One morning me and Andy wakes up with sixty-eightcents between us in a yellow pine hotel on the edge of thepre-digested hoe-cake belt of Southern Indiana. How wegot off the train there the night before I can’t tell you；for she went through the village so fast that what lookedlike a saloon to us through the car window turned out tobe a composite view of a drug store and a water tank twoblocks apart. Why we got off at the first station we could，belongs to a little oroide gold watch and Alaska diamonddeal we failed to pull off the day before， over the Kentuckyline.
“When I woke up I heard roosters crowing， and smeltsomething like the fumes of nitro-muriatic acid， and heardsomething heavy fall on the floor below us， and a manswearing.
“‘Cheer up， Andy，’ says I. ‘We’re in a rural community.
Somebody has just tested a gold brick downstairs. We’ll goout and get what’s coming to us from a farmer； and thenyoicks！ and away.’
“Farmers was always a kind of reserve fund to me.
Whenever I was in hard luck I’d go to the crossroads，hook a finger in a farmer’s suspender， recite the prospectusof my swindle in a mechanical kind of a way， look overwhat he had， give him back his keys， whetstone and papersthat was of no value except to owner， and stroll awaywithout asking any questions. Farmers are not fair gameto me as high up in our business as me and Andy was； butthere was times when we found ’em useful， just as WallStreet does the Secretary of the Treasury now and then.
“When we went down stairs we saw we was in the midstof the finest farming section we ever see. About two milesaway on a hill was a big white house in a grove surroundedby a wide-spread agricultural agglomeration of fields andbarns and pastures and out-houses.
“‘Whose house is that？’ we asked the landlord.
“‘That，’ says he， ‘is the domicile and the arboreal，terrestrial and horticultural accessories of Farmer EzraPlunkett， one of our country’s most progressive citizens.’
“After breakfast me and Andy， with eight cents capitalleft， casts the horoscope of the rural potentate.
“‘Let me go alone，’ says I. ‘Two of us against one farmerwould look as one-sided as Roosevelt using both hands tokill a grizzly.’
“‘All right，’ says Andy. ‘I like to be a true sport even whenI’m only collecting rebates from the rutabag raisers. Whatbait are you going to use for this Ezra thing？’ Andy asksme.
“‘Oh，’ I says， ‘the first thing that come to hand in thesuit case. I reckon I’ll take along some of the new incometax receipts， and the recipe for making clover honey outof clabber and apple peelings； and the order blanks forthe McGuffey’s readers， which afterwards turn out to beMcCormick’s reapers； and the pearl necklace found on thetrain； and a pocket-size goldbrick； and a—’
“‘That’ll be enough，’ says Andy. ‘Any one of the lotought to land on Ezra. And say， Jeff， make that succotashfancier give you nice， clean， new bills. It’s a disgrace to ourDepartment of Agriculture， Civil Service and Pure FoodLaw the kind of stuff some of these farmers hand out to use.
I’ve had to take rolls from ’em that looked like bundles ofmicrobe cultures captured out of a Red Cross ambulance.’
“So， I goes to a livery stable and hires a buggy on mylooks. I drove out to the Plunkett farm and hitched. Therewas a man sitting on the front steps of the house. He hadon a white flannel suit， a diamond ring， golf cap and a pinkascot tie. ‘Summer boarder，’ says I to myself.
“‘I’d like to see Farmer Ezra Plunkett，’ says I to him.
“‘You see him，’ says he. ‘What seems to be on yourmind？’
“I never answered a word. I stood still， repeating tomyself the rollicking lines of that merry jingle， ‘The Manwith the Hoe.’ When I looked at this farmer， the littledevices I had in my pocket for buncoing the pushed-backbrows seemed as hopeless as trying to shake down theBeef Trust with a mittimus and a parlor rifle.
“‘Well，’ says he， looking at me close， ‘speak up. I see theleft pocket of your coat sags a good deal. Out with thegoldbrick first. I’m rather more interested in the bricksthan I am in the trick sixty-day notes and the lost silvermine story.’
“I had a kind of cerebral sensation of foolishness in myideas of ratiocination； but I pulled out the little brick andunwrapped my handkerchief off it.
“‘One dollar and eighty cents，’ says the farmer hefting itin his hand. ‘Is it a trade？’
“‘The lead in it is worth more than that，’ says I， dignified.
I put it back in my pocket.
“‘All right，’ says he. ‘But I sort of wanted it for thecollection I’m starting. I got a 5，000 one last week for2.10.’
“Just then a telephone bell rings in the house.
“‘Come in， Bunk，’ says the farmer， ‘and look at my place.
It’s kind of lonesome here sometimes. I think that’s NewYork calling.’
“We went inside. The room looked like a Broadwaystockbroker’s—light oak desks， two ’phones， Spanishleather upholstered chairs and couches， oil paintings ingilt frames a foot deep and a ticker hitting off the news inone corner.
“‘Hello， hello！’ says this funny farmer. ‘Is that the RegentTheatre？ Yes； this is Plunkett， of Woodbine Centre.
