In his room I told him about this farmer， word for word；and I sat picking at the table cover like one bereft ofsagaciousness.
“‘I don’t understand it，’ says I， humming a sad andfoolish little song to cover my humiliation.
“Andy walks up and down the room for a long time，biting the left end of his mustache as he does when in theact of thinking.
“‘Jeff，’ says he， finally， ‘I believe your story of thisexpurgated rustic； but I am not convinced. It looksincredulous to me that he could have inoculated himselfagainst all the preordained systems of bucolic bunco.
Now， you never regarded me as a man of special religiousproclivities， did you， Jeff？’ says Andy.
“‘Well，’ says I， ‘No. But，’ says I， not to wound hisfeelings， ‘I have also observed many church memberswhose said proclivities were not so outwardly developedthat they would show on a white handkerchief if yourubbed ’em with it.’
“‘I have always been a deep student of nature fromcreation down，’ says Andy， ‘and I believe in an ultimatumdesign of Providence. Farmers was made for a purpose；and that was to furnish a livelihood to men like me andyou. Else why was we given brains？ It is my belief thatthe manna that the Israelites lived on for forty years inthe wilderness was only a figurative word for farmers； andthey kept up the practice to this day. And now，’ says Andy，‘I am going to test my theory “Once a farmer， always acome-on，” in spite of the veneering and the orifices that aspurious civilization has brought to him.’
“‘You’ll fail， same as I did，’ says I. ‘This one’s shook offthe shackles of the sheep-fold. He’s entrenched behindthe advantages of electricity， education， literature andintelligence.’
“‘I’ll try，’ said Andy. ‘There are certain Laws of Naturethat Free Rural Delivery can’t overcome.’
“Andy fumbles around awhile in the closet and comesout dressed in a suit with brown and yellow checks as bigas your hand. His vest is red with blue dots， and he wears ahigh silk hat. I noticed he’d soaked his sandy mustache ina kind of blue ink.
“‘Great Barnums？’ says I. ‘You’re a ringer for a circusthimblerig man.’
“‘Right，’ says Andy. ‘Is the buggy outside？ Wait here till Icome back. I won’t be long.’
“Two hours afterwards Andy steps into the room andlays a wad of money on the table.
“‘Eight hundred and sixty dollars，’ said he. ‘Let me tellyou. He was in. He looked me over and began to guy me. Ididn’t say a word， but got out the walnut shells and beganto roll the little ball on the table. I whistled a tune or two，and then I started up the old formula.
“‘Step up lively， gentlemen，’ says I， ‘and watch thelittle ball. It costs you nothing to look. There you see it，and there you don’t. Guess where the little joker is. Thequickness of the hand deceives the eye.
“‘I steals a look at the farmer man. I see the sweat comingout on his forehead. He goes over and closes the front doorand watches me some more. Directly he says： “I’ll bet youtwenty I can pick the shell the ball’s under now.’”
“‘After that，’ goes on Andy， ‘there is nothing new torelate. He only had 860 cash in the house. When I left hefollowed me to the gate. There was tears in his eyes whenhe shook hands.
“Bunk，” says he， “thank you for the only real pleasure I’vehad in years. It brings up happy old days when I was only afarmer and not an agriculturalist. God bless you.”
Here Jeff Peters ceased， and I inferred that his story wasdone.
“Then you think” —I began.
“Yes，” said Jeff. “Something like that. You let the farmersgo ahead and amuse themselves with politics. Farming’sa lonesome life； and they’ve been against the shell gamebefore.”
