"
With this Parthian shot my brother left me to some sorry reflections.
I cordially liked and respected Laban Swiggart and his family. He had
married a Skenk. No name in our county smelled sweeter than Skenk: a
synonym, indeed, for piety, deportment, shell-work, and the preserving
of fruits. The Widow Skenk lived in San Lorenzo, hard by the
Congregational Church; and it was generally conceded that the hand of
one of her daughters in marriage was a certificate of character to the
groom. No Skenk had been known to wed a drunkard, a blasphemer, or an
evil liver. Moreover, Laban had been the first to welcome us--two raw
Englishmen--to a country where inexperience is a sin. He had helped us
over many a stile; he had saved us many dollars. And he had an honest
face. Broad, benignant brows surmounted a pair of keen and kindly
eyes; his nose proclaimed a sense of humour; his mouth and chin were
concealed by a beard almost apostolic in its silky beauty. Could such
a man be a thief?
The very next day Laban rode down his steep slopes and asked us to
help him and his to eat a Christmas turkey. He said something, too,
about a fine ham, and a "proposition," a money-making scheme, to be
submitted to us after the banquet.
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