him shoot a jack-rabbit, and a hawk, and a squirrel, and when in the 
presence of these vicious capers have heard him laugh and say, «‘A good 
shot!’’ Will a man laugh at a funeral? This man will. He does. 
Hunting and kodaking demoralize the moral nature of man. The 
villain is old and bold. His conscience (allowing, as a matter of pure 
courtesy to him, that originally he had one) is atrophied. There is not 
even a vermiform appendage left. I have known him to shoot quails 
out of season. He thinks nothing of breaking the law. Once he in- 
veigled me into carrying the game he had slain unlawfully as well as 
murderously. This I did as a matter of courtesy (for ] am a Chester- 
field in etiquette), for | was his guest (he driving me out after his red 
horses, two beasties about as big as two-year-old jack-rabbits), and | 
could not, with my code of manners, refuse mine host’s request to 
skirmish around and pick up his game; but afterward it leaked out that 
he did this because the law holds that man guilty who has the ill-gotten 
game. Such perfidy | had read of, but scarcely believed. I thought 
Jago was an imaginary creation; now I know he is a photograph, and 
I could find Shakespeare a subject for a sitting. 
Beyond this, the villain professes to like me, writes me postal 
cards, takes me riding, invites me to his home, drives me out when the 
purple aster is in bloom, comes to my hospitable board, drives me to my 
farm and says he enjoys it, praises my view, says it is ‘‘bully,’’ caresses 
my trees (he is an Iago) loans me his red horses and red dog, glows 
over my ravine, says nice things about my hackberry and shell-bark 
hickory-trees, speaks in hopeful terms of my apple orchard, is sympathetic 
in my fondest aspirations of getting ten or fifteen dollars rent in the 
remote future, and even suggests I may some time get enough to pay a 
year’s taxes; and I being of a confiding turn (interpreting others by 
myself) think him well-meaning and virtuous. But this man “who 
hath broken bread with me hath lifted up his heel against me” (quoted 
from the Psalter). When with Mrs. Mugwump, who holds my farm in 
slight esteem, he joins her hilarity at my expense; echoes her wickedest 
snigger; constructs poor jests about my farm and its achievements: 
joins in crude and unusual remarks about ‘‘chiggers;’’ laughs loudly at 
jests at my expense, refuses to look at me, being so engrossed with Mrs. 
Mugwump’s humor and hospitality; thanks her for his dinner, whereas I 
paid for it and the black girl cooked it,—well he is a villain. That is all 
I can say now. Had I my way in my house (do I need to say I do 
not?) he would jest no more at me over my fried chicken. 
210 
