Smithers.
"No, he isn't. He's a broker," said the Idiot, "and a very successful
one. I see him on the street every day."
"Does he employ a man to run the farm?" asked the Clergyman.
"No," returned the Idiot, "he has too much sense and too few dollars to
do any such foolish thing as that."
"It must be one of those self-winding stock farms," put in the
School-master, scornfully. "But I don't see how he can be a successful
broker and make money off his farm at the same time. Your statements do
not agree, either. You said he never had to run for trains."
"Well, he never has," returned the Idiot, calmly. "He never goes near
his farm. He doesn't have to. It's leased to the husband of the
house-keeper whose daughter has a crush on the fire department. He takes
his pay in produce, and gets more than if he took it in cash on the
basis of the New York vegetable market."
"Then you have got us into an argument about country life that ends--"
began the School-master, indignantly.
"That ends where it leaves off," retorted the Idiot, departing with a
smile on his lips.
"He's an Idiot from Idaho," asserted the Bibliomaniac.
"Yes; but I'm afraid idiocy is a little contagious," observed the
Doctor, with a grin and sidelong glance at the School-master.
X
"Good-morning, gentlemen," said the Idiot, as he seated himself at the
breakfast-table and glanced over his mail.
"Good-morning yourself," returned the Poet. "You have an unusually large
number of letters this morning.
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