To arrive at an estimate of the approximate age of this one, try to recall how many years ago it was that Robert Ingersol died and then take it into further consideration that the incident here to be narrated is supposed to have occurred quite a long time before that date. The great infidel was sitting one day in his library. A genius out of a job came to him seeking advice. “Mr. Ingersol,” said the caller, “I speak seven languages fluently but somehow or other I don’t seem to be able to make a living. I can’t get work anywhere. At this moment I owe a month’s rent. What can you suggest?” “My friend,” said Ingersol, “I don’t think I could suggest anything for a person who can express himself in seven languages and can’t pay his rent in any one of them.” § 347 Inquiry Regarding the Stranger This little incident dates back to the time when a certain well-known publisher of New York was somewhat younger than he is at present. His only daughter, now a charming young matron with a baby of her own, had just passed her fourth birthday. Let us call her Clara, which is not her real name. Since before his marriage the gentleman in question had worn a beard. The little girl had never seen her father excepting with mustache and whiskered chops. One Saturday night, moved by a whim, he told the barber to give him a clean shave. Then he went home and went to bed. Next morning early little Clara came from the nursery to visit her parents. The mother was awake; her daddy still snoozed. The child was in the act of kissing her mother, when her gaze fell upon the smooth face on the pillow in the adjacent bed. Her eyes widened in astonishment. Leaving her mother’s side, the little thing tip-toed across the room and subjected the countenance of her father to a puzzled stare. Then she crept back again to where the wife was. “Mother dear,” she said in an awed whisper, “who is the gentleman?” § 348 When Appearances Were Deceitful The native was making a slow headway with a hoe against the weeds and sassafras sprouts which covered the slope with their scrubby growth. Behind him rose the knobby field with deep furrows in it where the rains had washed out gulleys in the thin soil. Further on a rotting rail fence ran in crazy zigzags across the brow of the eminence and on all sides the clearing was enveloped by a bleak and poverty-stricken landscape. The Northern tourist, who was making a detour through the foothills, halted his car and hailed the industrious worker. “My friend,” he said, “you look like a live chap and a hustler.” “Well,” said the native, “I aim to keep busy.” He laid down his hoe and advanced to the edge of the road. “That’s what I said to myself as soon as I saw you. I’m wondering why you’re content to slave your life out in this God-forsaken country. I never saw such poor-looking soil in my life. Why don’t you pull up stakes and move up into Ohio where I live?” The resident hillsman shook his head.