“Satan，” said Jeff Peters， “is a hard boss to work for.
When other people are having their vacation is when hekeeps you the busiest. As old Dr. Watts or St. Paul or someother diagnostician says： ‘He always finds somebody foridle hands to do.’
“I remember one summer when me and my partner，Andy Tucker， tried to take a layoff from our professionaland business duties； but it seems that our work followedus wherever we went.
“Now， with a preacher it’s different. He can throwoff his responsibilities and enjoy himself. On the 31stof May he wraps mosquito netting and tin foil aroundthe pulpit， grabs his niblick， breviary and fishing poleand hikes for Lake Como or Atlantic City according tothe size of the loudness with which he has been calledby his congregation. And， sir， for three months he don’thave to think about business except to hunt around inDeuteronomy and Proverbs and Timothy to find texts tocover and exculpate such little midsummer penances asdropping a couple of looey door on rouge or teaching aPresbyterian widow to swim.
“But I was going to tell you about mine and Andy’ssummer vacation that wasn’t one.
“We was tired of finance and all the branches ofunsanctified ingenuity. Even Andy， whose brain rarely everstopped working， began to make noises like a tennis cabinet.
“‘Heigh ho！’ says Andy. ‘I’m tired. I’ve got that steam upthe yacht Corsair and ho for the Riviera！ feeling. I wantto loaf and indict my soul， as Walt Whittier says. I wantto play pinochle with Merry del Val or give a knouting tothe tenants on my Tarrytown estates or do a monologue ata Chautauqua picnic in kilts or something summery andoutside the line of routine and sand-bagging.’
“‘Patience，’ says I. ‘You’ll have to climb higher in theprofession before you can taste the laurels that crown thefootprints of the great captains of industry. Now， whatI’d like， Andy，’ says I， ‘would be a summer sojourn in amountain village far from scenes of larceny， labor andovercapitalization. I’m tired， too， and a month or so ofsinlessness ought to leave us in good shape to begin againto take away the white man’s burdens in the fall.’
“Andy fell in with the rest cure at once， so we struck thegeneral passenger agents of all the railroads for summerresort literature， and took a week to study out where weshould go. I reckon the first passenger agent in the worldwas that man Genesis. But there wasn’t much competitionin his day， and when he said： ‘The Lord made the earthin six days， and all very good，’ he hadn’t any idea to whatextent the press agents of the summer hotels wouldplagiarize from him later on.
“When we finished the booklets we perceived， easy， thatthe United States from Passadumkeg， Maine， to El Paso，and from Skagway to Key West was a paradise of gloriousmountain peaks， crystal lakes， new laid eggs， golf， girls，garages， cooling breezes， straw rides， open plumbing andtennis； and all within two hours’ ride.
“So me and Andy dumps the books out the back windowand packs our trunk and takes the 6 o’clock TortoiseFlyer for Crow Knob， a kind of a dernier resort in themountains on the line of Tennessee and North Carolina.
“We was directed to a kind of private hotel calledWoodchuck Inn， and thither me and Andy bent andalmost broke our footsteps over the rocks and stumps.
The Inn set back from the road in a big grove of trees， andit looked fine with its broad porches and a lot of womenin white dresses rocking in the shade. The rest of CrowKnob was a post office and some scenery set an angle offorty-five degrees and a welkin.
“Well， sir， when we got to the gate who do you supposecomes down the walk to greet us？ Old Smoke-’em-outSmithers， who used to be the best open air painless dentistand electric liver pad faker in the Southwest.
“Old Smoke-’em-out is dressed clerico-rural， and hasthe mingled air of a landlord and a claim jumper. Whichaspect he corroborates by telling us that he is the host andperpetrator of Woodchuck Inn. I introduces Andy， andwe talk about a few volatile topics， such as will go aroundat meetings of boards of directors and old associates likeus three were. Old Smoke-’em-out leads us into a kind ofsummer house in the yard near the gate and took up theharp of life and smote on all the chords with his mightyright.
“‘Gents，’ says he， ‘I’m glad to see you. Maybe you canhelp me out of a scrape. I’m getting a bit old for streetwork， so I leased this dogdays emporium so the goodthings would come to me. Two weeks before the seasonopened I gets a letter signed Lieut. Peary and one fromthe Duke of Marlborough， each wanting to engage boardfor part of the summer.’
“‘Well， sir， you gents know what a big thing for anobscure hustlery it would be to have for guests twogentlemen whose names are famous from long associationwith icebergs and the Coburgs. So I prints a lot ofhandbills announcing that Woodchuck Inn would shelterthese distinguished boarders during the summer， exceptin places where it leaked， and I sends ’em out to townsaround as far as Knoxville and Charlotte and Fish Damand Bowling Green.’
“‘And now look up there on the porch， gents，’ saysSmoke-’em-out， ‘at them disconsolate specimens oftheir fair sex waiting for the arrival of the Duke and theLieutenant. The house is packed from rafters to cellarwith hero worshippers.’
“‘There’s four normal school teachers and two abnormal；there’s three high school graduates between 37 and 42；there’s two literary old maids and one that can write；there’s a couple of society women and a lady from HawRiver. Two elocutionists are bunking in the corn crib， andI’ve put cots in the hay loft for the cook and the societyeditress of the Chattanooga Opera Glass. You see hownames draw， gents.’
“‘Well，’ says I， ‘how is it that you seem to be biting yourthumbs at good luck？ You didn’t use to be that way.’