Who that ever told a story could wish a more inspiring auditor than
Jacob Bean, a literal, honest old fellow who took the most
vital interest in every detail of the stories told, looking upon
their heroes and their villains as personal friends or foes.
He always sat in one corner of the fireplace, poker in hand,
and the crowd tacitly allowed him the role of Greek chorus.
Indeed, nobody could have told a story properly without Jake Bean's
parentheses and punctuation marks poked in at exciting junctures.
"That 's so every time!" he would say, with a lunge at the forestick.
"I'll bate he was glad then!" with another stick flung on in just
the right spot. "Golly! but that served 'em right!" with a thrust
at the backlog.
The New England story seemed to flourish under these conditions:
a couple of good hard benches in a store or tavern, where you could
not only smoke and chew but could keep on your hat (there was not a man
in York County in those days who could say anything worth hearing
with his hat off); the blazing logs to poke; and a cavernous fireplace
into which tobacco juice could be neatly and judiciously directed.
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