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Title: Elbow-Room - A Novel Without a Plot
Author: Clark, Charles Heber, 1841-1915
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Elbow-Room - A Novel Without a Plot" ***

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ELBOW-ROOM

_A NOVEL WITHOUT A PLOT_

BY

MAX ADELER

1870


AUTHOR OF "OUT OF THE HURLY-BURLY," ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR B. FROST

[Illustration: Frontispiece]



PREFACE


If every book that contains nothing but nonsense confessed that fact
in its preface, the world would have been saved a vast amount of
dreary reading. Most of such volumes, however, are believed by their
authors to be full of wisdom of the solidest kind; and confession,
therefore, being impossible, the reader may learn the truth only
through much tribulation. The writer of this book freely admits, at
the outset, that it contains only the lightest humor, and that its
single purpose is to afford amusement. At the same time, he claims for
it that it is wiser and far more useful than many more solemn books
that have been published, with the intent to regenerate mankind, by
authors who would regard such a volume as this with feelings of scorn.

This is simply an effort to tell stories of a humorous character; and
although the attempt may not be so successful as it has been in the
hands of others, from Boccaccio downward, it has at least one quality
that some greater achievements do not possess: it is absolutely pure
in thought, word and suggestion. If it is filled with nonsense, that
nonsense at any rate is innocent. It is modest, cleanly and without
malice or irreverence. A worthier and nobler work might have been
written; a purer work could not have been.

What its other merits are he who reads it will discern. To apologize
for it in any manner would be to admit that it has grave deficiencies,
and such an admission the author would not make even if his conscience
impelled him to do so. The book is offered to the reader with the
conviction that if the man who laughs is the happiest man, it may
contribute something to the sum of human felicity.

The story of the French horn, related in the twentieth chapter, will
recall to the reader of the "Sparrowgrass Papers" an incident related
in that most charming book of humor. Perhaps it ought to be said that
the former narrative was at least suggested by the latter.

The artist who has illustrated the book, Mr. Arthur B. Frost, deserves
to have it said of him that he has done his work skilfully, tastefully
and with nice appreciation of the humor of the various situations.



CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE ADVANTAGES OF ELBOW-ROOM

II. THE TERRIBLE MISHAP TO MR. FOGG'S BABY

III. INTERNAL NAVIGATION.--AN UNFORTUNATE INVENTOR

IV. THE FACTS IN REFERENCE TO MR. BUTTERWICK'S HORSE

V. SOME EDUCATIONAL FACTS

VI. THE EDITOR OF "THE PATRIOT"

VII. HOW MR. BUTTERWICK PURSUED HORTICULTURE

VIII. THE MEETING, AND ITS MISSIONARY WORK

IX. JUDGE TWIDDLER'S COW

X. OUR CIVIL SERVICE

XI. FUNEREAL AND CONJUGAL

XII. A NEW MRS. TOODLES.--POTTS' ADVENTURES

XIII. THE RACES, AND SOME OTHER THINGS

XIV. RESPECTING CERTAIN SAVAGES

XV. LOVE, SUFFERING AND SUICIDE

XVI. MR. FOGG AS SPORTSMAN AND SPOUSE

XVII. HOW WE CONDUCT A POLITICAL CAMPAIGN

XVIII. THE MATUTINAL ROOSTER

XIX. AN UNRULY METER.--SCENES IN A SANCTUM

XX. HIGH ART

XXI. CERTAIN DENTAL EXPERIENCES.--AN UNFORTUNATE OFFICIAL

XXII. JUSTICE, AND A LITTLE INJUSTICE

XXIII. THE TRAMP WITH GENIUS AND WITHOUT IT

XXIV. THE DOG OF MR. BUTTERWICK'S, AND OTHER DOGS

XXV. A PERSECUTED JOURNALIST

XXVI. THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF DR. PERKINS

XXVII. GENERAL TRUMPS OF THE MILITIA

XXVIII. THE MISDIRECTED ENERGIES OF MR. BRADLEY

XXIX. THE TRIALS OF MR. KEYSER, GRANGER

XXX. MR. BANGER'S AUNT

XXXI. VARIOUS THINGS



ILLUSTRATIONS.

  ELBOW-ROOM
  MR. FOGG AS A MESMERIST
  A NOVEL MOUSETRAP
  A PERPLEXED MULE
  THE SECRETARY IS ALARMED
  MR. BUTTERWICK'S HORSE LIES DOWN
  THE BATTLE OF CANNÆ.
  MR. BARNES PROPOSES
  THE CARBOLIC DOOR-MAT
  THE GARDENER RETREATS
  TREADING WATER
  THE HEATHEN CLOTHE THEMSELVES
  THE JUDGE'S COW
  A TOMBSTONE CONTRACT
  MR. POTTS' MOUSE
  SHOOTING A BURGLAR
  A FLAT-IRON WEDDING
  AN EXCITED OLD LADY
  THE CAT SUCCUMBS
  HOW THE PIG WAS KILLED
  MR. SPOONER IS ALARMED
  THE LITTLE BABY-BEAR
  THE GOLDFISH TRICK.
  A CURTAILMENT
  AN INDIGNANT GUNNER
  CONFESSING THEIR FAULTS
  FORCED TO DO DUTY
  THE EARLY COCK
  THE AFFAIR AT THE POULTRY-SHOW
  THE SHERIFF IS MAD
  MR. SMITH'S GRIEF
  A SCARED FAMILY
  DR. SLUGG'S INVENTION
  JOE MIDDLES
  A COURT SCENE
  A DOG FOR SALE
  SMITH'S BOY RETREATS
  BANG!!!
  THE WANDERING JEW
  SIMPSON'S CASE
  THE GENERAL IN A RAGE
  "TAKE HER, YOUNG MAN!"
  BRADLEY'S CRADLE
  THE NEW MOTOR
  A QUEER PLANT
  TOO MUCH OF A BORE.
  BALLAST
  MAJOR SLOTT'S TIGER
  FACING THE TIGER



CHAPTER I.

PROLOGUE.

_THE ADVANTAGES OF ELBOW-ROOM_.


The professors of sociology, in exploring the mysteries of the science
of human living, have not agreed that elbow-room is one of the great
needs of modern civilized society, but this may be because they have
not yet reached the bottom of things and discovered the truth. In
crowded communities men have chances of development in certain
directions, but in others their growth is surely checked. A man who
lives in a large city is apt to experience a sharpening of his wits,
for attrition of minds as well as of pebbles produces polish and
brilliancy; but perhaps this very process prevents the free unfolding
of parts of his character. If his individuality is not partially lost
amid the crowd, it is likely that, first, his imitative faculty will
induce him to shape himself in accordance with another than his own
pattern, and that, second, the dread of the conspicuousness which is
the certain result of eccentricity will persuade him to avoid any
tendency he may have to become strongly unlike his neighbors.

The house that he lives in is tightly squeezed in a row of dwellings
builded upon a precisely similar plan, so that the influence brought
to bear upon him by the home resembles to some extent that which
operates upon his fellows. There is a pressure upon both sides of
him in the house; and when he plunges into business, there is a far
greater pressure there, in the shape of sharp competition, which
brings him into constant collision with other men, and mayhap drives
him or compels him to drive his weaker rival to the wall.

The city-man is likely to cover himself with a mantle of reserve and
dissimulation. If he has a longing to wander in untrodden and devious
paths, he is disposed resolutely to suppress his desire and to go in
the beaten track. If Smith, in a savage state, would certainly conduct
himself in a wholly original manner, in a social condition he yields
to an inevitable apprehension that Jones will think queer of his
behavior, and he shapes his actions in accordance with the plan that
Jones, with strong impulses to unusual and individual conduct, has
adopted because he is afraid he will be thought singular by Smith. And
in the mean time, Robinson, burning with a desire to go wantonly in a
direction wholly diverse from that of his associates, realizes that to
set at defiance the theories of which Smith and Jones are apparently
the earnest advocates would be to expose himself to harsh criticism,
sacrifices himself to his terror of their opinion and yields to the
force of their example.

In smaller and less densely-populated communities the weight of public
opinion is not largely decreased, but the pressure is not so great.
There is more elbow-room. A man who knows everybody about him gauges
with a reasonable degree of accuracy the characters of those who are
to judge him, and is able to form a pretty fair estimate of the value
of their opinions. When men can do this, they are apt to feel a
greater degree of freedom in following their natural impulses. If men
could sound the depths of all knowledge and read with ease the secrets
of the universe, they might lose much of their reverence. When they
know the exact worth of the judgment of their fellow-men, they begin
to regard it with comparative indifference. And so, if a dweller in a
small village desires to leave the beaten track, he can summon courage
to do so with greater readiness than the man of the town. If he has
occasionally that proneness to make a fool of himself which seizes
every man now and then, he may indulge in the perilous luxury without
great carefulness of the consequences. Smith's ordinary conduct is the
admiration of Jones as a regular thing; but when Smith switches off
into some eccentricity for which Jones has no inclination, it is
only a matter of course that Jones should indulge in his own little
oddities without caring whether Smith smiles upon him or not.

It is, therefore, in such communities that search can most profitably
be made for raw human nature that has had room to grow upon every side
with little check or hindrance. The man who chooses to seek may
find original characters, queer combinations of events, surprising
revelations of individual and family experiences and an unlimited fund
of amusement, especially if he is disposed, perhaps even while he
submits to an overpowering conviction that all life is tragic, to
summon into prominence those humorous phases of social existence
which, as in the best of artificial tragedies, are permitted to appear
in real life as the foil of that which is truly sorrowful. To depict
events that are simply amusing may not be the highest and best
function of a writer; but if he has a strong impulse to undertake
such a task in the intervals of more serious work, it may be that he
performs a duty which is more obvious because the common inclination
of those who tell the story of human life is to present that which is
sad and terrible, and to lead-the reader, whose soul has bitterness
enough of its own, into contemplation of the true or fictitious
anguish of others.

At any rate, an attempt to show men and their actions in a purely
humorous aspect is justified by the facts of human life; and if
fiction is, for the most part, tragedy, there is reason why much of
the remainder should be devoted to fun. To laugh is to perform as
divine a function as to weep. Man, who was made only a little lower
than the angels, is the only animal to whom laughter is permitted.
He is the sole earthly heir of immortality, and he laughs. More than
this, the process is healthful to both mind and body, for it is the
man who laughs with reason and judgment who is the kindly, pure,
cheerful and happy man.

It is in a village wherein there is elbow-room for the physical and
intellectual man that the characters in this book may be supposed to
be, to do and to suffer. It would be unfair to say that the reader can
visit the spot and meet face to face all these people who appear in
the incidents herein recorded, and it would be equally improper to
assert that there is naught written of them but veritable history. But
it might perhaps be urged that the individuals exist in less decided
and grotesque forms, and that the words and deeds attributed to them
are less than wholly improbable. And if any one shall consider it
worth while to inquire further concerning the matter, let him discover
where may be found a community which exists in such a locality as this
that I will now describe.

A hamlet set upon a hillside. The top a breezy elevation crowned
with foliage and commanding a view of matchless beauty. To the west,
beneath, a sea of verdure rolling away in mighty billows, which here
bear upon their crests a tiny wood, a diminutive dwelling, a flock of
sheep or a drove of cattle, and there sweep apparently almost over a
shadowy town which nestles between two of the emerald waves. Far, far
beyond the steeples which rise dimly from the distant town a range of
hills; beyond it still, a faint film of blue, the indistinct and misty
semblance of towering mountains.

To the north a lovely plain that rises a few miles away into a long
low ridge which forms the sharp and clear horizon. To the south and
east a narrow valley that is little more than a deep ravine, the sides
of the precipitous hills covered with forest to the brink of the
stream, which twists and turns at sharp angles like a wounded snake,
shining as burnished silver when one catches glimpses of it through
the trees, and playing an important part in a landscape which at brief
distance seems as wild and as unconscious of the presence of man as if
it were a part of the wilderness of Oregon rather than the adjunct of
a busy town which feels continually the stir and impulse of the huge
city only a dozen miles away.

He who descends from the top of the village hill will pass pretty
mansions set apart from their neighbors in leafy and flowery solitudes
wherein the most unsocial hermit might find elbow-room enough; he will
see little cottages which stand nearer to the roadside, as if they
shunned isolation and wished to share in the life that often fills
the highway in front of them. Farther down the houses become more
companionable; they cling together in groups with the barest
possibility of retaining their individuality, until at last the
thoroughfare becomes a street wherein small shops do their traffic in
quite a spirited sort of a way.

Clear down at the foot of the hill, by the brink of the sweet and
placid river, there are iron mills and factories and furnaces, whose
chimneys in the daytime pour out huge columns of black smoke, and from
which long tongues of crimson and bluish flame leap forth at night
against the pitchy darkness of the sky. Here, as one whirls by in the
train after nightfall, he may catch hurried glimpses of swarthy men,
stripped to the waist, stirring the molten iron with their long levers
or standing amid showers of sparks as the brilliant metal slips to and
fro among the rollers that mould it into the forms of commerce. If
upon a summer evening one shall rest amid the sweet air and the
rustling trees upon the hill-top, he may hear coming up from this
dusky, grimy blackness of the mills and the railway the soughing of
the blowers of the blast-furnaces, the sharp crack of the exploding
gases in the white-hot iron, the shriek of the locomotive whistle
and all night long the roar and rattle of the passing trains, but
so mellowed by the distance that the harsh sounds seem almost
musical--almost as pleasant and as easily endured as the voices of
nature. And in the early morning a look from the chamber window
perhaps may show a locomotive whirling down the valley around the
sharp curves with its white streamer flung out upon the green
hillside, and seeming like a snowy ribbon cut from the huge mass of
vapor which lies low upon the surface of the stream.

The name of this town among the hills is--well, it has a very
charming Indian name, to reveal which might be to point with too much
distinctness to the worthy people who in some sort figure in the
following pages. It shall be called Millburg in those pages, and its
inhabitants shall tell their stories and play their parts under the
cover of that unsuggestive title; so that the curious reader of little
faith shall have difficulty if he resolves to discover the whereabouts
of the village and to inquire respecting the author's claim to
credibility as a historian.



CHAPTER II.

_THE TERRIBLE MISHAP TO MR. FOGG'S BABY_.


Mr. and Mrs. Fogg have a young baby which was exceedingly restless and
troublesome at night while it was cutting its teeth. Mr. Fogg, devoted
and faithful father that he is, used to take a good deal more than his
share of the nursing of the infant, and often, when he would turn
out of bed for the fifteenth or sixteenth time and with fluttering
garments and unshod feet carry the baby to and fro, soothing it with
a little song, he would think how true it is, as Napoleon once said,
that "the only real courage is two-o'clock-in-the-morning courage."
Mr. Fogg thought he had a reasonable amount of genuine bravery, and
justly, for he performed the functions of a nurse with unsurpassed
patience and good humor.

One night, however, the baby was unusually wakeful and tempestuous,
and after struggling with it for several hours he called Mrs. Fogg and
suggested that it would be well to give the child some paregoric
to relieve it from the intense pain from which it was evidently
suffering. The medicine stood upon the bureau, but Mrs. Fogg had to go
down stairs to the dining-room to get some sugar; and while she was
fumbling about in the entry in the dark it occurred to Mr. Fogg that
he had heard of persons being relieved from pain by applications of
mesmerism. He had no notion that he could exercise such power; but
while musing upon the subject he rubbed the baby's eyebrows carelessly
with his fingers and made several passes with his hands upon its
forehead. As Mrs. Fogg began to feel her way up stairs, he was
surprised and pleased to find that the baby had become quiet and had
dropped off into sweet and peaceful slumber. Mrs. Fogg put the sugar
away as her husband placed the child in its crib and covered it up
carefully, and then they went to bed.

[Illustration: MR. FOGG AS A MESMERIST]

They were not disturbed again that night, and in the morning the baby
was still fast asleep. Mrs. Fogg said she guessed the poor little
darling must have gotten a tooth through, which made it feel easier.
Mr. Fogg said, "Maybe it has."

But he had a faint though very dark suspicion that something was
wrong.

After breakfast he went up to the bed-room to see if the baby was
awake. It still remained asleep; and Mr. Fogg, when he had leaned over
and listened to its breathing, shook it roughly three or four times
and cleared his throat in a somewhat boisterous manner. But it did not
wake, and Mr. Fogg went down stairs with a horrible dread upon him,
and assuming his hat prepared to go to the office. Mrs. Fogg called to
him,

"Don't slam the front door and wake the baby!"

And then Mr. Fogg did slam it with extraordinary violence; after which
he walked up the street with gloom in his soul and a wretched feeling
of apprehension that the baby would never waken.

"What on earth would we do if it should stay asleep for years?
S'pose'n it should sleep right straight ahead for half a century, and
grow to be an old man without knowing its pa and ma, and without ever
learning anything or seeing anything!"

The thought maddened him. He remembered Rip Van Winkle; he recalled
the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus; he thought of the afflicted woman whom
he saw once at a menagerie in a trance, in which she had been for
twenty years continuously, excepting when she awoke for a few moments
at long intervals to ask for something to eat. Perhaps when he and
Mrs. Fogg were dead the baby might be rented to a menagerie, and be
carried around the country as a spectacle. The idea haunted him. It
made him miserable. He tried for two or three hours to fix his mind
upon his office-duties, but it was impossible. He determined to
go back to the house to ascertain if the baby had returned to
consciousness. When he got there, Mrs. Fogg was beginning to feel very
uneasy. She said,

"Isn't it strange, Wilberforce, that the baby stays asleep? He is not
awake yet. I suppose it is nervous exhaustion, poor darling! but I am
a little worried about it."

Mr. Fogg felt awfully. He went up and jagged a pin into the baby's
leg quietly, so that his wife could not see him. Still it lay there
wrapped in slumber; and after repeating the experiment he abandoned
himself to despair and went back to his office, uncertain whether to
fly or to go home and confess the terrible truth to Mrs. Fogg.

In a couple of hours that lovely woman came in to see him. She was
scared and breathless:

"Mr. Fogg, the baby is actually asleep yet, and I can't rouse him.
I've shaken him, called to him and done _everything_, and he don't
stir. What _can_ be the matter with him? I'm afraid something dreadful
has happened to him."

"Maybe he is sleeping up a lot ahead, so's to stay awake at night some
more," said Mr. Fogg, with a feeble smile at his attempt at a joke.

"Wilberforce, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to trifle with such
a matter! S'pose the baby should die while it is in that condition? I
believe it _is_ going to die, and I want you to go straight for the
doctor."

Mr. Fogg started at once, and in half an hour he reached the house in
company with Dr. Gill. The doctor examined the child carefully and
said that it was a very queer case, but that, in his opinion, he must
be under the influence of opium.

"Did you give him any while I was asleep last night, Mr. Fogg?" asked
Mrs. Fogg, suspiciously and tearfully.

"Upon my word and honor I didn't," said Mr. Fogg, with the cold
perspiration standing upon his forehead.

"Are you _sure_ you didn't give him _anything_?" demanded the mother,
suddenly remembering that the baby became quiet while she was down
stairs upon the preceding night.

"Maria, do you think I would deceive you?" asked Mr. Fogg, in agony.
"I'll take my solemn oath that I did not give it a drop of medicine of
any kind."

"It is very remarkable--very," said the doctor. "I don't know that I
ever encountered precisely such a case before. I think I will call in
Dr. Brown and consult with him about it."

Then Mrs. Fogg began to sob; and while she fondled the baby, Mr. Fogg,
feeling like a murderer, followed the doctor down stairs. When they
reached the hall, Mr. Fogg drew the doctor aside and said, in a
confidential whisper:

"Doctor, I am going to tell you something, but I want you to promise
solemnly that you will keep it a secret."

"Very well; what is it?"

"You won't tell Mrs. Fogg?"

"No."

"Well, doctor, I--I--I--know what is the matter with that baby."

"You do! you know! Well, why didn't you--What _is_ the matter with
it?"

"The fact is, I mesmerized it last night."

"You did! Mesmerized it! And why don't you rouse it up again?"

"I don't know how; that's the mischief of it. I did it accidentally,
you know. I was sort of fingering around the child's forehead, and all
of a sudden it stopped crying and dropped off. Can't you find me a
professional mesmerizer to come and undo the baby?"

"I don't believe I can. The only one I know of lives in San Francisco,
and he couldn't get here in less than a week even if we should
telegraph for him."

"By that time," shrieked Mr. Fogg, "the baby'll be dead and Maria will
be insane! What, under Heaven, are we going to do about it?"

"Let's hunt up Brown; maybe he knows."

So they went around to Dr. Brown's office and revealed the secret to
him. Brown seemed to think that he might perhaps do something to rob
the situation of its horrors, and he accompanied Mr. Fogg and Dr.
Gill to the house. When they entered, Mrs. Fogg was rapidly becoming
hysterical. Dr. Brown placed the baby on the bed; he slapped its
little hands and rubbed its forehead and dashed cold water in its
face. In a few moments the baby opened its eyes, then it suddenly sat
up and began to cry. Mr. Fogg used to hate that noise, but now it
seemed to him sweeter than music. Mrs. Fogg was wild with joy. She
took the baby in her arms and kissed and hugged it, and then she said,

"What do you think was the matter with him, doctor?"

"Why, your husband says he mesmerized the child," replied the doctor,
incautiously letting the secret drop.

Then Mrs. Fogg looked at the culprit as if she wished to assassinate
him; but she merely ejaculated, "Monster!" and flew from the room; and
Mr. Fogg, as he went down with the physicians, put on an injured look
and said,

"If that baby wants to holloa now, I'm going to let him holloa, if he
holloas the top of his head off."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was this offence, according to popular rumor, that brought things
to a crisis in Mr. Fogg's family and induced Mrs. Fogg to seek to
remove the heavy burden of woe imposed upon her by her husband. Only
a few days later Mr. and Mrs. Fogg knocked at the door of Colonel
Coffin's law office, and then filed in, Mrs. Fogg in advance. Mr.
Fogg, the reader may care to know, was a subdued, weak-eyed and timid
person. He had the air of a victim of perpetual tyranny--of a man who
had been ruthlessly and remorselessly sat upon until his spirit was
wholly gone. And Mrs. Fogg looked as if she might have been his
despot. She opened the conversation by addressing the lawyer:

"Colonel, I have called to engage you as my counsel in a divorce suit
against Mr. Fogg. I have resolved to separate from him--to sunder our
ties and henceforth to live apart."

"Indeed!" replied the colonel; "I'm sorry to hear that. What's the
matter? Has he been beating and ill-treating you?"

"Beating!" exclaimed Mrs. Fogg, disdainfully; "I should think not! I
should like him to try it."

"Maria, let me--" interposed Mr. Fogg, mildly.

"Now, Wilberforce," she exclaimed, interrupting him, "you remain
quiet; I will explain this matter to Colonel Coffin. You see, colonel,
Mr. Fogg is eccentric beyond endurance. He goes on continually in a
manner that will certainly drive me to distraction. I can stand it no
longer. We _must_ be cut asunder. For years, colonel, Wilberforce has
been attempting to learn to play upon the flute. He has no more
idea of music than a crow, but he _will_ try to learn. He has been
practicing upon the flute since 1862, and he has learned but a portion
of but one tune--'Nelly Bly.' He can play but four notes, 'Nelly Bly
shuts--' and there he stops. He has practiced these four notes for
fourteen years. He plays them upon the porch in the evening; he blows
them out from the garret; he stands out in the yard and puffs them;
he has frequently risen in the night and seized his flute and played
'Nel-ly Bly shuts' for hours, until I had to scream to relieve my
feelings."

"Now, Maria," said Mr. Fogg, "you know that I can play as far as
'shuts her eye'--six notes in all. I learned them in the early part of
June."

"Very well, now; it's of no consequence. Don't interrupt me. This is
bad enough. I submitted to it because I loved him. But on Tuesday,
while I was watching him through the crack of the parlor door, I saw
him wink twice at my chambermaid; I saw him distinctly."

"Maria," shrieked Fogg, "this is scandalous. You know very well that I
am suffering from a nervous affection of the eye-lids."

"Wilberforce, hush! In addition to this wickedness, colonel, Mr. Fogg
is becoming so absent-minded that he torments my life; he makes me
utterly wretched. Four times now has he brought his umbrella to bed
with him and scratched me by joggling it around with the sharp points
of the ribs toward me. What on earth he means I cannot imagine. He
said he thought somehow it was the baby, but that is so preposterous
that I can hardly believe him."

"Why can't you? Don't you remember perfectly well that I emptied a
bottle of milk into the umbrella twice? Would I have done that if I
hadn't thought it was the baby?"

"There, now, Wilberforce! that's enough from you. Do let me have a
chance to talk! And, colonel, the real baby he treats in the most
malignant manner. A few days ago he mesmerized it secretly, and scared
me so that I am ill from the effects of it yet. I thought the dear
child would sleep for ever. And in addition to this, I came in on
Thursday and found that he had laid the large family Bible on the
darling's stomach. It was at the last gasp. I thought it would never
recover."

"Maria, didn't I tell you I gave it to the child to play with to keep
him quiet?"

"Mr. Fogg, will you please let me get a word in edgeways? Our older
children, too, he is simply ruining. He teaches them the most
pernicious and hurtful doctrines. He told Johnny the other day that
Madagascar was an island in the Peruvian Ocean off the coast of
Illinois, and that a walrus was a kind of a race horse used by the
Caribbees. And our oldest girl told me that he instructed her that
Polycarp fought the battle of Waterloo for the purpose of defeating
the Saracens."

"Not the Saracens, Maria; Lucy misunderstood--"

[Illustration: A NOVEL MOUSETRAP]

"Wilberforce, I wish you would hush! His general treatment of me was
scandalous. He was constantly taking my teeth for the purpose of
knocking around the spigot in the bath-tub at night when the baby
wanted a drink, and only last week he took both sets after I had gone
to bed, propped them apart, baited them with cheese, and caught two
horrid mice before morning. I was so hurt by his behavior that I drank
some laudanum for the purpose of committing suicide, and then Mr. Fogg
borrowed a pump in at Knott's drug store and pumped me out twice in
such a rude manner that I have felt hollow ever since."

"I did it from kindness, Maria."

"Don't talk of kindness to me, Wilberforce, after your conduct. And,
colonel, one night last week, after I had retired, Mr. Fogg sat down
in the room below and determined to see if it were true that a candle
could be shot through a board from a gun. He dropped a lighted candle
in his gun, and of course it exploded. It came up through the floor
and made a large spot of grease upon the ceiling of my room, nearly
scaring me to death and filling my legs full of bird-shot."

"Maria, I asked you to believe that I forgot about the candle being
lighted. I did it in a fit of absent-mindedness."

"Do go into the other room, Wilberforce, or else hold your tongue. So,
colonel, I want to get a divorce. Existence is unendurable to me. The
lives of my children are in danger. I cannot remain in such slavery
any longer. Can you release me?"

Colonel Coffin said he would think it over and give her an answer in a
week. His idea was to give her time to think better of it. So then
she told Wilberforce to put on his hat; and when he had done so, he
followed her meekly out, and they went home. It is believed in the
neighborhood that she has concluded to stick to him for a while
longer.



CHAPTER III.

_INTERNAL NAVIGATION.--AN UNFORTUNATE INVENTOR_.


The village not only has a railroad running by it, but it has a canal
upon which a large amount of traffic is done. There has been a good
deal of agitation lately concerning the possibility of improving
locomotion upon the canal, and the company offered a reward for the
best device that could be suggested in that direction. A committee was
appointed to examine and report upon the merits of the various plans
submitted. While the subject was under discussion one boat-owner,
Captain Binns, made an experiment upon his own account.

He had a pair of particularly stubborn mules to haul his boat, and
it occurred to him that he might devise some scientific method of
inducing the said mules to move whenever they were inclined to be
baulky. Both mules had phlegmatic temperaments; and when they made up
their minds to stop, they would do so and refuse to go, no matter with
what vigor the boy applied the whip. Captain Binns therefore bought a
tow-line made of three strands of galvanized wire; and placing iron
collars upon the necks of the mules, he fastened the wire to them, and
then he got a very strong galvanic battery and put it in the cabin
of the boat, attaching it to the other end of the line, forming a
circuit.

[Illustration: A PERPLEXED MULE]

The first time the mules stopped to reflect, the captain sent a strong
current through the wire. The leading mule gave a little start of
astonishment, and then it looked around at the boy upon the tow-path
with a mournful smile that seemed to say, "Sonny, I would like to know
how you worked that?" But the mules stood still. Then the captain
turned a stronger current on, and the mule shied a little and looked
hard at the boy, who was sitting by whittling a stick. The captain
sent another shock through the line, and then the mule, convinced
that that boy was somehow responsible for the mysterious occurrence,
reached over, seized the boy's jacket with his teeth, shook him up and
passed him to the hind mule, which kicked him carefully over the bank
into the river.

The mules were about to turn the matter over in their minds when
Captain Binns sent the full force of the current through the wire and
kept it going steadily. Thereupon the animals became panic-stricken.
They began to rear and plunge; they turned around and dashed down the
tow-path toward the boat. Then the line became taut; it jerked the
boat around suddenly with such force that the stern of it broke
through a weak place in the bank, and before the captain could turn
off his battery the mules had dashed around the other side of the
toll-collector's cabin, and then, making a lurch to the left, they
fell over the bank themselves, the line scraping the cabin, the
collector, three children and a colored man over with them. By the
time the line was cut and the sufferers rescued the mules were drowned
and all the water in the canal had gone out through the break. It
cost Captain Binns three hundred dollars for damages; and when he
had settled the account, he concluded to wait for the report of that
committee before making any new experiments.

The report of the committee upon improved locomotion was submitted to
the company during the following summer. It was a long and exceedingly
entertaining document, and the following extracts from it may possess
some interest:

THE REPORT.

"In reference to the plan offered by Henry Bushelson, which proposes
to run the boats by means of his patent propeller, we may remark that
the steam-engine with which the propeller is moved would sink the
boat; and even if it would not, the propeller-blades, being longer
than the depth of the canal, would dig about five hundred cubic
feet of mud out of the bottom at each revolution. As a mud-dredge
Bushelson's patent might be a success, but as a motive-power it is
a failure; and his suggestion that the tow-path might be cut into
lengths and laid side by side and sold for a farm, therefore, is not
wholly practicable.

"The idea of William Bradley is that holes might be cut in the bottom
of the boat, and through these the legs of the mule could be inserted,
so that it could walk along the bottom, while its body is safe and
dry inside. This notion is the offspring of a fruitful and ingenious
intellect; and if the water could be kept from coming through the
holes, it might be considered valuable but for one thing--somebody
would have to invent a new kind of mule with legs about seven feet
long. Mr. Bradley's mind has not yet devised any method of procuring
such a mule, and unless he can induce the ordinary kind to walk upon
stilts, we fear that the obstacles to success in this direction may be
regarded as insurmountable.

"Mr. Peterman Bostwick urges that important results might be secured
by making the canal an inclined plane, so that when a boat is placed
upon it the boat will simply slide down hill by the power of the
attraction of gravitation. This seems to us a beautiful method of
adapting to the wants of man one of the most remarkable of the laws of
Nature, and we should be inclined to give Mr. Bostwick the first prize
but for the fact that we have discovered, upon investigation, that
the water in the canal also would slide down hill, and that it would
require about fifteen rivers the size of the Mississippi to keep up
the supply. Mr. Bostwick does not mention where we are to get those
rivers. He does, however, say that if it shall be deemed inadvisable
to slope the canal, the boats themselves might be made in the shape of
inclined planes, so that they would run down hill upon a level canal.
There is something so deep, so amazing, in this proposition that your
committee needs more time to consider it and brood over it.

"Mr. W.P. Robbins proposes to draw off the water from the canal, lay
rails on the bottom, and then put the boats on wheels and run them
with a locomotive. Your committee has been very much struck with this
proposition, but has concluded, upon reflection, that it is rather too
revolutionary. If canal navigation should be begun in this manner,
probably we should soon have the railroad companies running their
trains on water by means of sails, and stage lines traveling in the
air with balloons. Such things would unsettle the foundations of
society and induce anarchy and chaos. A canal that has no water is
a licentious and incendiary canal; and it is equally improper and
equally repugnant to all conservative persons when, as Mr. Robbins
suggests, the boats are floated in tanks and the tanks are run on
rails.

"Your committee has given much thought and patient examination to the
plan of Mr. Thompson McGlue. He suggests that the mules shall be clad
in submarine armor and made to walk under water along the bottom of
the canal, being fed with air through a pump. As we have never seen a
mule in action while decorated with submarine armor, we are unable
to say with positiveness what his conduct would be under such
circumstances. But the objections to the plan are of a formidable
character. The mule would, of course, be wholly excluded from every
opportunity to view the scenery upon the route, and we fear that this
would have a tendency to discourage him. Being under water, too, he
might be tempted to stop frequently for the purpose of nibbling at the
catfish encountered by him, and this would distract his attention from
his work. Somebody would have to dive whenever he got his hind leg
over the tow-line; and when the water was muddy, he might lose his
way and either pull the boat in the wrong direction or be continually
butting against the bank.

"Of the various other plans submitted, your committee have to say that
A.R. Mackey's proposition to run the boat by sails, and to fill the
sails with wind by means of a steam blower on the vessel; James
Thompson's plan of giving the captain and crew small scows to put
on their feet, so that they could stand overboard and push behind;
William Black's theory that motion could be obtained by employing
trained sturgeon to haul the boat; and Martin Stotesbury's plea that
propulsion could be given by placing a cannon upon the poop-deck and
firing it over the stern, so that the recoil would shove the boat
along,--are wonderful evidences of what the human mind can do when it
exerts itself, but they are not as useful as they are marvelous."

The prize has not yet been awarded. It is thought that the canal
company will have to make it larger before they secure exactly what
they want.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is nothing in common between canals and sausages, but the
mention of Mr. William Bradley's name in the above report recalls
another report in which it figured. Bradley is an inventor who has
a very prolific mind, which, however, rarely produces anything that
anybody wants. One of Mr. Bradley's inventions during the war was
entitled by him "The Patent Imperishable Army Sausage." His idea
was to simplify the movements of troops by doing away with heavy
provision-trains and to furnish soldiers with nutritious food in
a condensed form. The sausage was made on strictly scientific
principles. It contained peas and beef, and salt and pepper, and
starch and gum-arabic, and it was stuffed in the skins by a machine
which exhausted the air, so that it would be air-tight. Bradley said
that his sausage would keep in any climate. You might lay it on the
equator and let the tropical sun scorch it, and it would remain
as sweet and fresh as ever; and Bradley said that there was more
flesh-and-muscle-producing material in a cubic inch of the sausage
than in an entire dinner of roast turkey and other such foolery.

So when Bradley had made up a lot of the Imperishable, he stored
the bulk of them in the garret; and putting a sample of them in his
pocket, he went down to Washington to see the Secretary of War, to get
him to introduce them to the army.

He walked into the secretary's office and pulled out a sausage,
and holding it toward him was about to explain it to him, when the
secretary suddenly dodged behind the table. The movement struck
Bradley as being queer, and he walked around after the secretary,
still holding out a sample of the Imperishable. Then the secretary
made a bolt for the door and went out, and presently in came a couple
of clerks with shot-guns. They aimed at Bradley, and told him to drop
his weapon or they would fire. He deposited the sausage on the table
and asked them what was the matter, and then the secretary came in and
said he mistook the sausage for a revolver. When Bradley explained his
mission, the secretary told him that nothing could be done without the
action of Congress, and he recommended the inventor to go up to the
Capitol and push his sausage through there.

[Illustration: THE SECRETARY IS ALARMED]

So Bradley was on hand next day before the session opened, and he laid
a sausage on the desk of each member. When the House assembled,
there was a large diversity of opinion respecting the meaning of the
extraordinary display. Some were inclined to regard the article as an
infernal machine introduced by some modern Guy Fawkes, while others
leaned to the view that it was a new kind of banana developed by
the Agricultural Department. After a while Bradley turned up and
explained, and he spent the winter there trying to force his sausage
on his beloved country. At the very end of the session a bill was
smuggled through, ordering the commissary department of the army to
appoint a commission to investigate Bradley's sausage, and to report
to the Secretary of War.

When the commission was organized, it came on with Bradley to his home
on his farm to examine his method. As the party approached the house
a terrific smell greeted them, and upon entering the front door it
became nearly unendurable. Mrs. Bradley said she thought there must be
something dead under the washboard. But upon going into the garret the
origin of the smell became obvious. About half a ton of the Patent
Imperishable Sausage lay on the floor in a condition of fearful decay.
Then the commissioners put their fingers to their noses and adjourned,
and the chairman went to the hotel to write out his report. It was
about as follows:

"After a careful examination of the Bradley Patent Imperishable
Army Sausage, we find that it is eminently suitable for certain
well-defined purposes. If it should be introduced to warfare as a
missile, we could calculate with precision that its projection from
a gun into a besieged town would instantly induce the garrison to
evacuate the place and quit; but the barbarity which would be involved
in subjecting even an enemy to direct contact with the Bradley Sausage
is so frightful that we shrink from recommending its use, excepting in
extreme cases. The odor disseminated by the stink-pot used in war by
the Chinese is fragrant and balmy compared with the perfume which
belongs to this article. It might also be used profitably as a manure
for poor land, and in a very cold climate, where it is absolutely
certain to be frozen, it could be made serviceable as a tent-pin.

"But as an article of food it is open to several objections. Bradley's
method of mixing is so defective that he has one sausage filled with
peas, another with gum-arabic, another with pepper and another with
beef. The beef sausages will certainly kill any man who eats a
mouthful, unless they are constantly kept on ice from the hour they
are made, and the gum-arabic sausages are not sufficiently nutritious
to enable an army to conduct an arduous campaign. We are therefore
disposed to recommend that the sausage shall not be accepted by the
department, and that Bradley's friends put him in an asylum where his
mind can be cared for."

When Bradley heard about the report, he was indignant; and after
reflecting that republics are always ungrateful, he sent a box of
the sausages to Bismarck, in order to ascertain if they could not be
introduced to the German army. Three months later he was shot at
one night by a mysterious person, and the belief prevails in this
neighborhood that it was an assassin sent over to this country by
Bismarck for the single purpose of butchering the inventor of the
Imperishable Army Sausage. Since then Bradley has abandoned the
project, and he is now engaged in perfecting a washing-machine which
has reached such a stage that on the first trial it tore four shirts
and a bolster-slip to rags.



CHAPTER IV.

_THE FACTS IN REFERENCE TO MR. BUTTERWICK'S HORSE_.


Mr. Butterwick is not a good judge of horses, but a brief while ago he
thought he would like to own a good horse, and so he went to a sale at
a farm over in Tulpehocken township, and for some reason that has not
yet been revealed he bid upon the forlornest wreck of a horse that
ever retained vitality. It was knocked down to him before he had a
chance to think, and he led it home with something like a feeling of
dismay. The purchase in a day or two got to be the joke of the whole
village, and people poked fun at Butterwick in the most merciless
manner. But he was inclined to take a philosophical view of the
matter, and to present it in rather a novel and interesting light.
When I spoke to him of the unkind things that were said about the
horse, he said,

"Oh, I know that they say he has the heaves; but one of the things I
bought him for was because he breathes so loud. That is a sign that he
has a plenty of wind. You take any ordinary horse, and you can't hear
him draw a breath; his lungs are frail and he daren't inflate 'em. But
my horse fills his up and blows 'em out again vigorously, so people
can hear for themselves how he enjoys the fresh air. Now, I'll let you
into a secret, only mind you don't go to whispering it about: When you
want to buy a horse, go and stand off a quarter of a mile and see if
you can hear him kinder sighing. If you can, why go for that horse;
he's worth his weight in gold. That's strictly between you and me, now
mind!

"And you know that old idiot, Potts, was trying to joke me because the
horse was sprung in the knees, as if that was not the very thing that
made me resolve to have that horse if I ran him up to five hundred
dollars! You are a young man with no experience in the world, and I'll
tell you why I like such legs: They give the horse more leverage. Do
you see? When a horse's leg is straight, the more he bears on it,
the more likely he is to fracture the bone. But you curve that leg a
little to the front, and the upper bone bears obliquely on the
lower bone, the pressure is distributed and the horse has plenty of
purchase. It is the well-known principle of the arch, you know. If
it's good in building a house, why isn't it good in getting up a
horse? Sprung in the knees! Why, good gracious, man! a horse that is
not sprung is not any horse at all; he is only fit for soap-fat and
glue. Now, that's as true as my name's Butterwick.

"And as for his tail, that they talk so much about! Who'n the thunder
wanted a long tail on the horse? I knew well enough it was short and
had only six or seven hairs on it. But the Romans and Egyptians made
their horses bob-tailed, and why? Maybe you ain't up in ancient
history? Why, those old Romans knew that a horse with a fifteen-inch
tail had more meat on him than a horse with a four-inch tail, and
consequently required more nourishment. They knew that more muscular
force is expended in brandishing a long tail than a short one, and
muscular force is made by food, so they chopped off their horses'
tails to make 'em eat less. They had level heads in those times. They
were up in scientific knowledge. But what do these idiots around this
town know about such things? Let 'em laugh. I can stand a tail that
saves me a couple of bushels of oats a year. I'll bet you anything
that there's millions and millions of dollars wasted--just thrown
away--in this country every year furnishing nutriment to tails that
are of no earthly use to the horses after they're nourished. You can
depend on that. I've examined the government statistics, and they're
enough to make a man cry to see how wasteful the American people are.

"And when you talk about his ribs showing so plainly through his
sides, you prove that you have a very singular want of taste. Which is
handsomer, a flat wall or a wall with a surface varied with columns
and pilasters? Well, then, when you take a horse, no man who loves art
wants to see him smooth and even from stem to stern. What you want is
a varied surface--a little bit of hill and a little bit of valley; and
you get it in a horse like mine. Most horses are monotonous. They tire
on you. But swell out the ribs, and there you have a horse that always
pleases the eye and appeals to the finer sensibilities of the mind.
Besides, you are always perfectly certain that he has his full number
of ribs, and that the man you buy him of is not keeping back a single,
solitary bone. Your horse is all there, and you go to bed at night
comfortable because you know it. That's the way I look at it; and
without caring to have it mentioned around, I don't mind telling you
that I know a man who came all the way from Georgia to buy my horse
simply because he heard that his ribs stuck out. I got my bid in ahead
of him, and he went home the worst disgusted man you ever saw.

"And about his having glanders and botts and blind staggers and a raw
shoulder, I can tell you that those things never attack any but a
thoroughbred horse; and for my part, I made up my mind years ago, when
I was a child, that if any man ever offered me a horse that hadn't
blind staggers I wouldn't take him as a gift. Now, that's as true as
you're alive. Professor Owen says that so far from regarding glanders
as a disease he considers it the crowning glory of a good horse, and
he wants the English government to pass a law inoculating every horse
on the island with it. You write to him and ask him if that ain't so."

And so Butterwick put his phenomenal horse in his stable, hired an
Irishman to take care of it, and possessed his soul in peace. However,
before he fairly had a chance to enjoy his purchase, he was summoned
to St. Louis to look after some business matters, and he was detained
there for about six weeks. During his absence Mrs. Butterwick assumed
the responsibility for the management of the horse; and as she knew
as much about taking care of horses as she did about conducting the
processes of the sidereal system, the result was that Mr. Butterwick's
horse was the unconscious parent of infinite disaster. When Butterwick
returned and had kissed his wife and talked over his journey, the
following conversation ensued. Mrs. Butterwick said,

"You know our horse, dearest?"

"Yes, sweet; how is he getting along?"

"Not so _very_ well; he has cost a great deal of money since you've
been away."

"Indeed?"

"Yes; besides his regular feed and Patrick's wages as hostler, I have
on hand unpaid bills to the amount of two thousand dollars on his
account."

"Two thousand! Why, Emma, you amaze me! What on earth does it mean?"

"I'll tell you the whole story, love. Just after you left he took a
severe cold, and he coughed incessantly. You could hear him cough for
miles. All the neighbors complained of it, and Mr. Potts, next door,
was so mad that he shot at the horse four times. Patrick said it was
whooping-cough."

"Whooping-cough, darling! Impossible! A horse _never_ has
whooping-cough."

"Well, Patrick said so. And as I always give paregoric to the children
when they cough, I concluded that it would be good for the horse, so I
bought a bucketful and gave it to him with sugar."

"A bucketful of paregoric, my love! It was enough to kill him."

"Patrick said that was a regular dose for a horse of sedentary habits;
and it didn't kill him: it put him to sleep. You will be surprised,
dear, to learn that the horse slept straight ahead for four weeks.
Never woke up once. I was frightened about it, but Patrick told me
that it was a sign of a good horse. He said that Dexter often slept
six months on a stretch, and that once they took Goldsmith Maid to
a race while she was sound asleep and she trotted a mile in 2:15, I
think he said, without getting awake."

"Patrick said that, did he?"

"Yes; that was at the end of the second week. But as the horse didn't
rouse up, Patrick said it couldn't be the paregoric that kept him
asleep so long; and he came to me and asked me not to mention it, but
he had suspicions that Mr. Fogg had mesmerized him."

"I never heard of a horse being mesmerized, dearest."

"Neither did I, but Patrick said it was a common thing with the better
class of horses. And when he kept on sleeping, dear, I got frightened,
and Patrick consulted the horse-doctor, who came over with a galvanic
battery, which he said would wake the horse. They fixed the wires to
his leg and turned on the current. It did rouse him. He got up and
kicked fourteen boards out of the side of the stable and then jumped
the fence into Mr. Potts' yard, where he trod on a litter of young
pigs, kicked two cows to death and bit the tops off of eight apple
trees. Patrick said he tried to swallow Mrs. Potts' baby, but I didn't
see him do that. Patrick may have exaggerated. I don't know. It seems
hardly likely, does it, that the horse would actually try to eat a
child?"

"The man that sold him to me didn't mention that he was fond of
babies."

"But he got over the attack. The only effect was that the paregoric or
the electricity, or something, turned his hair all the wrong way, and
he looks the queerest you ever saw. Oh yes; it did seem to affect his
appetite, too. He appeared to be always hungry. He ate up the hay-rack
and two sets of harness. And one night he broke out and nibbled off
all the door-knobs on the back of the house."

"Door-knobs, Emma? Has he shown a fondness for door-knobs?"

"Yes; and he ate Louisa's hymn-book, too. She left it lying on the
table on the porch. Patrick said he knew a man in Ireland whose horse
would starve to death unless they fed him on Bibles. If he couldn't
get Bibles, he'd take Testaments; but unless he got Scriptures of some
kind, he was utterly intractable."

"I would like to have had a look at that horse, sweet."

"So we got the horse-doctor again, and he said that what the poor
animal wanted was a hypodermic injection of morphia to calm his
nerves. He told Patrick to get a machine for placing the morphia under
the horse's skin. But Patrick said that he could do it without the
machine. So one day he got the morphia, and began to bore a hole in
the horse with a gimlet."

"A gimlet, Emma?"

"An ordinary gimlet. But it seemed unpleasant to the horse, and so he
kicked Patrick through the partition, breaking three of his ribs. Then
I got the doctor to perform the operation properly, and the horse
after that appeared right well, excepting that Patrick said that he
had suddenly acquired an extraordinary propensity for standing on his
head."

"He is the first horse that ever wanted to do that, love."

"Patrick said not. He told me about a man he worked for in Oshkosh who
had a team of mules which always stood on their heads when they were
not at work. He said all the mules in Oshkosh did. So Patrick tied a
heavy stone to our horse's tail to Balance him and keep him straight.
And this worked to a charm until I took the horse to church one
Sunday, when, while a crowd stood round him looking at him, he swung
his tail around and brained six boys with the stone."

"Brained them, love?"

"Well, I didn't see them myself, but Patrick told me, when I came out
of church, that they were as good as dead. And he said he remembered
that that Oshkosh man used to coax his mules to stand on their legs by
letting them hear music. It soothed them, he said. And so Patrick got
a friend to come around and sit in the stall and calm our horse by
playing on the accordion."

"Did it make him calmer?"

"It seemed to at first; but one day Patrick undertook to bleed him for
the blind staggers, and he must have cut the horse in the wrong place,
for the poor brute fell over on the accordion person and died, nearly
killing the musician."

"The horse is dead, then? Where is the bill?"

"I'll read it to you:

THE BILL.

  Horse-doctor's fees                     $125 50
  Paregoric for cough                       80 00
  Galvanic battery                          10 00
  Repairing stable                          12 25
  Potts' cow, pigs, apple trees and baby   251 00
  Damage to door-knobs, etc.               175 00
  Louisa's hymn-book                           25
  Gimlet and injections                     15 00
  Repairing Patrick's ribs                 145 00
  Music on accordion                        21 00
  Damages to player                        184 00
  Burying six boys                         995 00
                                        ---------
                                        $2,014 00

"That is all, love, is it?"

"Yes."

Then Mr. Butterwick folded the bill up and went out into the back yard
to think. Subsequently, he told me that he had concluded to repudiate
the unpaid portions of the bill, and then to try to purchase a better
horse. He said he had heard that Mr. Keyser, a farmer over in Lower
Merion, had a horse that he wanted to sell, and he asked me to go over
there with him to see about it. I agreed to do so.

When we reached the place, Mr. Keyser asked us into the parlor, and
while we were sitting there we heard Mrs. Keyser in the dining-room,
adjoining, busy preparing supper. Keyser would not sell his horse, but
he was quite sociable, and after some conversation, he said,

"Gentlemen, in 1847 I owned a hoss that never seen his equal in this
State. And that hoss once did the most extr'ordinary thing that
was ever done by an animal. One day I had him out, down yer by the
creek--"

Here Mrs. Keyser opened the door and exclaimed, shrilly,

"Keyser, if you want any supper, you'd better get me some kin'lin-wood
pretty quick."

Then Keyser turned to us and said, "Excuse me for a few moments,
gentlemen, if you please."

A moment later we heard him splitting wood in the cellar beneath, and
indulging in some very hard language with his soft pedal down, Mrs.
Keyser being the object of his objurgations. After a while he came
into the parlor again, took his seat, wiped the moisture from his
brow, put his handkerchief in his hat, his hat on the floor, and
resumed:

"As I was sayin', gentlemen, one day I had that hoss down yer by the
creek; it was in '47 or '48, I most forget which. But, howsomedever, I
took him down yer by the creek, and I was jest about to--"

_Mrs. Keyser_ (opening the door suddenly). "You, Keyser! there's not a
drop of water in the kitchen, and unless some's drawed there'll be no
supper in this house _this_ night, now mind _me_!"

_Keyser_ (with a look of pain upon his face). "Well, well! this is too
bad! too bad! Gentlemen, just wait half a minute. I'll be right back.
The old woman's rarin' 'round, and she won't wait."

Then we heard Keyser at work at the well-bucket; and looking out the
back window, we saw him bringing in a pail of water. On his way he
encountered a dog, and in order to give his pent-up feelings adequate
expression, he kicked the animal clear over the fence. Presently he
came into the parlor, mopped his forehead, and began again.

_Keyser_. "As I was sayin', that hoss was perfeckly astonishin'. On
the day of which I was speakin'. I was ridin' him down yer by the
creek, clost by the corn-field, and I was jest about to wade him in,
when, all of a suddent-like, he--"

_Mrs. Keyser_ (at the door, and with her voice pitched at a high key).
"ARE you goin' to fetch that ham from the smoke-house, or ARE you
goin' to set there jabberin' and go without your supper? If that ham
isn't here in short order, I'll know the reason why. You hear me?"

_Keyser_ (his face red and his manner excited). "_Gra_-SHUS! If this
isn't--Well, well! this just lays over all the--Pshaw! Mr. Butterwick,
if you'll hold on for a second, I'll be with you agin. I'll be right
back."

Then we heard Keyser slam open the smokehouse door, and presently he
emerged with a ham, which he carried in one hand, while with the other
he made a fist, which he shook threateningly at the kitchen door, as
if to menace Mrs. Keyser, who couldn't see him.

Again he entered the parlor, smelling of smoke and ham, and, crossing
his legs, he continued.

_Keyser_ "Excuse these little interruptions; the old woman's kinder
sing'ler, and you've got to humor her to live in peace with her. Well,
sir, as I said, I rode that extr'ordinary hoss down yer by the creek
on that day to which I am referring and after passin' the cornfield I
was goin' to wade him into the creek; just then, all of a, suddent,
what should that hoss do but--"

_Mrs. Keyser_ (at the door again). "Keyser, you lazy vagabone! Why
don't you 'tend to milkin' them cows? Not one mossel of supper do you
put in your mouth this night unless you do the milkin' right off. You
sha'n't touch a crust, or my name's not Emeline Keyser!"

Then Keyser leaped to his feet in a perfect frenzy of rage and hurled
the chair at Mrs. Keyser; whereupon she seized the poker and came
toward him with savage earnestness. Then we adjourned to the front
yard suddenly; and as Butterwick and I got into the carriage to go
home, Keyser, with a humble expression in his eyes, said:

"Gentlemen, I'll tell you that hoss story another time, when the old
woman's calmer. Good-day."

I am going to ask him to write it out. I am anxious to know what that
horse did down at the creek.

Butterwick subsequently bought another horse from a friend of his in
the city, but the animal developed eccentricities of such a remarkable
character that he became unpopular. Butterwick, in explaining the
subject to me, said,

"I was surprised to find, when I drove him out for the first time,
that he had an irresistible propensity to back. He seemed to be
impressed with a conviction that nature had put his hind legs in
front, and that he could see with his tail; and whenever I attempted
to start him, he always proceeded backward until I whipped him
savagely, and then he would go in a proper manner, but suddenly, and
with the air of a horse who had a conviction that there was a lunatic
in the carriage who didn't know what he was about. One day, while we
were coming down the street, this theory became so strong that he
suddenly stopped and backed the carriage through the plate-glass
window of Mackey's drug-store. After that I always hitched him up
with his head toward the carriage, and then he seemed to feel better
contented, only sometimes he became too sociable, and used to put his
head over the dasher and try to chew my legs or to eat the lap-cover.

"Besides, the peculiar arrangement of the animal excited unpleasant
remark when I drove out; and when I wanted to stop and would hitch him
by the tail to a post, he had a very disagreeable way of reaching out
with his hind legs and sweeping the sidewalk whenever he saw anybody
that he felt as if he would like to kick.

"He was not much of a saddle-horse; not that he would attempt to throw
his rider, but whenever a saddle was put on him it made his back itch,
and he would always insist upon rubbing it against the first tree or
fence or corner of a house that he came to; and if he could bark the
rider's leg, he seemed to be better contented. The last time I rode
him was upon the day of Mr. Johnson's wedding. I had on my best suit,
and on the way to the festival there was a creek to be forded. When
the horse got into the middle of it, he took a drink, and then looked
around at the scenery. Then he took another drink, and gazed again at
the prospect. Then he suddenly felt tired and lay down in the water.
By the time he was sufficiently rested I was ready to go home.

[Illustration: MR. BUTTERWICK'S HORSE LIES DOWN]

"The next day he was taken sick. Patrick said it was the epizooty, and
he mixed him up some turpentine in a bucket of warm feed. That night
the horse had spasms, and kicked four of the best boards out of the
side of the stable. Jones said that horse hadn't the epizooty, but
the botts, and that the turpentine ought to have been rubbed on the
outside of him instead of going into his stomach. So we rubbed him
with turpentine, and next morning he hadn't a hair on his body.

"Colonel Coffin told me that if I wanted to know what really ailed
that horse he would tell me. It was glanders, and if he wasn't bled he
would die. So the colonel bled him for me. We took away a tubful, and
the horse thinned down so that his ribs made him look as if he had
swallowed a flour-barrel.

"Then I sent for the horse-doctor, and he said there was nothing the
matter with the horse but heaves, and he left some medicine 'to patch
up his wind.' The result was that the horse coughed for two days as if
he had gone into galloping consumption, and between two of the
coughs he kicked the hired man through the partition and bit our
black-and-tan terrier in half.

"I thought perhaps a little exercise might improve his health, so I
drove him out one day, and he proceeded in such a peculiar manner that
I was afraid he might suddenly come apart and fall to pieces. When we
reached the top of White House hill, which is very steep by the side
of the road, he stopped, gave a sort of shudder, coughed a couple of
times, kicked a fly off his side with his hind leg, and then lay down
and calmly rolled over the bank. I got out of the carriage before he
fell, and I watched him pitch clear down to the valley beneath, with
the vehicle dragging after him. When we got to him he was dead, and
the man at the farm-house close by said he had the blind staggers.

"I sold him for eight dollars to a man who wanted to make him up into
knife-handles and suspender-buttons; and since then we have walked.
I hardly think I shall buy another horse. My luck doesn't seem good
enough when I make ventures of that kind."



CHAPTER V.

_SOME EDUCATIONAL FACTS_.


The public-school system of the village was reorganized during a
recent summer; and in consequence of a considerable enlargement of
the single school-building and the great increase of the number of
scholars, it was determined to engage an additional woman-teacher in
the girls' department. Accordingly, the board of directors advertised
for a suitable person, instructing applicants to call upon Judge
Twiddler, the chairman. A day or two later, Mrs. Twiddler advertised
in a city paper for a cook, and upon the same afternoon an Irish girl
came to the house to obtain the place in the kitchen. The judge was
sitting upon the front porch at the time reading a newspaper; and
when the girl entered the gate of the yard, he mistook her for a
school-mistress, and he said to her,

"Did you come about that place?"

"Yes, sor," she answered.

"Oh, very well, then; take a seat and I'll run over a few things in
order to ascertain what your qualifications are. Bound Africa."

"If you please, sor, I don't know what you mean."

"I say, bound Africa."

"Bou--bou--Begorra, I don't know what ye're referrin' to."

"Very strange," said the judge. "Can you tell me if 'amphibious' is an
adverb or a preposition? What is an adverb?"

"Indade, and ye bother me intirely. I never had anything to do wid
such things at my last place."

"Then it must have been a curious sort of an institution," said the
judge. "Probably you can tell me how to conjugate the verb 'to be,'
and just mention, also, what you know about Herodotus."

"Ah, yer Honor's jokin' wid me. Be done wid yer fun, now."

"Did you ever hear of Herodotus?"

"Never once in the whole coorse of my life. Do you make it with eggs?"

"This is the most extraordinary woman I ever encountered," murmured
the judge. "How she ever associated Herodotus with the idea of eggs is
simply incomprehensible. Well, can you name the hemisphere in which
China and Japan are situated?"

"Don't bother me wid yer fun, now. I can wash the china and the pans
as well as anybody, and that's enough, now, isn't it?"

"Dumb! awful dumb! Don't know the country from the crockery. I'll try
her once more. Name the limits of the Tropic of Capricorn, and tell me
where Asia Minor is located."

"I have a brother that's one, sor; that's all I know about it."

"One? One what?"

"Didn't ye ask me afther the miners, sor? My brother Teddy works wid
'em."

"And this," said the judge, "is the kind of person to whom we are
asked to entrust the education of youth. Woman, what _do_ you know?
What kind of a school have you been teaching?"

"None, sor. What should I teach school for?"

"Totally without experience, as I supposed," said the judge.

"Mrs. Ferguson had a governess teach the children when I was cookin'
for her."

"Cooking! Ain't you a school-teacher? What do you mean by proposing to
stop cooking in order to teach school? Why, it's preposterous."

"Begorra, I came here to get the cook's place, sor, and that's all of
it."

"Oh, by George! I see now. You ain't a candidate for the grammar
school, after all. You want to see Mrs. Twiddler. Maria, come down
here a minute. There's a thick-headed immigrant here wants to cook for
you."

And the judge picked up his paper and resumed the editorial on "The
Impending Crisis."

They obtained a good teacher, however, and the course of affairs in
the girls' department was smooth enough; but just after the opening of
the fall session there was some trouble in the boys' department.

Mr. Barnes, the master, read in the _Educational Monthly_ that boys
could be taught history better than in any other way by letting each
boy in the class represent some historical character, and relate the
acts of that character as if he had done them himself. This struck
Barnes as a mighty good idea, and he resolved to put it in practice.
The school had then progressed so far in its study of the history of
Rome as the Punic wars, and Mr. Barnes immediately divided the boys
into two parties, one Romans and the other Carthaginians, and certain
of the boys were named after the leaders upon both sides. All the boys
thought it was a fine thing, and Barnes noticed that they were so
anxious to get to the history lesson that they could hardly say their
other lessons properly.

When the time came, Barnes ranged the Romans upon one side of the room
and the Carthaginians on the other. The recitation was very spirited,
each party telling about its deeds with extraordinary unction. After a
while Barnes asked a Roman to describe the battle of Cannæ. Whereupon
the Romans hurled their copies of Wayland's Moral Science at the
enemy. Then the Carthaginians made a battering-ram out of a bench and
jammed it among the Romans, who retaliated with a volley of books,
slates and chewed paper-balls. Barnes concluded that the battle of
Cannæ had been sufficiently illustrated, and he tried to stop it;
but the warriors considered it too good a thing to let drop, and
accordingly the Carthaginians dashed over to the Romans with another
battering-ram and thumped a couple of them savagely.

Then the Romans turned in, and the fight became general. A
Carthaginian would grasp a Roman by the hair and hustle him around
over the desk in a manner that was simply frightful, and a Roman would
give a fiendish whoop and knock a Carthaginian over the head with
Greenleaf's Arithmetic. Hannibal got the head of Scipio Africanus
under his arm, and Scipio, in his efforts to break away, stumbled,
and the two generals fell and had a rough-and-tumble fight under the
blackboard. Caius Gracchus prodded Hamilcar with a ruler, and the
latter in his struggles to get loose fell against the stove and
knocked down about thirty feet of stove-pipe. Thereupon the Romans
made a grand rally, and in five minutes they chased the entire
Carthaginian army out of the school-room, and Barnes along with it;
and then they locked the door and began to hunt up the apples and
lunch in the desks of the enemy.

[Illustration: THE BATTLE OF CANNÆ.]

After consuming the supplies they went to the windows and made
disagreeable remarks to the Carthaginians, who were standing in the
yard, and dared old Barnes to bring the foe once more into battle
array. Then Barnes went for a policeman; and when he knocked at the
door, it was opened, and all the Romans were found busy studying their
lessons. When Barnes came in with the defeated troops he went for
Scipio Africanus; and pulling him out of his seat by the ear, he
thrashed that great military genius with a rattan until Scipio began
to cry, whereupon Barnes dropped him and began to paddle Caius
Gracchus. Then things settled down in the old way, and next morning
Barnes announced that history in the future would be studied as it
always had been; and he wrote a note to the _Educational Monthly_ to
say that in his opinion the man who suggested the new system ought
to be led out and shot. The boys do not now take as much interest in
Roman history as they did on that day.

       *       *       *       *       *

The young tragedian who represented Scipio Africanus is named Smith.
His family came to the village to live only a few weeks before the
school opened. Scipio is a very enterprising and ingenious lad.
Colonel Coffin's boy leaned over the fence one day and gave to me his
impressions of Scipio, a lad about fourteen years old:

"Yes, me and him are right well acquainted now; he knows more'n I do,
and he's had more experience. Bill says his father used to be a robber
(Smith, by the way, is a deacon in the Presbyterian church, and a very
excellent lawyer), and that he has ten million dollars in gold buried
in his cellar, along with a whole lot of human bones--people he's
killed. And he says his father is a conjurer, and that he makes all
the earthquakes that happen anywheres in the world. The old man'll
come home at night, after there's been an earthquake, all covered with
perspiration and so tired he kin hardly stand. Bill says it's such
hard work.

"And Bill tole me that once when a man came around there trying to
sell lightning-rods his father got mad and et him--et him right up;
and he takes bites out of everybody he comes acrost.

"That's what Bill tells me. That's all I know about it. And he tole me
that once he used to have a dog--one of these little kind of dogs--and
he was flying his kite, and just for fun he tied the kite-string
onto his dog's tail. And then the wind struck her and his dog went
a-scuddin' down the street with his hind legs in the air for about a
mile, when the kite all of a sudden begun to go up, and in about
a minute the dog was fifteen miles high and commanding a view of
California and Egypt, I think Bill said. He came down, anyhow, I know,
in Brazil, and Bill said he swum home all the way in the Atlantic
Ocean; and when he landed, his legs were all nibbled off by sharks.

"I wish father'd buy me a dog, so's I could send him up that way. But
I never have any luck. Bill said that where they used to live he went
out on the roof one day to fly his kite, and he sat on top of the
chimbly to give her plenty of room, and while he was sitting there
thinking about nothing, the old man put a keg of powder down below
in the fire-place to clean the soot out of the chimbly. And when he
touched her off, Bill was blowed over agin the Baptist church steeple,
and he landed on the weather-cock with his pants torn, and they
couldn't git him down for three days, so he hung there, going round
and round with the wind, and he lived by eating the crows that came
and sat on him, because they thought he was made of sheet-iron and put
up there on purpose.

"He's had more fun than enough. He was telling me the other day about
a sausage-stuffer his brother invented. It was a kinder machine that
worked with a treadle; and Bill said the way they did in the fall was
to fix it on the hog's back, and connect the treadle with a string,
and then the hog'd work the treadle and keep on running it up and down
until the machine cut the hog all up fine and shoved the meat into the
skins. Bill said his brother called it 'Every Hog His Own Stuffer,'
and it worked splendid. But I do' know. 'Pears to me 'sif there
couldn't be no machine like that. But anyway, Bill said so.

"And he told me about an uncle of his out in Australia who was et by a
big oyster once; and when, he got inside, he stayed there until he'd
et the oyster. Then he split the shell open and took half a one for a
boat, and he sailed along until he met a sea-serpent, and he killed it
and drawed off its skin, and when he got home he sold it to an engine
company for a hose, for forty thousand dollars, to put out fires with.
Bill said that was actually so, because he could show me a man who
used to belong to the engine company. I wish father'd let me go out
to find a sea-serpent like that; but he don't let me have a chance to
distinguish myself.

"Bill was saying only yesterday that the Indians caught him once and
drove eleven railroad spikes through his stomach and cut off his
scalp, and it never hurt him a bit. He said he got away by the
daughter of the chief sneaking him out of the wigwam and lending him a
horse. Bill says she was in love with him; and when I asked him to let
me see the holes where they drove in the spikes, he said he daresn't
take off his clothes or he'd bleed to death. He said his own father
didn't know it, because Bill was afraid it might worry the old man.

"And Bill tole me they wasn't going to get him to go to Sunday-school.
He says his father has a brass idol that he keeps in the garret, and
Bill says he's made up his mind to be a pagan, and to begin to go
naked, and carry a tomahawk and a bow and arrow, as soon as the warm
weather comes. And to prove it to me, he says his father has this town
all underlaid with nitro-glycerine, and as soon as he gets ready he's
going to blow the old thing out, and bust her up, let her rip, and
demolish her. He said so down at the dam, and tole me not to tell
anybody, but I thought they'd be no harm in mentioning it to you.

"And now I believe I must be going. I hear Bill a-whistling. Maybe
he's got something else to tell me."

The Smith boy will be profitable to the youth of the community.

       *       *       *       *       *

Barnes, the pedagogue, is a worthy man who has seen trouble. Precisely
what was the nature of the afflictions which had filled his face with
furrows and given him the air of one who has been overburdened with
sorrows was not revealed until Mr. Keyser told the story one evening
at the grocery-store. Whether his narrative is strictly true or not
is uncertain. There is a bare possibility that Mr. Keyser may have
exaggerated grossly a very simple fact.

"Nobody ever knew how it got in there," said Mr. Keyser, clasping his
hands over his knee and spitting into the stove. "Some thought Barnes
must've swallowed a tadpole while drinking out of a spring and it
subsequently grew inside him, while others allowed that maybe he'd
accidentally eaten frogs' eggs some time and they'd hatched out.
But anyway, he had that frog down there inside of him settled and
permanent and perfectly satisfied with being in out of the rain. It
used to worry Barnes more'n a little, and he tried various things to
git rid of it. The doctors they give him sickening stuff, and over and
over agin emptied him; and then they'd hold him by the heels and shake
him over a basin, and they'd bait a hook with a fly and fish down his
throat hour after hour, but that frog was too intelligent. He never
even gave them a nibble; and when they'd try to fetch him with an
emetic, he'd dig his claws into Barnes's membranes and hold on until
the storm was over.

"Not that Barnes minded the frog merely being in there if he'd only a
kept quiet. But he was too vociferous--that's what Barnes said to me.
A taciturn frog he wouldn't have cared about so much. But how would
you like to have one down inside of you there a-whooping every now and
then in the most ridiculous manner? Maybe, for instance, Barnes'd be
out taking tea with a friend, and just when everybody else was quiet
it'd suddenly occur to his frog to tune-up, and the next minute you'd
hear something go 'Blo-o-o-ood-a-noun! Blo-oo-oo-ood-a-noun!' two or
three times, apparently under the table. Then the folks would ask if
there was an aquarium in the house or if the man had a frog-pond in
the cellar, and Barnes'd get as red as fire and jump up and go home.

"And often when he'd be setting in church, perhaps in the most solemn
part of the sermon, he'd feel something give two or three quick kinder
jerks under his vest, and presently that reptile would bawl right out
in the meeting 'Bloo-oo-oo-ood-a-noun! Bloo-oo-oo-ood-a-nou-ou-oun!'
and keep it up until the sexton would come along and run out two or
three boys for profaning the sanctuary. And at last he'd fix it on
poor old Barnes, and then tell him that if he wanted to practice
ventriloquism he'd better wait till after church. And then the frog'd
give six or seven more hollers, so that the minister would stop and
look at Barnes, and Barnes'd get up and skip down the aisle and go
home furious about it.

"It had a deep voice for an ordinary frog--betwixt a French horn and a
bark-mill. And Mrs. Barnes told me herself that often, when John'd get
comfortably fixed in bed and just dropping off into a nap, the frog'd
think it was a convenient time for some music; and after hopping
about a bit, it'd all at once grind out three or four awful
'Bloo-oo-ood-a-nouns' and wake Mrs. Barnes and the baby, and start
things up generally all around the house. And--would you believe
it?--if that frog felt, maybe, a little frisky, or p'raps had some
tune running through its head, it'd keep on that way for hours. It
worried Barnes like thunder.

"I dunno whether it was that that killed his wife or not; but anyhow,
when she died, Barnes wanted to marry agin, and he went for a while to
see Miss Flickers, who lives out yer on the river road, you know. He
courted her pretty steady for a while, and we all thought there was
goin' to be a consolidation. But she was telling my wife that one
evening Barnes had just taken hold of her hand and told her he
loved her, when all of a sudden something said,
'Bloo-oo-oo-ood-a-nou-ou-oun!'

"'What on earth's that?' asked Miss Flickers, looking sorter scared.

"'I dunno,' said Barnes; 'it sounds like somebody making a noise in
the cellar.' Lied, of course, for he knew mighty well what it was.

[Illustration: MR. BARNES PROPOSES]

"''Pears to me 'sif it was under the sofa,' says she.

"'Maybe it wasn't anything, after all,' says Barnes, when just then
the frog, he feels like running up the scales again, and he yells out,
'Bloo-oo-ood-a-nou-ou-ou-oun!'

"'Upon my word,' says Miss Flickers, 'I believe you've got a frog in
your pocket, Mr. Barnes; now, haven't you?'

"Then he gets down on his knees and owns up to the truth, and swears
he'll do his best to git rid of the frog, and all the time he is
talking the frog is singing exercises and scales and oratorios inside
of him, and worse than ever, too, because Barnes drank a good deal of
ice-water that day, and it made the frog hoarse--ketched cold, you
know.

"But Miss Flickers, she refused him. Said she might've loved him, only
she couldn't marry any man that had continual music in his interior.

"So Barnes, he was the most disgusted man you ever saw. Perfectly sick
about it. And one day he was lying on the bed gaping, and that frog
unexpectedly made up its mind to come up to ask Barnes to eat more
carefully, maybe, and it jumped out on the counterpane. After looking
about a bit it came up and tried three or four times to hop back,
but he kept his mouth shut, and killed the frog with the back of a
hair-brush. Ever since then he runs his drinking-water through a
strainer, and he hates frogs worse than you and me hate pison. Now,
that's the honest truth about Barnes; you ask him if it ain't."

Then Keyser bought some tobacco and went home.



CHAPTER VI.

_THE EDITOR OF THE PATRIOT_.


The editor of the village paper, _The Patriot and Advertiser_, is
Major Slott; and a very clever journalist he is. Even his bitterest
adversary, the editor of _The Evening Mail_, in the town above us on
the river, admits that. In the last political campaign, indeed, _The
Mail_ undertook to tell how it was that the major acquired such a
taste for journalism. The story was that shortly after he was born the
doctor ordered that the baby should be fed upon goat's milk. This was
procured from a goat that was owned by an Irish woman who lived in the
rear of the office of _The Weekly Startler_ and fed her goat chiefly
upon the exchanges which came to that journal. The consequence,
according to _The Mail_, was that young Slott was fed entirely upon
milk formed from digested newspapers; and he throve on it, although
when the Irish woman mixed the Democratic journals carelessly with the
Whig papers they disagreed after they were eaten, and the milk gave
the baby colic. Old Slott intended the boy to be a minister; but as
soon as he was old enough to take notice he cried for every newspaper
that he happened to see, and no sooner did he learn how to write than
he began to slash off editorials upon "The Need of Reform," etc. He
ran away from school four times to enter a newspaper office, and
finally, when the paternal Slott put him in the House of Refuge, he
started a weekly in there, and called it the _House of Refuge Record_;
and one day he slid over the wall and went down to the _Era_ office,
where he changed his name to Blott, and began his career on that paper
with an article on "Our Reformatory Institutions for the Young." Then
old Slott surrendered to what seemed to be a combination of manifest
destiny and goat's milk, and permitted him to pursue his profession.
The major, _The Mail_ alleges, has the instinct so strong that if he
should fall into the crater of Vesuvius his first thought on striking
bottom would be to write to somebody to ask for a free pass to come
out with. "But," continued _The Mail_, "you would hardly believe this
story if you ever read _The Patriot_. We often suspect, when we are
looking over that sheet, that the nurse used to mix the goat's milk
with an unfair proportion of water."

The major has a weekly edition in which he publishes serial stories
of a stirring character, and he is always looking out for good ones.
Recently a tale was submitted by a certain Mr. Stack, a young man who
had high ambition without much experience as a writer of fiction.
After waiting a long while and hearing nothing about the story, Mr.
Stack concluded to call upon the major in order to ascertain why
that narrative had not attracted attention. When Stack mentioned his
errand, the major reached for the manuscript; and looking very solemn,
he said,

"Mr. Stack, I don't think I can accept this story. In some respects it
is really wonderful; but I am afraid that if I published it, it would
attract almost too much attention. People would get too wild over it.
We have to be careful. For instance, here in the first chapter you
mention the death of Mrs. McGinnis, the hero's mother. She dies; you
inter Mrs. McGinnis in the cemetery; you give an affecting scene at
the funeral; you run up a monument over her and plant honeysuckle upon
her grave. You create in the reader's mind a strong impression
that Mrs. McGinnis is thoroughly dead. And yet, over here in the
twenty-second chapter, you make a man named Thompson fall in love with
her, and she is married to him, and she goes skipping around through
the rest of the story as lively as a grasshopper, and you all the time
alluding to Thompson as her second husband. You see that kind of thing
won't do. It excites remark. Readers complain about it."

"You don't say I did that? Well, now, do you know I was thinking
all the time that it was _Mr._ McGinnis that I buried in the first
chapter? I must have got them mixed up somehow."

"And then," continued the major, "when you introduce the hero, you
mention that he has but one arm, having lost the other in battle. But
in chapter twelve you run him through a saw-mill by an accident, and
you mention that he lost an arm there, too. And yet in the nineteenth
chapter you say, 'Adolph rushed up to Mary, threw his arms about her,
and clasped her to his bosom;' and then you go on to relate how he sat
down at the piano in the soft moonlight and played one of Beethoven's
sonatas 'with sweet poetic fervor.' Now, the thing, you see, don't
dovetail. Adolph couldn't possibly throw his arms around Mary if one
was buried in the field of battle and the other was minced up in a
saw-mill, and he couldn't clasp her to his bosom unless he threw a
lasso with his teeth and hauled her in by swallowing the slack of the
rope. As for the piano--well, you know as well as I do that an armless
man can't play a Beethoven sonata unless he knows how to perform on
the instrument with his nose, and in that case you insult the popular
intelligence when you talk about 'sweet poetic fervor.' I have my
fingers on the public pulse, and I know they won't stand it."

"Well, well," said Stack, "I don't know how I ever came to--"

"Let me direct your attention to another incendiary matter,"
interrupted the major. "In the first love-scene between Adolph
and--and--let me see--what's her name?--Mary--you say that 'her liquid
blue eye rested softly upon him as he poured forth the story of his
love, and its azure was dimmed by a flood of happy tears.' Well, sir,
about twenty pages farther on, where the villain insults her, you
observe that her black eyes flashed lightning at him and seemed to
scorch him where he stood. Now, let me direct attention to the fact
that if the girl's eyes were blue they couldn't be black; and if you
mean to convey the impression that she had one blue eye and one black
eye, and that she only looked softly at Adolph out of the off eye,
while the near eye roamed around, not doing anything in particular,
why, she is too phenomenal for a novel, and only suitable for a place
in the menagerie by the side of the curiosities. And then you say that
although her eye was liquid yet it scorched the villain. People
won't put up with that kind of thing. It makes them delirious and
murderous."

"Too bad!" said Stack. "I forgot what I'd said about her eyes when I
wrote that scene with the villain."

"And here, in the twentieth chapter, you say that Magruder was stabbed
with a bowie-knife in the hands of the Spaniard, and in the next
chapter you give an account of the _post-mortem_ examination, and make
the doctors hunt for the bullet and find it embedded in his liver.
Even patient readers can't remain calm under such circumstances. They
lose control of themselves."

"It's unfortunate," said Stack.

"Now, the way you manage the Browns in the story is also exasperating.
First you represent Mrs. Brown as taking her twins around to church to
be christened. In the middle of the book you make Mrs. Brown lament
that she never had any children, and you wind up the story by bringing
in Mrs. Brown with her grandson in her arms just after having caused
Mr. Brown to state to the clergyman that the only child he ever had
died in his fourth year. Just think of the effect of such a thing on
the public mind! Why, this story would fill all the insane asylums in
the country."

"Those Browns don't seem to be very definite, somehow," said Stack,
thoughtfully.

"Worst of all," said major, "in chapter thirty-one you make the lovers
resolve upon suicide, and you put them in a boat and drift them over
Niagara Falls. Twelve chapters farther on you suddenly introduce them
walking in the twilight in a leafy lane, and although afterward she
goes into a nunnery and takes the black veil because he has been
killed by pirates in the Spanish West Indies, in the next chapter to
the last you have a scene where she goes to a surprise-party at the
Presbyterian minister's and finds him there making arrangements for
the wedding as if nothing had ever happened; and then, after you
disclose the fact that she was a boy in disguise, and not a woman at
all, you marry them to each other, and represent the boy heroine as
giving her blessing to her daughter. Oh, it's awful--awful! It won't
do. It really won't. You'd better go into some other kind of business,
Mr. Stack."

Then Stack took his manuscript and went home to fix it up so as to
make the story run together better. The _Patriot_ will not publish it
even if Stack reconstructs it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Major Slott, like most other editors, is continually persecuted by
bores, but recently he was the victim of a peculiarly dastardly attack
from a person of this class. While he was sitting in the office of the
_Patriot_, writing an editorial about "Our Grinding Monopolies," he
suddenly became conscious of the presence of a fearful smell. He
stopped, snuffed the air two or three times, and at last lighted a
cigar to fumigate the room. Then he heard footsteps upon the stairs,
and as they drew nearer the smell grew stronger. When it had reached a
degree of intensity that caused the major to fear that it might break
some of the furniture, there was a knock at the door. Then a man
entered with a bundle under his arm, and as he did so the major
thought that he had never smelt such a fiendish smell in the whole
course of his life. He held his nose; and when the man saw the
gesture, he said,

"I thought so; the usual effect. You hold it tight while I explain."

"What hab you god id that buddle?" asked the major.

"That, sir," said the man, "is Barker's Carbolic Disinfecting
Door-mat. I am Barker, and this is the mat. I invented it, and it's a
big thing."

"Is id thad thad smells so thudderig bad?" asked the major, with his
nostrils tightly shut.

"Yes, sir; smells very strong, but it's a healthy smell. It's
invigorating. It braces the system. I'll tell you--"

"Gid oud with the blabed thig!" exclaimed the major.

"I must tell you all about it first. I called to explain it to you.
You see I've been investigating the causes of epidemic diseases. Some
scientists think they are spread by molecules in the air; others
attribute them to gases generated in the sewers; others hold that they
are conveyed by contagion; but I--"

"Aid you goig to tague thad idferdal thig away frob here?" asked the
major.

"But I have discovered that these diseases are spread by the agency of
door-mats. Do you understand? Door-mats! And I'll explain to you how
it's done. Here's a man who's been in a house where there's disease.
He gets it on his boots. The leather is porous, and it becomes
saturated. He goes to another house and wipes his boots on the mat.
Now, every man who uses that mat must get some of the stuff on his
boots, and he spreads it over every other door-mat that he wipes them
on. Now, don't he?"

"Why dode you tague thad sbell frob udder by dose?"

"Well, then, my idea is to construct a door-mat that will disinfect
those boots. I do it by saturating the mat with carbolic acid and
drying it gradually. I have one here prepared by my process. Shall I
unroll it?"

"If you do, I'll blow your braids out!" shouted the major.

"Oh, very well, then. Now, the objection to this beautiful invention
is that it possesses a very strong and positive odor."

"I'll bed it does," said the major.

[Illustration: THE CARBOLIC DOOR-MAT]

"And as this is offensive to many persons, I give to each purchaser a
'nose-guard,' which is to be worn upon the nose while in a house where
the carbolic mat is placed. This nose-guard is filled with a
substance which completely neutralizes the smell, and it has only one
disadvantage. Now, what is that?"

"Are you goig to quid and led me breathe, or are you goig to stay here
all day log?"

"Have patience, now; I'm coming to the point. I say, what is that? It
is that the neutralizing substance in the nose-guard evaporates too
quickly. And how do I remedy that? I give to every man who buys a mat
and a nose-guard two bottles of 'neutralizer.' What it is composed of
is a secret. But the bottles are to be carried in the pocket, so as to
be ready for every emergency. The disadvantage of this plan consists
of the fact that the neutralizer is highly explosive, and if a man
should happen to sit down on a bottle of it in his coat-tail pocket
suddenly it might hist him through the roof. But see how beautiful my
scheme is."

"Oh, thudder add lightnig! aid you ever goig to quid?"

"See how complete it is! By paying twenty dollars additional, every
man who takes a mat has his life protected in the Hopelessly Mutual
Accident Insurance Company, so that it really makes no great
difference whether he is busted through the shingles or not. Now, does
it?"

"Oh, dode ask me. I dode care a ced about id, adyway."

"Well, then, what I want you to do is to give me a first-rate notice
in your paper, describing the invention, giving the public some
general notion of its merits and recommending its adoption into
general use. You give me a half-column puff, and I'll make the thing
square by leaving you one of the mats, with a couple of bottles of the
neutralizer and a nose-guard. I'll leave them now."

"Whad d'you say?"

"I say I'll just leave you a mat and the other fixings for you to look
over at your leisure."

"You biserable scoundrel, if you lay wod ob those blasted thigs dowd
here, I'll burder you od the spod! I wod stad such foolishness."

"Won't you notice it, either?"

"Certaidly nod. I woulded do id for ten thousad dollars a lide."

"Well, then, let it alone; and I hope one of those epidemic diseases
will get you and lay you up for life."

As Mr. Barker withdrew, Major Slott threw up the windows, and after
catching his breath, he called down stairs to a reporter,

"Perkins, follow that man and hear what he's got to say, and then
blast him in a column of the awfulest vituperation you know how to
write."

Perkins obeyed orders, and now Barker has a libel suit pending against
_The Patriot_, while the carbolic mat has not yet been introduced to
this market.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Barker was not a more agreeable visitor than the book-canvasser
who, upon the same day, circulated about the village. He came into
my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table,
removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief
that had been so long out of wash that it was positively gloomy, he
said,

"Mister, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; splendid
work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece. Contains pictures of all
the great American heroes from the earliest times to the present day.
Everybody's subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your
name.

"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and
pointing to an engraving. "That's--lemme see--yes, that's Columbus.
Perhaps you've heard sumfin about him? The publisher was telling me
to-day, before I started out, that he discovered--No; was it Columbus
that dis--Oh yes! Columbus, he discovered America. Was the first man
here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire,
and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember
right; and when the old thing busted to pieces, he was killed.
Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph; all of 'em are;
done specially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say
that's the way they dressed in those days.

"Look here at this one. Now, isn't that splendid? William Penn; one
of the early settlers. I was reading the other day about him; when
he first arrived, he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they'd
shook some apples down, he set one on top of his son's head and shot
an arrow plumb through it, and never fazed him. They say it struck
them Indians cold, he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance,
hasn't he? Face shaved clean; he didn't wear a mustache, I believe,
but he seems to've let himself out on hair. Now, my view is that every
man ought to have a picture of that patriarch, so's to see how the
first settlers looked and what kind of weskits they used to wear. See
his legs, too! Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going to
wade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his
hand, I see. Subscription list, I reckon.

"Now, how does _that_ strike you? There's something nice. That,
I think, is--is--that is--a--a--yes, to be sure, Washington. You
recollect him, of course. Some people call him 'Father of his
Country,' George Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. He lived
about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I heard the
publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer
at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it
myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used
to swim over at nights to see her, when the old man was asleep. The
girl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like the man to do
that, now, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me, I'd a
gone over on the bridge, but he probably wanted to show off before
her; some men are so reckless. Now, if you'll go in on this thing,
I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories about him, and
bring 'em around to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he
did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so
thundering poor.

"Less see; who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin. He was
one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what
he is celebrated for, but I believe it was flying a--oh, yes! flying a
kite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying
a kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was flickering
up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a
tree and hit him on the head, and then he discovered the attraction of
gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or
me'd a been hit, it'd just a made us mad, like as not, and set us
a-cussing. But men are so different. One man's meat's another man's
pison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either,
though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He
hasn't got on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier; fit some when
he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a
regular warrior. I ain't one myself, and I think all the better of him
for it.

"Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith.
Isn't that just gorgeous? See how she kneels over him and sticks out
her hands while he lays on the ground and that big fellow with a club
tries to hammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is. Modocs,
I believe. Anyway, some Indians out West there somewheres; and the
publisher tells me that Shacknasty, or whatever his name is, there,
was going to bang old Smith over the head with that log of wood, and
this girl here, she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke
loose and jumped forward, and says to the man with the stick, 'Why
don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry; and if you
kill him, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live,' or words
like them; and so the man, he give it up, and both of them hunted up a
preacher and were married, and lived happily ever afterward. Beautiful
story, ain't it? A good wife she made him, too, I bet, if she _was_ a
little copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture?
But Smith appears kinder sick. Evidently thinks his goose is cooked;
and I don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a
discouraging club.

"And now we come to--to--ah--to Putnam--General Putnam. He fought in
the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his
guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse, and then licked
the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go
pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house,
with General Putnam laying there nearly skeered to death. Leastways,
the publisher said somehow that way, and I oncet read about it myself.
But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty
good thing of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck;
but maybe it was a mule, and they're pretty sure-footed, you know.
Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it?

"Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook
hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New
Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then, when the Ku-Kluxes
got after him, he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em
till they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real
mad. Hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time.
Andrew his first name was; and look how his hair stands up! And then
here's John Adams and Daniel Boone and two or three pirates, and a
whole lot more pictures, so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have
your name, won't you?"

"I believe not to-day."

"What! won't go in on William Penn and Washington and Smith, and the
other heroes?"

"No."

"Well, well! Hang me if I'd a-wasted so much information on you if I'd
a knowed you wouldn't subscribe. If every man was like you, it'd break
up the business."

Then he wiped his nose and left. I hope he is doing better with the
work than he did with me.



CHAPTER VII.

_HOW MR. BUTTERWICK PURSUED HORTICULTURE_.


Soon after he moved out from the city to live in the village Mr.
Butterwick determined to secure the services of a good gardener who
could be depended upon to produce from the acre surrounding the house
the largest possible crop of fruit, vegetables and flowers. A man
named Brown was recommended as an expert, and Mr. Butterwick engaged
him. As Mr. Butterwick has no acquaintance with the horticultural art,
he instructed Brown to use his own judgment in fixing up the place,
and Brown said he would.

On the morning of the first day, while Mr. Butterwick was sitting on
the front porch, he saw Brown going out of the gate with a gun
upon his shoulder, and Mr. Butterwick conceived the idea that the
horticultural expert intended to begin his career in his new place by
taking a holiday.

In about an hour, however, Brown came sauntering up the street
dragging a deceased dog by the tail. Mr. Butterwick asked him if he
had accidentally shot his dog while aiming at a rabbit. But Brown
simply smiled significantly and passed silently in through the gate.

Then he buried the dog beneath the grape-arbor; and when the funeral
was over, Brown loaded up his gun, rubbed his muddy boots upon the
grass, brought his weapon to "right shoulder shift" and sallied out
again.

Mr. Butterwick asked him if he was going down to the woods after
squirrels; but he put his thumb knowingly to his nose, winked at Mr.
Butterwick and went mutely down the road. After a while he loomed up
again upon the horizon, and this time Mr. Butterwick noticed that he
was hauling after him a setter pup and a yellow dog, both dead, and
yoked together with one of Brown's suspenders.

Mr. Butterwick failed to comprehend the situation exactly, but he
ventured the remark that Brown must be a very poor shot to hit his own
dogs every time instead of the game. Brown, however, was not open to
criticism. He walked calmly down the yard, and after entombing the
dogs by the grape-arbor, he put four fingers of buckshot in his gun,
rearranged his suspenders, shouldered arms and struck out for the
front gate with a countenance as impassive as that of a graven image.

Mr. Butterwick inquired if there was a target-shooting match over at
the "King of Prussia;" but Brown didn't appear to hear him, and passed
serenely down the street. At half-past eleven Brown came within hail
again, and presently he marched up the yard with three departed cats
and a blue poodle.

[Illustration: THE GARDENER RETREATS]

Mr. Butterwick thought it was extraordinary, and he asked Brown if he
was engaged in gunning for domestic animals in order to settle a bet.
But Brown only coughed a couple of times, closed one eye sagaciously
and began to dig a fresh grave under the arbor. When the last sad
rites were over, he charged his gun as usual, rubbed his nose
thoughtfully with his sleeve, took a drink at the pump and wandered
away.

He had been gone about fifteen minutes, when Mr. Butterwick heard two
shots in quick succession. A minute later he saw Brown coming up the
road with a considerable amount of velocity, pursued by Mr. Potts and
a three-legged dog. Brown kept ahead; and when he had shot through the
gate, he dashed into the house and bolted the door. Then Potts arrived
with his dog, which stood by, looking as if it were very anxious to
lunch upon somebody, while Potts explained to Butterwick that Brown
had shot a leg off of his dog, and that he, Potts, intended to have
satisfaction for the injury, if he had to go to law about it.

When Mr. Butterwick had pacified Potts and sent him away, Mr.
Butterwick sought an interview with Brown:

"Brown, you have been behaving in a most preposterous manner ever
since you came here. I employed you as a gardener, not as a gunner.
You have nearly killed a valuable animal belonging to Mr. Potts; and
I'll thank you to tell me what you mean, and right off, too."

Brown winked again, cleared his throat, pulled up his shirt-collar and
said,

"I was goin' to quit soon as I ketched Potts's dog. He'd a bin
splendid to bury out yer with the others. Lemme tell you how it is:
The best thing to make grape-vines grow is dogs; bury 'em right down
among the roots. Some people prefer grandmothers and their other
relations. But gimme dogs and cats. Soon as I seen them vines of yourn
I said to myself, Them vines wants a few dogs, and I concluded to
put in the first day rakin' in all I could find. I'm goin' out again
to-morrow, down the other road."

But he didn't. Mr. Butterwick discharged him that night. He was too
enthusiastic for a gardener, and Mr. Butterwick thought that life
might open out to him a brighter and more beautiful vista in some
other capacity.

Subsequently, Mr. Butterwick concluded to attend to his garden
himself, and early in the spring he received from the Congressman of
our district a choice lot of assorted seeds brought from California
by the Agricultural Department. There were more than he wanted, so he
gave a quantity of sugar-beet and onion seeds to Mr. Potts, and
some turnip and radish seeds to Colonel Coffin; then he planted the
remainder, consisting of turnip, cabbage, celery and beet seeds, in
his own garden.

When the plants began to come up, he thought they looked kind of
queer, but he waited until they grew larger, and then, as he felt
certain something was wrong, he sent for a professional gardener to
make an examination.

"Mr. Hoops," he said, "cast your eye over those turnips and tell me
what you think is the matter with them."

"Turnip!" exclaimed Hoops. "Turnip! Why, bless your soul, man! that's
not turnip. That's nothin' but pokeberry. You've got enough pokeberry
in that bed to last a million years."

"Well, Mr. Hoops, come over here to this bed. Now, how does that
celery strike you? The munificent Federal government is spreading that
celery all over this land of the free. Great, isn't it?"

"Well, well!" said Hoops; "and they shoved that off on you for celery,
did they? Too bad! It's nothin' on earth but pokeberry. This is the
California kind--the deadliest pokeberry that was ever invented."

"Are you sure you're not mistaken, Mr. Hoops? But you haven't seen my
beets there in the adjoining bed. The seeds of those beets were sent
from Honolulu by our consul there. He reports that the variety attains
gigantic size."

"Really, now," said Hoops, "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but
to be fair and square with you, as between man and man, those are not
beets, you know. They are the Mexican pokeberry. I pledge you my word
it's the awfulest variety of that plant that grows. It'll stay in this
yer garden for ever. You'll never get rid of it."

"This seems a little hard, Mr. Hoops. But I'd like you to inspect my
cabbages. They're all right, I know. The commissioner of agriculture
got the seed from Borneo. They are the curly variety, I think. You
boil them with pork, and they cut down beautifully for slaw. Look at
these plants, will you? Ain't they splendid?"

"Mr. Butterwick," said Hoops, "I've got some bad news to break to you,
but I hope you'll stand it like a man. These afflictions come to all
of us in this life, sir. They are meant for our good. But really, sir,
those are not Borneo cabbages. Cabbages! Why, thunder and lightnin'!
They are merely a mixture of California and Mexican pokeberry with
the ordinary kind, and a little Osage orange sprinkled through. It's
awful, sir! Why, you've got about two acres of pokeberry and not a
blessed bit of cabbage or turnips among them."

"Mr. Hoops, this is terrible news; and do you know I gave a lot of
those seeds to Potts and Coffin?"

"I know you did; and I seen Colonel Coffin this mornin' with a
shot-gun goin' round askin' people if they knew where he could find
you."

"Find me! What do you mean?"

"Well, you see, sir, that there onion seed that you gave him was
really the seed of the silver maple tree, and it's growed up so thick
all over his garden that a cat can't crawl through it. There's about
forty million shoots and suckers in that garden, and they'll have to
be cut out with a handsaw. It'll take about a year to do it."

"You appall me, Hoops!"

"And that's not the worst of it. The roots are so matted and
interlocked jes beneath the surface that you can't make any impression
on 'em with a pickaxe. That garden of Coffin's is ruined--entirely
ruined, sir. You might blast those roots with gunpowder and it would
make no difference. And the suckers will grow faster than they're cut
down. He'll have to sell the property, sir."

"And the commissioner of agriculture said that was onion seed. Why
didn't Coffin hunt _him_ with a shot-gun?"

"Yes, sir; and Mr. Potts's got pokeberry and silver maple growin' all
over his place, too, and he's as mad as--Well, you just ought to hear
him snortin' around town. He'll kill somebody, I'm afeard."

Mr. Butterwick settled the difficulty with Coffin and Potts somehow,
but he made up his mind to vote for another man for Congress at the
next election.

Mr. Butterwick was the first man to introduce that ingenious and
useful implement the lawn-mower into our section of the country. As
his mower was the only one in the village, it was at once in great
demand. Everybody wanted to borrow it for a few days, and Butterwick
lent it with such generosity that it was out most of the time, and a
good many people had to wait for it. At last there was quite a rivalry
who should have it next, and the folks used to put in their claims
with the owner whenever they had an opportunity.

One day Mr. Smith's wife died, and Mr. Butterwick attended the
funeral. Smith was nearly wild with grief. As the remains were put
into their last resting-place he cried as if his heart would break,
and his friends began to get uneasy about his nervous system.
Presently he took his handkerchief from his eyes for a moment to rub
his nose, and as he did so he saw Butterwick looking at him. A thought
seemed to strike Smith. He dashed away a couple of tears; and stepping
over a heap of loose earth as they began to shovel it in, he grasped
Butterwick by the hand. Butterwick gave him a sympathetic squeeze, and
said,

"Sorry for you, Smith; I am indeed! A noble woman and a good wife. But
bear up under it, bear up! Our loss, you know, is her gain."

"Ah! she was indeed a woman in a thousand," responded Smith; "and
now to think that she has gone--gone, left us for ever! But these
afflictions must not make us forget the duty we owe to the living. She
has passed away from toil and suffering, but we still have much to do;
and, Butterwick, I want to borrow your lawn-mower. If you can fix it
for Tuesday, I think maybe the worst of my anguish will be over."

"You may have it, of course."

"Thank you; oh, thank you! Our friends are a great comfort to us
in the hour of bereavement;" and then Smith gave his arm to his
mother-in-law, put his handkerchief to his eyes and joined the
procession of mourners.

Upon the following Sunday, Rev. Dr. Dox preached a splendid sermon
over in the Free church, and just as he reached "secondly" he paused,
looked around upon the congregation for a minute, and then he beckoned
Deacon Moody to come up to the pulpit. He whispered something in
Moody's ear, and Moody seemed surprised. The congregation was wild
with curiosity to know what was the matter. Then the deacon, blushing
scarlet and seeming annoyed, walked down the aisle and whispered in
Butterwick's ear. Butterwick nodded, and whispered to his wife, who
was perishing to know what it was. She leaned over and communicated it
to Mrs. Bunnel, in the pew in front; and when the Bunnels all had it,
they sent it on to the people next to them, and so before the doctor
reached "thirdly" the whole congregation knew that he wanted to borrow
Butterwick's lawn-mower on Monday morning early.

A day or two later, while Butterwick was crossing the creek upon a
train of cars, the train ran off the track and rolled his car into
the water. Butterwick got out, however, into the stream, and as he
emerged, spluttering and blowing, he struck against a stranger who
was treading water. The stranger apologized, and said that Butterwick
might not recognize him in his dilapidated condition as Martin
Thompson, but while they were together, he would like to put in a word
for that lawn-mower when the parson was done with it.

[Illustration: TREADING WATER]

At last Butterwick grew tired of lending, and refused all applicants.
Then the people began to steal it, and six respectable citizens only
escaped going to jail because Butterwick had consideration for their
families. Finally he chained it to the pump, and then they sawed off
the pump and operated the mower with the log as a roller. Butterwick
at last put it on top of his house, and that night fourteen ladders
were seen against the wall. They did say that Ramsey, the lawyer, made
one effort with a hot-air balloon, and failed only because he fell out
and hurt his leg; but this was never traced to any reliable source.

The following week a man arrived and opened an agency for the sale
of the mowers in the village, and gradually the excitement abated.
Butterwick, however, has cut his grass with a sickle ever since.



CHAPTER VIII.

_THE MEETING AND ITS MISSIONARY WORK_.


The Methodist church in the village is doing now, as it has always
done, a good and noble work for Christianity and the cause of public
morals; but it has not escaped the trials which are permitted
sometimes to afflict the Church militant. Years ago, when the
congregation was first organized, it erected a small but very
pretty frame meeting-house. In the course of time the people became
dissatisfied with the location of the house of worship; and as they
had a good offer for the site, they sold it and bought a better one in
another quarter. Then they put rollers under the building, and as soon
as it was off the ground the purchaser of the lot began to build a
dwelling-house on the site. It was slow work pushing the church along
the street, and before they got far somebody discovered that the title
of the new site was not good, and so the bargain was annulled. The
next day the brethren went plunging around town trying to buy another
site, but nobody had one to sell; and on the following morning the
supervisors got an order from the court requiring that meeting-house
to be removed from the public street within twenty-four hours.

The brethren were nearly wild about it, and they begged old Brindley
to let them run the concern in on his vacant lot temporarily until
they could look around. But Brindley belonged to another denomination,
and he said he felt that it would be wrong for him to do anything
to help a church that believed false doctrines. Then they ran the
meeting-house out on the turnpike beyond the town, whereupon the
turnpike company notified them that its charges would be eight dollars
a day for toll. So they hauled it back again; and while going down the
hill it broke loose, plunged through the fence of Dr. Mackey's garden
and brought up on top of his asparagus-bed. He is an Episcopalian,
and he sued the meeting for damages; and the sheriff levied upon the
meetinghouse. The brethren paid the bill and dragged the building out
again.

They wanted to put it in the court-house yard, but Judge Twiddler, who
is a Presbyterian, said that after examining the statutes carefully he
could find no law allowing a Methodist meeting-house to be located
in that place. In despair, the brethren ran the building down to the
river-shore and fitted it on a huge raft of logs, concluding to tie it
to the wharf until they could buy a lot. But as the owner of the
wharf handed them on the third day a bill of twenty-five dollars for
wharfage, they took the building out and anchored it in the stream.
That night a tug-boat, coming up the river in the dark, ran halfway
through the Sunday-school room, and a Dutch brig, coming into
collision with it, was drawn out with the pulpit and three of the
front pews dangling from the bowsprit. The owners of both vessels sued
for damages, and the United States authorities talked of confiscating
the meeting-house as an obstruction to navigation. But a few days
afterward the ice-gorge sent a flood down the river and broke the
building loose from its anchor. It was subsequently washed ashore on
Keyser's farm; and he said he was willing to let it stay there at four
dollars a day rent until he was ready to plough for corn. As the cost
of removing it would have been very great, the trustees ultimately
sold it to Keyser for a barn, and then, securing a good lot, they
built a handsome edifice of stone.

On the first Sunday that the congregation worshiped in the new church
Mr. Potts attended; and in accordance with his custom, he placed his
silk high hat just outside of the pew in the aisle. In a few moments
Mrs. Jones entered, and as she proceeded up the aisle her abounding
skirts caught Mr. Potts' hat and rolled it nearly to the pulpit. Mr.
Potts pursued his hat with feelings of indignation; and when Mrs.
Jones took her seat, he walked back, brushing the hat with his sleeve.
A few moments later Mrs. Hopkins came into church; and as Mr. Potts
had again placed his hat in the aisle, Mrs. Hopkins' skirts struck it
and swept it along about twenty feet, and left it lying on the carpet
in a demoralized condition. Mr. Potts was singing a hymn at the time,
and he didn't miss it. But a moment later, when he looked over the end
of the pew to see if it was safe, he was furious to perceive that it
was gone. He skirmished up the aisle after it again, red in the face,
and uttering sentences which were very much out of place in the
sanctuary. However, he put the hat down again and determined to keep
his eye on it, but just as he turned his head away for a moment Mrs.
Smiley came in, and Potts looked around only in time to watch the hat
being gathered in under Mrs. Smiley's skirts and carried away by them.
He started in pursuit, and just as he did so the hat must have rolled
against Mrs. Smiley's ankles, for she gave a jump and screamed right
out in church. When her husband asked her what was the matter, she
said there must be a dog under her dress, and she gave her skirts
a twist. Out rolled Mr. Potts' hat, and Mr. Smiley, being very
near-sighted, thought it was a dog, and immediately kicked it so
savagely that it flew up into the gallery and lodged on top of the
organ. Mr. Potts, perfectly frantic with rage, forgot where he was;
and holding his clinched fist under Smiley's nose, he shrieked, "I've
half a mind to brain you, you scoundrel!" Then he flung down his
hymn-book and rushed from the church. He went home bareheaded, and the
sexton brought his humiliating hat around after dinner. After that Mr.
Potts expressed a purpose to go habitually to Quaker meeting, where he
could say his prayers with his hat on his head, and where the skirts
of female worshippers are smaller.

       *       *       *       *       *

Upon a subsequent occasion Mrs. Whistler had even a greater occasion
for dissatisfaction with the sanctuary.

The facts in Mrs. Whistler's case were these: Mrs. Whistler has
singular absence of mind, and on the last Sunday she attended church
Dr. Dox began to read from the Scriptures the account of the Deluge.
Mrs. Whistler was deeply attentive; and when the doctor came to the
story of how it rained for so many days and nights, she was so much
absorbed in the narrative and so strongly impressed with it that she
involuntarily put up her umbrella and held it over her head as she sat
in the pew. It appears that Mrs. Moody, who sits in the next pew in
front, frequently brings her lap-dog to church with her; and when
Mrs. Whistler raised her umbrella suddenly, the action affected the
sensibilities of Mrs. Moody's dog in such a manner that he began to
bark furiously.

Of course the sexton came in for the purpose of removing the animal,
but it dodged into a vacant pew upon the other side of the aisle and
defied him, barking vociferously all the time. Then the sexton became
warm and indignant, and he flung a cane at the dog, whereupon the dog
flew out and bit his leg. The excitement in the church by this time,
of course, was simply dreadful. Not only was the story of the Deluge
interrupted, but the unregenerate Sunday-school scholars in the
gallery actually hissed the dog at the sexton, and seemed to enjoy the
contest exceedingly.

Then Elder McGinn came after the dog with his cane, and as he pursued
the animal it dashed toward the pulpit and ran up the steps in such a
fierce manner that the doctor quickly mounted a chair and remarked,
with anger flashing through his spectacles, that if this disgraceful
scene did not soon come to an end he should dismiss the congregation.
Then the elder crept softly up the stairs, and after a short struggle
he succeeded in grasping the dog by one of its hind legs. Then
he walked down the aisle with it, the dog meantime yelling with
supernatural energy and the Sunday-school boys making facetious
remarks.

Mrs. Whistler turned around, with other members of the congregation,
to watch the retreating elder, and as she did so she permitted her
unconscious umbrella to droop so that the end of one of the ribs
caught Mrs. Moody's bonnet. A moment later, when she was straightening
up the umbrella, the bonnet was wrenched off, and hung dangling from
the umbrella. Mrs. Moody had become exceedingly warm, at any rate,
over the onslaught made upon her dog, but when Mrs. Whistler removed
her bonnet, she fairly boiled over; and turning around, white with
rage, she screamed,

"What'd you grab that bonnet for, you wretch! Haven't you made enough
fuss in this church to-day, skeering a poor innocent dog, without
snatching off such bonnets as the like of you can't afford to wear, no
matter how mean you live at home, you red-headed lunatic, you! You
let my bonnet alone, or I'll hit you with this parasol, if it is in
meeting, now mind me!"

Then Mrs. Whistler, for the first time, seemed to realize that her
umbrella made her conspicuous; so she furled it and concluded to
escape from an embarrassing position by going home. As she stepped
into the aisle her enemy gave her a parting salute:

"Sneaking off before the collection, too! You'd better spend less for
breastpins and give more to the poor heathen if you don't want to
ketch it hereafter!"

Then she began to fan herself furiously, and as Mrs. Whistler emerged
from the front door and things became calmer the doctor resumed the
story of the Flood. But Mrs. Whistler has given up her pew and gone
over to the Presbyterians, and there are rumors that Mrs. Moody is
going to secede also because Elder McGinn insists that she shall leave
her dog at home.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Dorcas and missionary societies of the church are particularly
active, but they were somewhat discouraged a year or two ago by
certain unforeseen occurrences. The ladies of the Dorcas Society made
up a large quantity of shirts, trousers and socks, and boxed them up
and sent them to a missionary station on the west coast of Africa.
A man named Ridley went out with the boxes and stayed in Africa for
several months. When he returned, the Dorcas Society, of course, was
anxious to hear how its donation was received, and Ridley one evening
met the members and told them about it in a little speech. He said,

"Well, you know, we got the clothes out there all right, and after
a while we distributed them among some of the natives in the
neighborhood. We thought maybe it would attract them to the mission,
but it didn't; and after some time had elapsed and not a native came
to church with the clothes on, I went out on an exploring expedition
to find out about it. It seems that on the first day after the goods
were distributed one of the chiefs attempted to dress himself in a
shirt. He didn't exactly understand it, and he pushed his legs through
the arms and gathered the tail up around his waist. He couldn't make
it stay up, however, and they say he went around inquiring in his
native tongue what kind of an idiot it was that constructed a garment
that wouldn't hang on, and swearing some of the most awful heathen
oaths. At last he let it drag, and that night he got his legs tangled
in it somehow and fell over a precipice and was killed.

"Another chief who got one on properly went paddling around in the
dark, and the people, imagining that he was a ghost, sacrificed four
babies to keep off the evil spirit.

[Illustration: THE HEATHEN CLOTHE THEMSELVES]

"And then, you know, those trousers you sent out? Well, they fitted
one pair on an idol, and then they stuffed most of the rest with
leaves and set them up as kind of new-fangled idols and began to
worship them. They say that the services were very impressive. Some of
the women split a few pairs in half, and after sewing up the legs used
them to carry yams in; and I saw one chief with a corduroy leg on his
head as a kind of helmet.

"I think, though, the socks were most popular. All the fighting-men
went for them the first thing. They filled them with sand and used
them as boomerangs and war-clubs. I learned that they were so much
pleased with the efficiency of those socks that they made a raid on a
neighboring tribe on purpose to try them; and they say they knocked
about eighty women and children on the head before they came home.
They asked me if I wouldn't speak to you and get you to send out a few
barrels more, and to make them a little stronger, so's they'd last
longer; and I said I would.

"This society's doing a power of good to those heathen, and I've no
doubt if you keep right along with the work you will inaugurate a
general war all over the continent of Africa and give everybody an
idol of his own. All they want is enough socks and trousers. I'll take
them when I go out again."

Then the Dorcas passed a resolution declaring that it would, perhaps,
be better to let the heathen go naked and give the clothes to the poor
at home. Maybe that is the better way.



CHAPTER IX.

_JUDGE TWIDDLER'S COW_.


For several months previous to last summer Judge Twiddler's family
obtained milk from Mr. Biles, the most prominent milk-dealer in the
village. The prevailing impression among the Twiddlers was that Mr.
Biles supplied an exceedingly thin and watery fluid; and one day when
the judge stepped over to pay his quarterly bill he determined to make
complaint. He found Mr. Biles in the yard mending the valve of his
pump; and when the judge made a jocular remark to the effect that the
dairy must be in a bad way when the pump was out of order, Mr. Biles,
rising with his hammer in his hand, said,

"Oh, I ain't going to deny that we water the milk. I don't mind the
joking about it. But all I say is that when people say we do it from
mercenary motives they slander the profession. No, sir; when I put
water in the milk, I do it out of kindness for the people who drink
it. I do it because I'm philanthropic--because I'm sensitive and can't
bear to see folks suffer. Now, s'pos'n a cow is bilious or something,
and it makes her milk unwholesome. I give it a dash or two of water,
and up it comes to the usual level. Water's the only thing that'll do
it. Or s'pos'n that cow eats a pison vine in the woods; am I going to
let my innocent customers be killed by it for the sake of saving a
little labor at the pump? No, sir; I slush in a few quarts of water,
neutralize the pison, and there she is as right as a trivet.

"But you take the best milk that ever was, and it ain't fit for the
human stomach as it comes from the cow. It has too much caseine in it.
Prof. Huxley says that millions of poor ignorant men and women are
murdered every year by loading down weak stomachs with caseine. It
sucks up the gastric juice, he says, and gets daubed all around over
the membranes until the pores are choked, and then the first thing you
know the man suddenly curls all up and dies. He says that out yer in
Asia, where the milkmen are not as conscientious as we are, there are
whole cemeteries chock full of people that have died of caseine, and
that before long all that country will be one vast burying-ground if
they don't ameliorate the milk. When I think of the responsibility
resting on me, is it singular that I look at this old pump and wonder
that people don't come and silver plate it and put my statue on it? I
tell you, sir, that that humble pump with the cast-iron handle is the
only thing that stands betwixt you and sudden death.

"And besides that, you know how kinder flat raw milk tastes--kinder
insipid and mean. Now, Prof. Huxley, he says that there is only one
thing that will vivify milk and make it luxurious to the palate, and
that is water. Give it a few jerks under the pump, and out it comes
sparkling and delicious, like nectar. I dunno how it is, but Prof.
Huxley says that it undergoes some kinder chemical change that nothing
else'll bring about but a flavoring of fine old pump-water. You know
the doctors all water the milk for babies. They know mighty well if
they didn't those young ones'd shrink all up and sorter fade away.
Nature is the best judge. What makes cows drink so much water?
Instinct, sir--instinct. Something whispers to 'em that if they don't
sluice in a little water that caseine'd make 'em giddy and eat 'em up.
Now, what's the odds whether I put in the water or the cow does? She's
only a poor brute beast, and might often drink too little; but when I
go at it, I bring the mighty human intellect to bear on the subject;
I am guided by reason, and I can water that milk so's it'll have the
greatest possible effect.

"Now, there's chalk. I know some people have an idea that it's wrong
to fix up your milk with chalk. But that's only mere blind bigotry.
What is chalk? A substance provided by beneficent nature for healing
the ills of the human body. A cow don't eat chalk because it's not
needed by her. Poor uneducated animal! she can't grasp these higher
problems, and she goes on nibbling sour-grass and other things, and
filling her milk with acid, which destroys human membranes and induces
colic. Then science comes to the rescue. Professor Huxley tells us
that chalk cures acidity. Consequently, I get some chalk, stir it in
my cans and save the membranes of my customers without charging them a
cent for it--actually give it away; and yet they talk about us milkmen
'sif we were buccaneers and enemies of the race.

"But I don't care. My conscience is clear. I know mighty well that I
have a high and holy mission to perform, and I'm going to perform it
if they burn me at the stake. What do I care how much this pump costs
me if it spreads blessings through the community? What difference does
it make to a man of honor like me if chalk is six cents a pound so
long as I know that without it there wouldn't be a membrane in this
community? Now, look at the thing in the right light, and you'll
believe me that before another century rolls around a grateful
universe will worship the memory of the first milkman who ever had a
pump and who doctored his milk with chalk. It will, unless justice is
never to have her own."

Then Mr. Biles rigged the sucker in the pump, toned up a few cans of
milk, corrected the acidity, and went into the house to receipt the
judge's bill.

Mr. Biles' theory interested the judge, but the argument did not
convince him. And so the judge resolved to buy a cow and obtain pure
milk, without regard for the alleged views of Professor Huxley.
Accordingly, he purchased a cow of a man named Smith, who lives over
at the Rising Sun. She was warranted to be fresh and a first-rate
milker. When Judge Twiddler got her home, he asked his hired man,
Mooney, if he knew how to milk a cow, and Mooney said of course he
did. The animal, therefore, was consigned to Mooney's care. On the
next day, however, Mooney came into the house to see the judge, and he
said,

"Judge, that man cheated you in that cow. Why, she's the awfullest old
beast that ever stood on four legs Dry as punk; hasn't got a drop of
milk in her. That's a positive fact. I've been trying to milk her for
three or four hours, and can't get a drop. Might as well attempt to
milk a clothes-horse. Regular fraud!"

"This is very extraordinary," exclaimed the judge.

"Yes, sir; and she's wicked. I never saw such a disposition in a cow.
Why, while I was working with her she kicked like a flint-lock musket;
butted and rared around. I'd rather fool with a tiger than with a cow
like that."

So the judge drove over to the Rising Sun to see Smith about it; and
when he complained that Smith had sold him a worthless and vicious
beast, and a dry cow at that, Smith said there must be some mistake
about it. He agreed to go back with the judge and investigate the
matter. When they reached the judge's stable, Mooney was not about,
but Smith descended from the wagon, approached the cow, and, to
the astonishment of the judge, milked her without the slightest
difficulty, the cow meantime remaining perfectly quiet, and even
breaking out now and then into what the judge thought looked like
smiles of satisfaction. And then the judge went out to hunt up his
hired man. He said to him,

"Mooney, what did you mean by telling me that our cow was dry and
ugly? You said you couldn't milk her, but Mr. Smith does so without
any difficulty, and the cow remains perfectly passive."

"I'd like to see him do it," said Mooney, incredulously.

Then Smith sat down and proceeded to perform the operation again. When
he began, Mooney exclaimed,

"Why, my gracious! that isn't the way you milk a cow, is it?"

"Of course it is," replied Smith. "How else would you do it?"

"Well, well! and that's the way _you_ milk, is it? I see now I didn't
go about it exactly right. Why, you know, I never had much experience
at the business; I was brought up in town, and, be George, when I
tackled her, I threw her over on her back and tried to milk her with a
clothes-pin. I see now I was wrong. We live and learn, don't we?"

[Illustration: THE JUDGE'S COW]

So Smith went home, and the cow remained, and the judge's man waxes
stronger in experience with the mysteries of existence daily.

But the cow was not a perfect animal, after all. Among other things,
Smith assured the judge that she had a splendid appetite. He said that
she was the easiest cow with her feed that he ever saw; she would eat
almost anything, and she was generally hungry.

At the end of the first week after she came, Mrs. Twiddler concluded
to churn. The hired man spent the whole day at the crank, and about
sunset the butter came. They got it out, and found that there was
almost half a pound. Then Mrs. Twiddler began to see how economical
it was to make her own butter. A half pound at the store cost thirty
cents. The wages of that man for one day were one dollar, and so the
butter was costing about three dollars a pound, without counting the
keep of the cow. When they tried the butter, it was so poor that they
couldn't eat it, and they gave it to the man to grease the wheelbarrow
with. It seemed somewhat luxurious and princely to maintain a cow
for the purpose of supplying grease at three dollars a pound for the
wheelbarrow, but it was hard to see precisely where the profits came
in. After about a fortnight the cow seemed so unhappy in the stable
that the judge turned her out in the yard.

The first night she was loose she upset the grape-arbor with her horns
and ate four young peach trees and a dwarf pear tree down to the
roots. The next day they gave her as much hay as she would eat, and
it seemed likely that her appetite was appeased. But an hour or two
afterward she swallowed six croquet-balls that were lying upon the
grass, and ate half a table-cloth and a pair of drawers from the
clothes-line. That evening her milk seemed thin, and the judge
attributed it to the indigestibility of the table-cloth.

During the night she must have got to walking in her sleep, for
she climbed over the fence; and when she was discovered, she was
swallowing one of Mrs. Twiddler's hoopskirts. That evening she ran dry
and didn't give any milk at all. The judge thought the exercise she
had taken must have been too severe, and probably the hoopskirt was
not sufficiently nutritious. It was comforting, however, to reflect
that she was less expensive, from the latter point of view, when she
was dry than when she was fresh. Next morning she ate the spout off
the watering-pot, and then put her head in the kitchen window and
devoured two dinner-plates and the cream-jug. Then she went out and
lay down on the strawberry-bed to think. While there something about
Judge Twiddler's boy seemed to exasperate her; and when he came over
into the yard after his ball, she inserted her horns into his trowsers
and flung him across the fence. Then she went to the stable and ate a
litter of pups and three feet of the trace-chain.

The judge felt certain that her former owner didn't deceive him when
he said her appetite was good. She had hunger enough for a drove of
cattle and a couple of flocks of sheep. That day the judge went after
the butcher to get him to buy her. When he returned with him, she had
just eaten the monkey-wrench and the screw-driver, and she was trying
to put away a fence-paling. The butcher said she was a fair-enough
sort of cow, but she was too thin. He said he would buy her if the
judge would feed her up and fatten her; and the judge said he would
try. He gave her that night food enough for four cows, and she
consumed it as if she had been upon half rations for a month. When she
finished, she got up, reached for the hired man's straw hat, ate it,
and then, bolting out into the garden, she put away the honeysuckle
vine and a coil of India-rubber hose. The man said that if it was his
cow he would kill her; and the judge told him that he had perhaps
better just knock her on the head in the morning.

During the night she had another attack of somnambulism, and while
wandering about she ate the door-mat from the front porch, bit off
all the fancy-work on top of the cast-iron gate, swallowed six loose
bricks that were piled up against the house, and then had a fit among
the rose bushes. When the judge came down in the morning, she seemed
to be breathing her last, but she had strength enough left to seize a
newspaper that the judge held in his hand; and when that was down,
she gave three or four kicks and rolled over and expired. It cost the
judge three dollars to have the carcase removed. Since then he has
bought his butter and milk and given up all kinds of live-stock.



CHAPTER X.

_OUR CIVIL SERVICE_.


Some of the public officers of Millburg are interesting in their way.
The civil service system of the village is based upon the principle
that if there is any particular function that a given man is wholly
unfitted to perform he should be chosen to perform it. The result is
that the business of our very small government goes plunging along in
the most surprising manner, with a promise that it will end some day
in chaos and revolution--of course upon a diminutive scale.

A representative man is Mr. Bones, the solitary night-watchman of the
town. One of the duties of Mr. Bones is to light the street-lamps. It
is an operation which does not require any very extraordinary effort
of the intellect; but during a part of the summer the mind of Mr.
Bones did not seem to be equal to the strain placed upon it by this
duty. It was observed that whenever there were bright moonlight nights
Mr. Bones would have all the lamps burning from early in the evening
until dawn, while upon the nights when there was no moon he would not
light them at all, and the streets would be as dark as tar. At last
people began to complain about it, and one day one of the supervisors
called to see Mr. Bones about it. He remarked to him,

"Mr. Bones, people are finding fault because you light up on moonlight
nights and don't light the lamps when it is dark. I'd like you to
manage the thing a little better."

"It struck me as being singular, too, but I can't help it. I've got
instructions to follow the almanac, and I'm going to follow it."

"Did the almanac say there'd be no moon last night?"

"Yes, it did."

"Well, the moon was shining, though, and at its full."

"I know," said Mr. Bones, "and that's what gits me. How in the thunder
the moon kin shine when the almanac says it won't beats me out.
Perhaps there's something the matter with the moon; got shoved off her
course may be."

"I guess not."

"Well, it's changed off somehow, and I've got to have something
regular to go by. I'm going by what the almanac says; and if the
moon's going to shuffle around kinder loose and not foller the
almanac, that's its lookout. If the almanac says no moon, then I'm
bound to light the lamps if there's millions of moons shining in the
sky. Them's my orders, and I'll mind 'em."

"How d'you know the almanac is not wrong?"

"Because I know it ain't. It was always right before."

"Let's look at it."

"There it is. Look there, now. Don't it say full moon on the 20th? and
this yer's only the 9th, and yet it's full moon now."

"That's so; and--Er--er--Less--see Er-er--Mr. Bones, do you know what
year this almanac is for?"

"Why, 1876, of course."

"No, it isn't; it's for 1866. It's ten years old."

"Oh no! 1866! Well, now, it is. I declare! 1866! Why, merciful Moses!
I got the wrong one off the shelf, and I've been depending on it
for three months! No wonder the lamps was wrong. Well, that beats
everything."

Then Mr. Bones tore up the almanac and got one for 1876, and ever
since that time the lamp-lighting department has given tolerable
satisfaction.

But it is as a night-watchman that Mr. Bones shines with surpassing
splendor. When he first entered the service, he was very anxious to
make a good impression on Colonel Coffin, the burgess and head of the
village government; and the first night upon which he went on duty
Colonel Coffin was awakened about half-past twelve by a furious ring
at his door-bell. He looked out of the window and perceived the
watchman, who said,

"She's all right. Nobody's broke in. I've got my eye on things. You
kin depend on me."

The colonel thought he was one of the most faithful watchmen he ever
saw, and he returned serenely to bed. On the following night, just
after twelve, there was another energetic ring at the bell; and when
the burgess raised the window, the watchman said,

"Your girls ain't left the window-shutters open and the house is not
afire. All right as a trivet while I'm around, you bet!"

"Louisa," said the colonel to his wife as he returned to his couch,
"that is a splendid watchman, but I think he's just the least bit too
enthusiastic."

A couple of nights later, when the door-bell rang at half-past one,
the colonel felt somewhat angry, and he determined to stay in bed; but
the person on the step below at last began to kick against the front
door, when the colonel threw up the window and exclaimed,

"What do you want?"

It was the watchman, and he said,

"You know old Mrs. Biles up the street yer? Well, I've just rung Biles
up, and he says her rheumatism ain't no better. Thought you might want
to know, so I called. I felt kinder lonesome out here, too."

As Colonel Coffin slammed the sash down he felt mad and murderous. The
next night, however, that faithful guardian applied the toe of his
boot to the front door with such energy that the colonel leaped from
bed, and protruding his head from the window said,

"I wish to _gracious_ you'd stop kicking up this kind of fuss around
here every night! What do you mean, anyhow?"

"Why, I only stopped to tell you that Butterwick has two setter pups,
and that I'd get you one if you wanted it. Nothing mean about that, is
there?"

The colonel uttered an ejaculatory criticism upon Butterwick and the
pups as he closed the window, and a moment later he heard the watchman
call up Smith, who lives next door, and remark to him,

"They tell me it's a splendid season for bananas, Mr. Smith."

When Coffin heard Smith hurling objurgations about bananas and
watchmen out upon the midnight air, he knew it was immoral, but he
felt his heart warm toward Smith. The next time the watchman tried
to get the colonel out by ringing and kicking the colonel refused to
respond, and finally the watchman banged five barrels of his revolver.
Then Coffin came to the window in a rage.

"You eternal idiot," he said, "if you don't stop this racket at night,
I'll have you put under bonds to keep the peace."

"Oh, all right," replied the watchman. "I had something important to
tell you; but if you don't want to hear it, very well; I kin keep it
to myself."

"Well, what is it? Out with it!"

"Why, I heard to-day that the kangaroo down at the Park in the city
can't use one of its hind legs. Rough on the Centennial, ain't it?"

Then, as the colonel withdrew in a condition of awful rage, the
watchman sauntered up the street to break the news to the rest of the
folks. On the next night a gang of burglars broke into Coffin's house
and ransacked it from top to bottom. Toward morning Coffin heard them;
and hastily dressing himself and seizing his revolver, he proceeded
down stairs. The burglars heard him coming and fled. Then the colonel
sprang his rattle and summoned the neighbors. When they arrived, the
colonel, in the course of conversation, made some remarks about the
perfect uselessness of night-watchmen. Thereupon Mr. Potts said,

"I saw that fellow Bones only an hour ago two squares above here, at
McGinnis's, routing McGinnis out to tell him that old cheese makes the
best bait for catfish."

Mr. Bones was reprimanded, but he remained upon what is facetiously
known as "the force." The borough cannot afford to dispense with the
services of such an original genius as he.

Our sheriff is a man of rather higher intelligence, but he also has a
singular capacity for perpetrating dreadful blunders. Over in the town
of Nockamixon one of the churches last year called a clergyman
named Rev. Joseph Striker. In the same place, by a most unfortunate
coincidence, resides also a prize-fighter named Joseph Striker, and
rumors were afloat a few weeks ago that the latter Joseph was about to
engage in a contest with a Jersey pugilist for the championship. Our
sheriff considered it his duty to warn Joseph against the proposed
infraction of the laws, and so he determined to call upon the
professor of the art of self-defence. Unhappily, in inquiring the way
to the pugilist's house, somebody misunderstood the sheriff, and sent
him to the residence of the Rev. Joseph Striker, of whom he had never
heard. When Mr. Striker entered the room in answer to the summons, the
sheriff said to him familiarly,

"Hello, Joe! How are you?"

Mr. Striker was amazed at this address, but he politely said,

"Good-morning."

"Joe," said the sheriff, throwing his leg lazily over the arm of the
chair, "I came round here to see you about that mill with Harry Dingus
that they're all talking about. I want you to understand that it can't
come off anywheres around here. You know well enough it's against the
law, and I ain't a-going to have it."

"Mill! Mill, sir? What on earth do you mean?" asked Mr. Striker, in
astonishment. "I do not own any mill, sir. Against the law! I do not
understand you, sir."

"Now, see here, Joe," said the sheriff, biting off a piece of tobacco
and looking very wise, "that won't go down with me. It's pretty thin,
you know. I know well enough that you've put up a thousand dollars on
that little affair, and that you've got the whole thing fixed, with
Bill Martin for referee. I know you're going down to Pea Patch Island
to have it out, and I'm not going to allow it. I'll arrest you as sure
as a gun if you try it on, now mind me!"

"Really, sir," said Mr. Striker, "there must be some mistake about--"

"Oh no, there isn't; your name's Joe Striker, isn't it?" asked the
sheriff.

"My name is Joseph Striker, certainly."

"I knew it," said the sheriff, spitting on the carpet; "and you see
I've got this thing dead to rights. It sha'n't come off; and I'm doing
you a favor in blocking the game, because Harry'd curl you all up any
way if I let you meet him. I know he's the best man, and you'd just
lose your money and get all bunged up besides; so you take my advice
now, and quit. You'll be sorry if you don't."

"I do not know what you are referring to," said Mr. Striker. "Your
remarks are incomprehensible to me, but your tone is very offensive;
and if you have any business with me, I'd thank you to state it at
once."

"Joe," said the sheriff, looking at him with a benign smile, "you play
it pretty well. Anybody'd think you were innocent as a lamb. But it
won't work, Joseph--it won't work, I tell you. I've got a duty to
perform, and I'm going to do it; and I pledge you my word, if you and
Dingus don't knock off now, I'll arrest you and send you up for ten
years as sure as death. I'm in earnest about it."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Mr. Striker, fiercely.

"Oh, don't you go to putting on any airs about it. Don't you try any
strutting before me," said the sheriff; "or I'll put you under bail
this very afternoon. Let's see: how long were you in jail the last
time? Two years, wasn't it? Well, you go fighting with Dingus and
you'll get ten years sure."

"You are certainly crazy!" exclaimed Mr. Striker.

"I don't see what you want to stay at that business for, anyhow," said
the sheriff. "Here you are, in a snug home, where you might live
in peace and keep respectable. But no, you must associate with low
characters, and go to stripping yourself naked and jumping into a ring
to get your nose blooded and your head swelled and your body
hammered to a jelly; and all for what? Why, for a championship! It's
ridiculous. What good'll it do you if you're champion? Why don't you
try to be honest and decent, and let prize-fighting alone?"

"This is the most extraordinary conversation I ever listened to," said
Mr. Striker. "You evidently take me for a--"

"I take you for Joe Striker; and if you keep on, I'll take you to
jail," said the sheriff; with emphasis. "Now, you tell me who's got
those stakes and who's your trainer, and I'll put an end to the whole
thing."

"You seem to imagine that I am a pugilist," said Mr. Striker. "Let me
inform you, sir, that I am a clergyman."

"Joe," said the sheriff, shaking his head, "it's too bad for you to
lie that way--too bad, indeed."

"But I _am_ a clergyman, sir--pastor of the church of St. Sepulchre.
Look! here is a letter in my pocket addressed to me."

"You don't really mean to say that you're a preacher named Joseph
Striker?" exclaimed the sheriff, looking scared.

"Certainly I am. Come up stairs and I'll show you a barrelful of my
sermons."

"Well, if this don't beat Nebuchadnezzar!" said the sheriff. "This is
awful! Why, I mistook you for Joe Striker, the prize-fighter! I don't
know how I ever--A preacher! What an ass I've made of myself! I don't
know how to apologize; but if you want to kick me down the front
steps, just kick away; I'll bear it like an angel."

Then the sheriff withdrew unkicked, and Mr. Striker went up stairs
to finish his Sunday sermon. The sheriff talked of resigning, but he
continues to hold on.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Slingsby, our assessor and tax-collector, holds on too. He
is another model member of our civil service. The principal
characteristic of Mr. Slingsby is enthusiasm. He has an idea that
whenever a man gets anything new it ought to be taxed, and he is
always on hand to perform the service. I had about fifteen feet added
to one of my chimneys last spring; and when it was done, Slingsby
called and assessed it, under the head of "improved real estate," at
eighty dollars, and collected two per cent. on it. A few days later,
while I was standing by the fence, Slingsby came up and said,

"Beautiful dog you have there."

"Yes; it's a setter."

"Indeed! A setter, hey? The tax on setters is two dollars. I'll
collect it now, while I have it on my mind."

I settled the obligation, and the next day Slingsby came around again.
He opened the conversation with the remark,

"Billy Jones told me down at the grocery-store that your terrier had
had pups."

"Yes."

"A large litter?"

"Four."

"Indeed! Less see: tax is two dollars; four times two is eight--yes,
eight dollars tax, please. And hurry up, too, if you can, for they
have a new batch of kittens over at Baldwin's, and I want to ketch
old Baldwin before he goes out. By the way, when did you put that
weathercock on your stable?"

"Yesterday."

"You don't say! Well, hold on, then. Four times two is eight, and
four--on the weathercock, you know--is twelve. Twelve dollars is the
exact amount."

"What do you mean by four dollars tax on a weathercock? I never heard
of such a thing."

"Didn't, hey? Why, she comes in under the head of 'scientific
apparatus.' She's put up there to tell which way the wind blows, ain't
she? Well, that's scientific intelligence, and the apparatus is liable
to tax."

"Mr. Slingsby, that is the most absurd thing I ever heard of. You
might just as well talk of taxing Butterwick's twins."

"Butter--You don't mean to say Butterwick has twins? Why, certainly
they're taxable. They come in under the head of 'poll-tax.' Three
dollars apiece. I'll go right down there. Glad you mentioned it."
Then I paid him, and he left with Butterwick's twins on his
memorandum-book.

A day or two afterward Mr. Slingsby called to see me, and he said,

"I've got a case that bothers me like thunder. You know Hough the
tobacconist? Well, he's just bought a new wooden Indian to stand in
front of his store. Now, I have a strong feeling that I ought to tax
that figure, but I don't know where to place it. Would it come in as
'statuary'? Somehow that don't seem exactly the thing. I was going to
assess it under the head of 'idols,' but the idiots who got up this
law haven't got a word in in reference to idols. Think of that, will
you? Why, we might have paganism raging all over this country, and we
couldn't get a cent out of them. I'd a put that Indian under 'graven
images,' only they ain't mentioned, either. I s'pose I could tax the
bundle of wooden cigars in his fist as 'tobacco,' but that leaves out
the rest of the figure; and he's not liable to poll-tax because he
can't even vote. Now, how would it strike you if I levied on him as an
'immigrant'? He was made somewheres else than here, and he came here
from there, consequently he's an immigrant. That's my view. What do
you think of it?"

I advised him to try it upon that plan, and the next morning Mr.
Slingsby and Mr. Hough had a fight on the pavement in front of the
Indian because Mr. Slingsby tried to seize the immigrant for unpaid
taxes. Slingsby was taken home and put to bed, and the business of
collecting taxes was temporarily suspended. But Slingsby will be
around again soon with some new and ingenious ideas that he has
thought of during his illness.



CHAPTER XI.

_FUNEREAL AND CONJUGAL_.


Mrs. Banger has buried four husbands, and her experience of domestic
life in their company was so satisfactory that she recently married a
fifth, Mr. Banger. The name of her fourth was McFadden. The name of
her first and third was Smyth, while that of her second, oddly enough,
was Smith. Soon after her return from her last wedding-tour she was
visited by Mr. Toombs, the undertaker, who called ostensibly to
correct an error in his last bill. When Mrs. Banger entered the
parlor, Mr. Toombs greeted her cordially and said,

"Ah! Mrs. Smy--Banger, I mean; I hope I see you well? Did you have a
pleasant trip? Nice weather while you were away; a little backward,
maybe, but still comfortable, and likely to make things grow. Cemetery
looks beautiful now. I was out there to-day to a burying. Grass is
coming up charming on your lot, and I noticed a blackberry bush
growing out of Mr. Smyth's grave. He was fond of 'em, I reckon. There
they were lying, Smith and Smyth, and McFadden and the other Smyth,
all four of them. No woman could have done fairer with those men than
you did, ma'am; those mahogany coffins with silver-plated handles were
good enough for the patriarchs and prophets, and the President of the
United States himself daren't ask anything better than a hearse with
real ostrich feathers and horses that are black as ink all over.

"I know when we laid Mr. McFadden out I said to Tim Lafferty, my
foreman, that the affection you showed in having that man buried in
style almost made me cry; but I never fully realized what woman's love
really is till you made me line Mr. Smith's coffin with white satin
and let in a French plate-glass skylight over the countenance. That
worked on my feelings so that I pretty near forgot to distribute the
gloves to the mourners. And Mr. Smith was worthy of it; he deserved
it all. He was a man all over, no difference how you looked at him;
stoutish, maybe, and took a casket that was thick through, but he was
all there, and I know when you lost him it worried you like anything.

"Now, it's none of my business, Mrs. Banger; but casting my eye over
those graves to-day, it struck me that I might fix 'em up a little,
so's they'd be more comfortable like. I think McFadden wants a few
sods over the feet, and Smith's headstone has worked a little out of
plumb. He's settled some, I s'pose. I think I'd straighten it up and
put a gas-pipe railing around Mr. Smyth. And while you're about it,
Mrs. Banger, hadn't you better buy about ten feet beyond Mr. Smith,
so's there won't be any scrouging when you bury the next one? I like
elbow-room in a cemetery lot, and I pledge you my word it'll be a
tight squeeze to get another one in there and leave room for you
besides. It can't be done so's to look anyways right, and I know you
don't want to take all four of 'em out and make 'em move up, so's to
let the rest of you in. Of course it'd cut you up, and it'd cost like
everything, too.

"When a person's dead and buried, it's the fair thing to let him
alone, and not to go hustling him around. That's my view, any way; and
I say that if I was you, sooner than put Mr. Smith on top of McFadden
and Smyth on top of Smith, I'd buy in the whole reservation and lay
'em forty feet apart.

"And how _is_ Mr. Banger? Seem in pretty good health? Do you think we
are to have him with us long? I hope so; but there's consumption in
his family, I believe. Life is mighty uncertain. We don't know what
minute we may be called. I'm a forehanded kind of man, and while his
wedding-suit was being made I just stepped into the tailor's and ran
it over with a tape-measure, so's to get some idea of his size. You'd
hardly believe it, but I've got a black walnut casket at the shop
that'll fit him as exact as if it had been built for him. It was the
luckiest thing. An odd size, too, and wider than we generally make
them. I laid it away up stairs for him, to be prepared in case of
accident. You've been so clever with me that I feel 'sif I ought to
try my best to accommodate you; and I know how women hate to bother
about such things when their grief is tearing up their feelings and
they are fretting about getting their mourning-clothes in time for the
funeral.

"And that's partly what I called to see you about, Mrs. McFa--Banger,
I mean. I've got a note to pay in the morning, and the man's pushing
me very hard; but I'm cleaned right out. Haven't got a cent. Now, it
occurred to me that maybe you'd advance me the money on Mr. Banger's
funeral if I'd offer you liberal terms. How does fifteen per cent.
strike you? and if he lives for six or seven years, I'll make it
twenty. Mind you, I offer the casket and the best trimmings, eight
carriages, the finest hearse in the county, and ice enough for
three days in the swelteringest weather in August. And I don't
mind--well--yes, I'll even agree to throw in a plain tombstone. If
you can do that to accommodate a friend, why, I'll--No? Don't want to
speculate on it? Oh, very well; I'm sorry, because I know you'd been
satisfied with the way I'd have arranged things. But no matter; I
s'pose I can go round and borrow elsewhere. Good-morning; drop in some
time, and I'll show you that casket."

As Toombs was going out he met Mr. Banger at the door. When he was
gone, Banger said,

"My dear, who is that very odd-looking man?"

And Mrs. Banger hesitated a moment, turned very red, and answered,

"That is--that man is--a--a--he is, I believe--a--a--a--a some kind of
a--an undertaker."

Then Banger looked gloomy and went up stairs to ponder. But Mrs.
Banger felt that she had a duty to perform in taking care that the lot
in the cemetery should not fall into such disorder as Mr. Toombs had
indicated, and she resolved to call upon Mr. Mix, at his monumental
marble-works, to get him to attend to the matter for her. Mr. Mix did
not know her, and his ignorance of her past history turned out to be
unfortunate. The following conversation occurred between them:

_Mrs. Banger_. "Mr. Mix, I am anxious to have my cemetery lot fixed
up--to put in new tombstones and reset the railing; and I called to
see if I could make some satisfactory arrangement with you."

_Mix_. "Certainly, madam. Tell me precisely what it is you want done."

_Mrs. B_. "Well, I'd like to have a new tombstone put over the grave
of John--my husband, you know--and to have a nice inscription cut in
it, 'Here lies John Smyth,' etc., etc. You know what I mean; the usual
way, of course, and maybe some kind of a design on the stone like a
broken rosebud or something."

_Mix_. "I understand."

_Mrs. B_. "Well, then, what'll you charge me for getting up a
headstone just like that, out of pretty good white marble, and with a
little picture of a torch upside down or a weeping angel on it, and
the name of Thomas Smith cut on it?"

_Mix_. "John Smyth, you mean."

_Mrs. B_. "No, I mean Thomas."

_Mix_. "But you said John before."

_Mrs. B_. "I know, but that was my first husband, and Thomas was my
second, and I want a new headstone for each of them. Now, it seems to
me, Mr. Mix, that where a person is buying more than one, that way,
you ought to make some reduction in the price--throw something off.
Though, of course, I want a pretty good article at all the graves. Not
anything gorgeous, but neat and tasteful and calculated to please the
eye. Mr. Smyth was not a man who was fond of show. Give him a thing
comfortable, and he was satisfied. Now, which do you think is the
prettiest, to have the name in raised letters in a straight line over
the top of the stone, or just to cut the words 'Alexander P. Smyth' in
a kind of a semicircle in sunken letters?"

_Mix_. "Did I understand you to say Alexander P.? Were you referring
to John or Thomas?"

_Mrs. B_. "Of course not. Aleck was my third. I'm not going to neglect
his grave while I'm fixing up the rest. I wish to make a complete
job of it, Mr. Mix, while I am about it, and I'm willing for you to
undertake it if you are reasonable in your charges. Now, what'll you
ask me for the lot, the kind I've described, plain but substantial,
and sunk about two feet I should think, at the head of each grave?
What'll you charge me for them--for the whole four?"

_Mix_. "Well, I'll put you in those three headstones--"

[Illustration: A TOMBSTONE CONTRACT]

_Mrs. B. "Four_ headstones, Mr. Mix, not three."

_Mix_. "Four, was it? No; there was John and Thomas and Alexander P.
That's all you said, I think. Only three."

_Mrs. B_. "Why, I want one for Adolph too, as a matter of course, the
same as the others. I thought you knew I wanted one for Adolph, one
made just like John's, only with the name different. Adolph was my
fourth husband. He died about three years after I buried Philip, and
I'm wearing mourning for him now. Now, please give me your prices for
the whole of them."

_Mix_. "Well, madam, I want to be as reasonable as I can, and I tell
you what I'll do. You give me all your work in the future, and I'll
put you in those five headstones at hardly anything above cost; say--"

_Mrs. B_. "_Four_ headstones, not five."

_Mix_. "I think you mentioned five."

_Mrs. B_. "No; only four."

_Mix_. "Less see: there was John, and Thomas and Aleck, and Adolph and
Philip."

_Mrs. B_. "Yes, but Aleck and Philip were the same one. His middle
name was Philip, and I always called him by it."

_Mix_. "Mrs. Banger, I'll be much obliged to you if you'll tell me
precisely how many husbands you have planted up in that cemetery lot.
This thing's getting a little mixed."

_Mrs. B_. "What do you mean, sir, by saying planted? I never 'planted'
anybody. It's disgraceful to use such language."

_Mix_. "It's a technical term, madam. We always use it, and I don't
see as it's going to hurt any old row of fellows named Smyth. Planted
is good enough for other men, and it's good enough for them."

_Mrs. B_. "Old row of--What d'you mean, you impudent vagabond? I
wouldn't let you put a headstone on one of my graves if you'd do it
for nothing."

Then Mrs. Banger flounced out of the shop, and Mix called after her as
she went through the door,

"Lemme know when you go for another man, and I'll throw him in a
tombstone for a wedding-present He'll want it soon."

Mrs. Banger subsequently procured the services of a person in the
city, and she regards Mr. Mix with something like detestation.

But Mrs. Banger herself is not universally beloved. Colonel Coffin
knows of one woman who despises her methods and desires her complete
repression. A short time after the election of the colonel to the
Legislature a lady called to see him at his law-office. When she had
closed the door, she sat down and said,

"Colonel, my name is Mooney. I am unmarried--a single woman. I called
to see you in reference to pushing a bill through the Legislature
for the benefit of maiden ladies such as myself. Let me direct your
attention to some extraordinary facts. Statistics tell us that in the
entire population of the world there are one-fourth more women than
men. In this country the proportion of women to men is slightly
larger. In this State there are two and one-eighth women to every man.
Now, this outrageous condition of affairs--"

"Excuse me for a moment, madam," said the colonel. "Really, the
Legislature can do nothing to improve the matter. It cannot regulate
the proportion of the sexes by law."

"I know it," replied Miss Mooney. "That is not what I am coming at. I
say that this condition of affairs is grossly unjust. If I had had the
management of it, and had been compelled to arrange that there should
be more women than men, I certainly should not have had any fractions.
There are not only two women for every man, but an eighth of a woman
besides, so that ever so many of us women would each belong to eight
different men if a fair distribution were made. How do I know, for
instance, that an eighth of me does not belong to you? Why, I don't
know it; and I say it's awful."

"If such is the case, madam," said the colonel, "I surrender all my
rights without waiting for a legislative enactment."

"Excuse me," replied Miss Mooney, "but you do not catch the drift of
my remarks. Of course, while the laws against bigamy are in existence,
some of those women can never be married, although for my part, when a
man has two wives and an eighth of another wife, I call it polygamy.
Well, now, the point I want to make is this: When more than half of us
can't marry, it's only right that the other half should have a fair
chance. There are not men enough to go round, any how, and for
gracious' sake let's make them go as far as they honestly will. Well,
then, how'll we do it? How'll we make an equitable distribution of
those men?"

"Hanged if I know, madam. The Legislature daren't meddle with them."

"I'll tell you how to do it. Listen to me. Shut down on the widows.
You hear me! Suppress the widows. Make it death for any widow to marry
again. That's my remedy; and there'll never be any justice till it's
the law. Just look at it! When a woman has been married once, she's
had more than her share of the male population; she's had her own
share and the share of another woman and an eighth. Is it right, is it
honorable, for that woman to go and marry another man, and take the
share of two more women and an eighth? I say, is it just the thing?"

"Well, on the surface it does look a little crooked."

"Crooked is not the word. Colonel Coffin, I know these widows. I
have had my eye on them. They've got a way of bursting into a man's
feelings and walking off with his affections that fills a modest woman
like me with gall and bitterness. You know Mrs. Banger? No? Well, now,
look at her, f'r instance. First she married Mr. Smyth, although what
on earth he ever saw to admire about _her_ I cannot imagine. That was
her allowance. Having obtained Smyth, oughtn't she to have stood back
and given some other woman a chance--now, oughtn't she?"

"Really, madam, I am hardly able to express an opinion."

"But no. After a while Smyth succumbed. He died. She entombed him,
crying, mind you, all the time, as if, having lost Smyth, she wanted
to die and join Smyth in the grave and in Paradise. But no sooner was
he well settled than she began to flirt with Mr. Smith, and what does
he do but yield to her blandishments and marry her? Took her, and
seemed to glory in it.

"Now, you'd've thought that she'd've been satisfied with that, when
she'd got the share of four women and a quarter. But pretty soon, as
luck would have it, Smith, died and she hustled _him_ into the grave.
And in less than a year afterward I was amazed to hear that she was
going to marry another Smyth. I was never more astonished in my life.
Positively going to annex a third man, when the supply was too short
anyway. Did you ever hear of such impudence? Did you, now?"

"I'll think it over and see if I can remember."

"Well, then, I thought for certain _now_ that woman would knock off
and give the rest of us some kind of a chance; and when Smyth was
killed by cholera and interred, it never entered my head that that
widow'd go after _another_ man. But, bless your soul! she'd hardly got
into second mourning before she began to pursue Mr. McFadden, and
got him. Now, look at it. One woman, no better'n I am, has had the
property of eight women and a half, and here I am single and getting
on in life, with the chances growing absurdly small. No civilized
country ought to tolerate such a thing. It's worse than piracy. You
may scuttle a ship or blow her up or run her against the rocks, and no
great harm is done, because timber's plenty and you can build another
one. But when one woman scuttles three men and then ties to a fourth,
what are you going to do about it? You can't go out into the woods and
chop down trees and saw them up and tack them together and build a
man. Now, can you?"

"That seems to be the common impression, anyway."

"Just so. And I want you to pass a bill through that Legislature to
make it a felony for a widow to marry again. I've drawn up a draft of
a bill and I'll leave it with you. I've made it retroactive, so that
it'll bring that woman Banger up with a short turn and send her after
Smith and the others. I don't care to marry, myself, but I want
justice. Are you married?"

"Madam, leave the bill with me and I will examine it."

"I say are you married?"

"I--I--married did you say? Oh yes. I've been married for ten years."

"Very well, then; good-morning;" and Miss Mooney withdrew.

"Thunder!" exclaimed the colonel as he shut the door. "If I'd've been
single, I believe she'd've proposed on the spot."

It is not considered likely that the Mooney anti-widow bill will be
pushed very hard in the Legislature next session.



CHAPTER XII.

_A NEW MRS. TOODLES.--POTTS' ADVENTURES_.


One evening I met Mr. Potts out upon the turnpike, taking a walk;
and I joined him. As we proceeded he became rather confidential. The
subject of the mania for collecting bric-a-brac came up; and after an
expression of opinion from me respecting the matter, Mr. Potts told
the story of his wife's fondness for that kind of thing. He said,

"My wife is the most infatuated bric-a-brac hunter I ever heard of.
She's an uncommonly fine woman about most things; loves her children;
makes splendid pies; don't fool with any of those fan-dangling ways
women have of fixing their hair; and she's an angel for temper. But
she beats Mrs. Toodles for going to auctions. She's filled my house
with the wildest mess of bric-a-brac and such stuff you ever came
across outside of a museum of natural curiosities. She's spent
more money for wrecks that wouldn't be allowed in the cellar of a
poor-house than'd keep a family in comfort for years.

"You know Scudmore, who sold out the other day? She was there, bidding
away like a millionaire. Came home with a wagon-load of things--four
albata tea-pots without lids or handles; two posts of a bedstead and
three slats; a couple of churns and fourteen second-hand sun-bonnets,
and more mournful refuse like that. Said she didn't intend to buy,
but she bid on them to run them up to help Mrs. Scudmore, and the
auctioneer knocked them down quicker'n a wink. Said it was 'Lot 47,'
and she had to take it all. And she said maybe she could make up the
sun-bonnets into bibs for the baby and use the tea-pots for preserves.
She thought she might make a pretty fair bedstead out of the posts by
propping the other ends on a chair; and she said it was a lucky thing
she was so forehanded about those churns, because she might have a
cow knocked down to her, and then she would be all ready for
butter-making. More'n likely she'll buy some old steer and bring him
home while she's rummaging around for bric-a-brac.

"When the Paxtons had their sale in January she was around there,
of course, and came home after dinner with the usual dismembered
furniture; and when I said to her, 'Emma, why under Heaven did you buy
in the mud-dredge and the sausage-stuffer?' she said she thought the
sausage-stuffer would do for a cannon for the boys on the Fourth of
July, and there was no telling if Charley wouldn't want to be a
civil engineer when he grew up, and perhaps he'd get a contract for
deepening the channel of the river; and then he'd rise up and bless
the foresight of the mother who'd bought a mud-dredge for two dollars
and saved it up for him.

"I sold that scoop on Wednesday for old iron for fifteen cents; and
I'll bang the head off of Charley if he ever goes to dredging mud or
playing cannon with the sausage-stuffer. I won't have my boys carrying
on in that way.

"Over there at Robinson's sale I believe she'd've bid on the whole
concern if I hadn't come in while she was going it. As it was,
she bought an aneroid barometer, three dozen iron skewers, a
sacking-bottom and four volumes of Eliza Cook's poems. Said she
thought those volumes were some kind of cookery-books, or she wouldn't
have bid on them, and the barometer would be valuable to tell us which
was north. _North_, mind you! She thought it indicated the points of
the compass. And yet they want to let women vote! I threw in those
skewers along with the mud-dredge, and she's used the sacking-bottom
twice to patch Charley's pants; and that's all the good we ever got
out of that auction.

"But she don't care for utility; it's simply a mania for buying
things. We haven't a stove in the house, and yet what does she do at
Murphy's sale but bid on sixty-two feet and three elbows of rusty
stovepipe and cart it home with four debilitated gingham umbrellas.
Said the umbrellas were a bargain because, by putting in new covers
and handles and a rib here and there, they would do for birthday
presents for her aunts. And the stovepipe could be sent out to the
farm to be put around the peach trees to keep the cows off. How in
thunder she was ever going to get a stovepipe around a peach tree
never crossed her mind. She is just as impractical as a baby.

"When Bailey had the auction at his insurance office, there she was,
and, sure enough, that afternoon she landed in our side yard with
Bailey's poll-parrot and a circular saw. It amused me. She wanted to
use that saw as a dinner-gong, but it was cracked, and so she has
turned it into a griddle for muffins. Bailey had taught the parrot to
swear so that I was afraid it'd demoralize Charley, and I don't mind
telling you in confidence that I killed it by putting bug-poison in a
water-cracker.

"Now, I see there's an auction advertised for Friday at Peters'; and
Peters has a pyramid of old tomato cans and bric-a-brac of that sort
piled up in his back yard. Now, you see if that woman don't bid on
those cans until she runs them up to a dollar apiece, and then come
lugging them around to our house with some extraordinary idea about
loading them up with gunpowder and selling them to the government
during the next war for bombshells. If she does, that winds the thing
up. I'm a good-natured man, but no woman shall bring home three
hundred tomato cans to my house and retain a claim upon my affections.
I'll resign first."

My feeling was that he was a little mixed in his notions about
bric-a-brac, but that he really had a grievance.

       *       *       *       *       *

Potts told me, also, that he came home very late one night recently,
and when he went up stairs his wife and children were in bed asleep.
He undressed as softly as he could, and then, as he felt thirsty, he
thought he would get a drink of water. Fortunately, he saw a gobletful
standing on the washstand, placed there for him, evidently, by Mrs.
Potts. He seized it and drank the liquid in two or three huge gulps,
but just as he was draining the goblet he gagged, dropped the glass to
the floor, where it was shivered to atoms, while he ejected something
from his mouth. He was certain that a live animal of some kind had
been in the water, and that he had nearly swallowed it. This theory
was confirmed when he saw the object which he spat out go bounding
over the floor. He pursued it, kicking a couple of chairs over while
doing so, and at last he put his foot on it and held it. Of course
Mrs. Potts was wide awake by this time and scared nearly to death, and
the baby was screaming at the top of its lungs. Mrs. Potts got out of
bed and turned up the gas, and said,

"Mr. Potts, what in the name of common sense is the matter?"

"It's a mouse!" shouted Potts, in an excited manner. "It's a mouse in
the goblet. I nearly swallowed it, but I spat it out, and now I've got
my foot on it. Get a stick and kill it, quick!"

[Illustration: MR. POTTS' MOUSE]

Mrs. Potts was at first disposed to jump on a chair and scream, for,
like all women, she feared a mouse very much more than she did a
tiger. But at Potts' solicitation she got the broom and prepared to
demolish the mouse when Potts lifted his foot. He drew back, and she
aimed a fearful blow at the object and missed it. Then, as it did not
move, she took a good look at it. Then she threw down the broom, and
after casting a look of scorn at Potts, she said,

"Come to bed, you old fool! that's not a mouse."

"What d'you mean?"

"Why, you simpleton, that's the baby's India-rubber bottle-top that
I put in the goblet to keep it sweet. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself carrying on in this manner at one o'clock in the morning."

Then Potts turned in. After this he will drink at the pump.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the course of the conversation I remarked that I had seen some men
fixing Potts' roof recently; and when I asked Potts if anything was
the matter, he said,

"My roof was shingled originally; but as it leaked, I had the shingles
removed and a gravel-and-felt roof put on. The first night after it
was finished there was a very high wind, which blew the gravel
off with such force that it broke thirty-four panes of glass in
Butterwick's house, next door. The wind also tore up the felt and blew
it over the edge, so that it hung down over the front of the house
like a curtain. Of course it made the rooms pitch-dark, and I did not
get up until one o'clock in the afternoon, but lay there wondering how
it was the night seemed so long.

"Then I had a tin roof put on, and it did well enough for a while.
But whenever there was a heavy rain or the wind was high, it used to
rattle all night with a noise like the battle of Gettysburg. At last
it began to leak, and a tinner sent a man around to find the hole. He
spent a week on that roof, and he spread half a ton of solder over
it, but still it leaked. And finally, when the snow came, the water
trickled down the wall and ran into an eight-hundred-dollar piano,
which will be closed out at a low figure to anybody who wants mahogany
kindling-wood. When the tin was removed and the new slate roof was put
on, the slates used to get loose and slide down on the head of the
hired girl while she was hanging up the clothes. And when the man came
to replace the slates, he plunged off the roof and broke four ribs
and his leg, whereupon he sued me for damages. And while the case was
pending in court a snow-storm came. The snow blew in under the slates,
and my oldest boy spent the day with some of his friends snow-balling
and sledding in the garret. Then the snow on the garret floor
melted and wet the wall-paper down stairs, so that the house became
frightfully damp, and we had to move over to the hotel for a
fortnight.

"Then I tried the 'Patent Incombustible' roofing, because the man said
it would not only keep out the rain, but it was perfectly fireproof. A
week after it was on, Butterwick's stable caught fire and flung up
a great many sparks. All the houses in the neighborhood, however,
escaped--all except mine. My roof was in flames before the stable
was done burning; and when the firemen had put it out, they got to
fighting on my front stairs, with the result that the banister was
broken to splinters, a two-inch stream was played into the parlor for
fifteen minutes, and Chief Engineer Johnson bled all over our best
carpet.

"I have the 'Impervious Cement Roof' on now, and it seems to do well
enough, excepting that it isn't impervious. It lets in the water at
eight different places; and whenever there is a shower, I have to rush
my family out on the roof to shelter it with umbrellas. I fully expect
it will explode some night, or do some other deadly and infamous
thing. I am going to put the house up at auction and live in a circus
tent."

       *       *       *       *       *

They had a big excitement over at Potts' the other day about their
cat. They heard the cat howling and screeching somewhere around the
house for two or three days, but they couldn't find her. Potts used to
get up at night, fairly maddened with the noise, and heave things out
the back window at random, hoping to hit her and discourage her. But
she never seemed to mind them; and although eventually he fired off
pretty nearly every movable thing in the house excepting the piano,
she continued to shriek and scream in a manner that was simply
appalling. At last, one day, Potts made a critical examination of the
premises, and, guided by the noise, he finally located the cat in the
tin waterspout which descends the north wall of the house. He thinks
the cat must have been skylarking on the roof some dark night and
accidentally tumbled into the spout.

Potts tried to shake her down by hammering on the spout with a stick;
but the more he pounded, the louder she yelled, and the two noises
roused the entire neighborhood and attracted the attention of the
police. Then he procured a clothes-prop; and ascending to the roof, he
endeavored to push the animal out. But the stick was not long enough
to reach her. All it was good for was to make her howl more loudly;
and it did that. At last Potts concluded to take the spout down and
coax the cat out. When he got it on the ground, he peeped in at the
end, and he could see the animal's eyes shining like balls of fire far
back in the darkness of the hole. After shaking her up for a while
without inducing her to move, he made up his mind that she must be
jammed in the pipe and unable to budge. He wanted to cut the pipe
open, but Butterwick said it would be a pity to spoil such a good
spout for a mere cat.

So Potts finally determined to blow her out with powder. He procured a
small charge; and pushing it pretty well in with a stick, he "tamped"
the end of the spout with clay and lighted the slow-match. Two minutes
later there was an explosion, and the tamping-clay flew out and struck
Butterwick with some violence in the ribs, curling him all up on the
grass by the pump. When he recovered his breath, he got up and said,

"Hang your infernal cat! It's an outrage for you to be endangering the
lives of people with your diabolical schemes for getting at a beas'
that ought to've been killed long ago."

Then Butterwick sullenly got over the fence and went home, and the cat
meanwhile kept up a yowling that made everybody's hair stand on end.

Potts said that he made a mistake in not placing the butt of the spout
against something solid. And so, after putting in a couple of pounds
of powder, he turned the spout up and rested the end upon the ground,
propping it against the pump. Then he lighted the slow-match, and the
crowd scattered. There was a loud explosion, a general distribution of
fragments of tin around the yard, and then out from the upper end of
the spout there sailed something black. It ascended; it went higher
and higher and higher, until it was a mere speck; then it came sailing
down, down, down, until it struck the earth. It was the cat, singed
off, burned to a crisp, looking as if it had been spending the summer
in Vesuvius, but apparently still active and hearty; for as soon as it
alighted it set up a wild, unearthly screech and darted off for the
woodshed, where it continued to howl until Potts went in and killed it
with his shotgun. It cost him forty dollars for a new spout, but he
says he doesn't grudge the money now that he has stopped that fiendish
noise.

       *       *       *       *       *

Potts' clock got out of order one day last winter and began to strike
wrong. That was the cause of the fearful excitement at his house on a
certain night. They were all in bed sound asleep at midnight, when the
clock suddenly struck _five_. The new hired girl, happening to
wake just as it began, heard it, and bounced out of bed under the
impression that morning had come. And as it is dark at 5 A.M. just at
that season, she did not perceive her mistake, but went down into the
kitchen and began to get breakfast.

[Illustration: SHOOTING A BURGLAR]

While she was bustling about in a pretty lively manner, Potts happened
to wake, and he heard the noise. He opened his room door cautiously
and crept softly to the head of the stairs to listen. He could
distinctly hear some one moving about the kitchen and dining-room and
apparently packing up the china. Accordingly, he went back to his room
and woke Mrs. Potts, and gave her orders to spring the rattle out
of the front window the moment she heard his gun go off. Then Potts
seized his fowling-piece; and going down to the dining-room door,
where he could hear the burglars at work, he cocked the gun, aimed it,
pushed the door open with the muzzle and fired. Instantly Mrs. Potts
sprang the rattle, and before Potts could pick up the lacerated hired
girl the front door was burst open by two policemen, who came into the
dining-room.

Seeing Potts with a gun, and a bleeding woman on the floor, they
imagined that murder had been committed, and one of them trotted Potts
off to the station-house, while the other remained to investigate
things. Just then the clock struck six. An explanation ensued from the
girl, who only had a few bird-shot in her leg, and the policeman left
to bring Potts home. He arrived at about three in the morning, just as
the clock was striking eight. When the situation was unfolded to him,
his first action was to jam the butt of his gun through the clock,
whereupon it immediately struck two hundred and forty-three, and then
Potts pitched it over the fence. He has a new clock now, and things
are working better.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Pottses celebrated their "iron wedding" one day last winter, and
they invited about one hundred and twenty guests to the wedding. Of
course each person felt compelled to bring a present of some kind; and
each one did. When Mr. and Mrs. Smith came, they handed Potts a pair
of flatirons. When Mr. and Mrs. Jones arrived, they also had a pair of
flatirons. All hands laughed at the coincidence. And there was even
greater merriment when the Browns arrived with two pairs of flatirons.
But when Mr. and Mrs. Robinson came in with another pair of flatirons,
the laughter became perfectly convulsive.

There was, however, something less amusing about it when the Thompsons
arrived with four flatirons wrapped in brown paper. And Potts' face
actually looked grave when the three Johnson girls were ushered into
the parlor carrying a flatiron apiece. Each one of the succeeding
sixty guests brought flatirons, and there was no break in the
continuity until old Mr. Curry arrived from Philadelphia with a
cast-iron cow-bell. Now, Potts has no earthly use for a cow-bell, and
at any other time he would have treated such a present with scorn. But
now he was actually grateful to Mr. Curry, and he was about to embrace
him, when the Walsinghams came in with the new kind of-double-pointed
flatirons with wooden handles. And all the rest of the guests brought
the same articles excepting Mr. Rugby, and he had with him a patent
stand for holding flatirons. Potts got madder and madder every minute,
and by the time the company had all arrived he was nearly insane with
rage; and he went up to bed, leaving his wife to entertain the guests.
In the morning they counted up the spoils, and found that they had two
hundred and thirteen flatirons, one stand and a cow-bell. And now the
Pottses have cut the Smiths and Browns and Johnsons and Thompsons
and the rest entirely, for they are convinced that there was a
preconcerted design to play a trick upon them.

[Illustration: A FLAT-IRON WEDDING]

The fact, however, is that the hardware store in the place had an
overstock of flatirons and sold them at an absurdly low figure, and
Potts' guests unanimously went for the cheapest thing they could
find, as people always do on such occasions. Potts thinks he will not
celebrate his "silver wedding."



CHAPTER XIII.

_THE RACES, AND SOME OTHER THINGS_.


There was some horse-racing over at the Blank course one day last
fall, and Butterwick attended to witness it. On his way home in the
cars in the afternoon he encountered Rev. Dr. Dox, a clergyman who
knows no more about horse-racing than a Pawnee knows about psychology.
Butterwick, however, took for granted, in his usual way, that the
doctor was familiar with the subject; and taking a seat beside him, he
remarked loudly--for the doctor is deaf--

"I was out at the Blank course to-day to see Longfellow."

"Indeed! Was he there? Where did you say he was?"

"Why, over here at the course. I saw him and General Harney, and a
lot more of 'em. He run against General Harney, and it created a big
excitement, too; but he beat the general badly, and the way the crowd
cheered him was wonderful. They say that a good deal of money changed
hands. The fact is I had a small bet upon the general myself."

"You don't mean to say that Longfellow actually _beat_ General
Harney?"

"Yes, I do! Beat him the worst kind. You'd hardly've thought it, now,
would you? I was never more surprised in my life. What's queer about
it is that he seemed just as fresh afterward as before he commenced.
Didn't faze him a bit. Why, instead of wanting to rest, he was jumping
about just as lively; and when the crowd began to push around him, he
kicked a boy in the back and doubled him all up--nearly killed him.
Oh, he's wicked! I wouldn't trust him as far as I could see him."

"This is simply astonishing," said the doctor. "I wouldn't have
believed it possible. Are you _sure_ it was Longfellow, Mr.
Butterwick?"

"Why, certainly, of course; I've seen him often before. And after
breathing a while, he and Maggie Mitchell came out, and as soon as
they stepped off he put on an extra spurt or two and led her by a neck
all around the place, and she came in puffing and blowing, and nearly
exhausted. I never took much stock in her, anyway."

"Led her by the neck! Why, this is the most scandalous conduct I ever
heard of. Mr. Butterwick, you must certainly be joking."

"I pledge you my word it's the solemn truth. I saw it myself. And
after that Judge Bullerton and General Harney, they took a turn
together, and that was the prettiest contest of the day. First the
judge'd beat the general, and then the general'd put in a big effort
and give it to the judge, and the two'd be about even for a while, and
all of a sudden the general would give a kinder jerk or two and leave
the judge just nowhere, and by the time the general passed the third
quarter the judge keeled over against the fence and gave in. They say
he broke his leg, but I don't know if that's so or not. Anyway he was
used up. If he'd passed that quarter, he might have been all right."

"What was the matter with the quarter? Wasn't it good?"

"Oh yes. But you see the judge must have lost his wind or something;
and I reckon when he tumbled it was something like a faint, you know."

"Served him right for engaging in such a brutal contest."

"Well, I dunno. Depends on how you look at such things. And when that
was over, Longfellow entered with Mattie Evelyn. He kept shooting past
her all the time, and this worried her so that she ran a little to one
side, and somehow, I dunno how it happened, but his leg tripped her,
and she rolled over on the ground, hurt pretty bad, I think, while
Longfellow had his leg cut pretty near to the bone."

"Did any of the shots strike her?"

"I don't understand you."

"You said he kept shooting past her, and I thought maybe some of the
bullets might have struck her."

"Why, I meant that he _ran_ past her, of course. How in the thunder
could he shoot bullets at her?"

"I thought maybe he had a gun. But I don't understand any of it. It is
the most astounding thing I ever heard of, at any rate."

"Now, my dear sir, I want to ask you how Longfellow _could_ manage a
gun?"

"Why, as any other man does, of course."

"Man! man! Why, merciful Moses! you didn't think I was talking about
human beings all this time, did you? Why, Longfellow is a horse! They
were racing--running races over at the course this afternoon; and I
was trying to tell you about it."

"You don't say?" remarked the doctor, with a sigh of relief. "Well, I
declare, I thought you were speaking of the poet, and I hardly knew
whether to believe you or not; it seemed so strange that he should
behave in that manner."

Then Mr. Butterwick went into the smoking-car to tell the joke to his
friends, and the doctor sat reflecting upon the outrageous impudence
of the men who name their horses after respectable people.

While he was thinking about it, another sensational occurrence
attracted his attention.

A man sitting in the same car with the doctor had placed a bottle of
tomato catsup neck downward in the rack above his seat. Presently a
friend came in, and in a few moments the friend, who was cutting his
finger-nails with a knife, introduced the subject of the races. The
discussion gradually became warm, and as the excitement increased the
man with the knife gesticulated violently with the hand containing the
weapon while he explained his views. Meantime, the cork jolted out of
the bottle overhead, and the catsup dripped down over the owner's head
and coat and collar without his perceiving the fact.

[Illustration: AN EXCITED OLD LADY]

Soon a nervous old lady on the back seat caught sight of the red
stain, and imagining it was blood, instantly began to scream "Murder!"
at the top of her voice. As the passengers, conductor and brakemen
rushed up she brandished her umbrella wildly and exclaimed,

"Arrest that man there! Arrest that willin! I see him do it. I see him
stab that other one with his knife until the blood spurted out. Oh,
you wretch! Oh, you willinous rascal, to take human life in that
scandalous manner! I see you punch him with the knife, you butcher,
you! and I'll swear it agin you in court, too, you owdacious rascal!"

They took her into the rear car and soothed her, while the victim
wiped the catsup off his coat. But that venerable old woman will go
down to the silent grave with the conviction that she witnessed in
those cars one of the most awful and sanguinary encounters that has
occurred since the affair between Cain and Abel.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Dox recently was called upon to settle a bet upon a much more
serious matter than a horse-race. During a religious controversy
between Peter Lamb and some of his friends one of the latter asserted
that Peter didn't know who was the mother-in-law of Moses, and that he
couldn't ascertain. Peter offered to bet that he could find out,
and the wager was accepted. After searching in vain through the
Scriptures, Mr. Lamb concluded to go around and interview Deacon Jones
about it. The deacon is head-man in the gas-office, and in the office
there are half a dozen small windows, behind which sit clerks to
receive money. Applying at one of these, Mr. Lamb said,

"Is Deacon Jones in?"

"What's your business?"

"Why, I want to find out the name of Moses'--"

"Don't know anything about it. Look in the directory;" and the clerk
slammed the window shut.

Then Peter went to the next window and said,

"I want to see Mr. Jones a minute."

"What for?"

"I want to see if he knows Moses'--"

"Moses who?"

"Why, Moses, the Bible Moses--if he knows--"

"Patriarchs don't belong in this department. Apply across the street
at the Christian Association rooms;" and then the clerk closed the
window.

At the next window Mr. Lamb said,

"I want to see Deacon Jones a minute in reference to a matter about
Moses."

"Want to pay his gas-bill? What's the last name?"

"Oh no. I mean the first Moses, the original one."

"Anything the matter with his meter?"

"You don't understand me. I refer to the Hebrew prophet. I want to
see--"

"Well, you can't see him here. This is the gas-office. Try next door."

At the adjoining window Mr. Lamb said,

"Look here! I want to see Deacon Jones a minute about the prophet
Moses, and I wish you'd tell him so."

"No, I won't," replied the clerk. "He's too busy to be bothered
with-anything of that kind."

"But I must see him," said Peter; "I insist on seeing him. The fact of
the matter is, I've got a bet about Moses'--"

"Don't make any difference what you've got; you can't see him."

"But I will. I want you to go and tell him I'm here, and that I wish
for some information respecting Moses. I'll have you discharged if you
don't go."

"Don't care if you want to see him about all the children of Israel,
and the Pharaohs and Nebuchadnezzars. I tell you you can't. That
settles it. Turn off your gas and quit."

Then Peter resolved to give up the deacon and try Rev. Dr. Dox. When
he called at the parsonage, the doctor came down into the parlor.
Because of the doctor's deafness there was a little misunderstanding
when Peter said,

"I called, doctor, to ascertain if you could tell me who was the
mother-in-law of Moses."

"Well, really," said the doctor, "there isn't much preference. Some
like one kind of roses and some like another. A very good variety of
the pink rose is the Duke of Cambridge; grows large, bears early and
has very fine perfume. The Hercules is also excellent, but you must
manure it well and water it often."

"I didn't ask about _roses_, but _Moses_. You make a mistake," shouted
Peter.

"Oh, of course! by all means. Train them up to a stake if you want to.
The wind don't blow them about so and they send out more shoots."

"You misunderstand me," yelled Mr. Lamb. "I asked about Moses, not
roses. I want to know who was the mother-in-law of Moses."

"Oh yes; certainly. Excuse me; I thought you were inquiring about
roses. The law of Moses was the foundation of the religion of the
Jews. You can find it in full in the Pentateuch. It is admirable--very
admirable--for the purpose for which it was ordained. We, of course,
have outlived that dispensation, but it still contains many things
that are useful to us, as, for instance, the--"

"Was Moses married?" shrieked Mr. Lamb.

"Married? Oh, yes; the name of his father-in-law, you know, was
Jethro, and--"

"Who was his wife?"

"Why, she was the daughter of Jethro, of course. I said Jethro was his
father-in-law."

"No; Jethro's wife, I mean. I want to know to settle a bet."

"No, that wasn't her name. 'Bet' is a corruption of Elizabeth, and
that name, I believe, is not found in the Old Testament. I don't
remember what the name of Moses' wife was."

"I want to know what was the name of the mother-in-law of Moses, to
settle a bet."

"Young man," said the old doctor, sternly, "you are trifling with a
serious subject. What do you mean by wanting Moses to settle a bet?"

Then Mr. Lamb rolled up a sheet of music that lay on the piano; and
putting it to the doctor's ear, he shouted,

"I made--a--bet--that--I--could--find--out--what--the--name--of
Moses'--mother-in-law--was. Can--you--tell--me?"

"The Bible don't say," responded the doctor; "and unless you can get a
spiritualist to put you in communication with Moses, I guess you will
lose."

Then Peter went around and handed over the stakes. Hereafter he will
gamble on other than biblical games.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE CAT SUCCUMBS]

Mr. Lamb has an inquiring mind. He is always investigating something.
He read somewhere the other day that two drops of the essential oil
of tobacco placed upon the tongue of a cat would kill the animal
instantly. He did not believe it, and he concluded to try the
experiment to see if it was so. Old Squills, the druggist, has a cat
weighing about fifteen pounds, and Mr. Lamb, taking the animal into
the back room, shut the door, opened the cat's mouth, and applied the
poison. One moment later a wild, unearthly "M-e-e-e-e-ow-ow-ow!" was
emitted by the cat, and, to Mr. Lamb's intense alarm, the animal began
swishing around the room with hair on end and tail in convulsive
excitement, screeching like a fog-whistle. Mr. Lamb is not certain,
but he considers it a fair estimate to say that the cat made the
entire circuit of the room, over chairs and under tables, seventy-four
times every minute, and he is willing to swear to seventy times,
without counting the occasional diversions made by the brute for the
purpose of snatching at Mr. Lamb's pantaloons and hair. Just as Mr.
Lamb had about made up his mind that the cat would conclude the
gymnastic exercises by eating him, the animal dashed through the glass
sash of the door into the shop, whisked two jars of licorice root and
tooth-brushes off the counter, tore out the ipecac-bottle and four
jugs of hair-dye, smashed a bottle of "Balm of Peru," alighted on
the bonnet of a woman who was drinking soda-water, and after a few
convulsions rolled over into a soap-box and died.

Mr. Lamb is now satisfied that a cat actually can be killed in the
manner aforementioned, but he would be better satisfied if old Squills
didn't insist upon collecting from him the price of those drugs and
the glass sash.

       *       *       *       *       *

Last summer Peter's brother spent a few weeks with him. He owned a
"pistol cane," which he carried about with him loaded; but when he
went away, he accidentally left it behind, and without explaining to
Peter that it was different from ordinary canes.

So, one afternoon a few days later, Peter went out to Keyser's farm to
look at some stock, and he picked up the cane to take along with him.
When he got to Keyser's, the latter went to the barnyard to show
him an extraordinary kind of a new pig that he had developed by
cross-breeding.

"Now that pig," said Keyser, "just lays over all the other pigs on the
Atlantic Slope. Take him any way you please, he's the most gorgeous
pig anywheres around. Fat! Why, he's all fat! There's no lean in him.
He ain't anything but a solid mass of lard. Put that pig near a fire,
and in twenty minutes his naked skeleton'd be standing there in a
puddle of grease. That's a positive fact. Now, you just feel his
shoulder."

Then Peter lifted up his cane and gave the pig a poke. He poked it
two or three times, and he had just remarked, "That certainly is a
splendid pig," when he gave it another poke, and then somehow the
pistol in the cane went off and the pig rolled over and expired.

[Illustration: HOW THE PIG WAS KILLED]

"What in the mischief d'you do that for?" exclaimed Keyser, amazed and
indignant.

"Do it for? _I_ didn't do it! This cane must've been made out of an
old gun-barrel with the load left in. I never had the least idea, I
pledge _you_ my word, that there was anything the matter with it."

"That's pretty thin," said Keyser; "you had a grudge agin that pig
because you couldn't scare up a pig like him, and you killed him on
purpose."

"That's perfectly ridiculous."

"Oh, maybe it is. You'll just fork over two hundred dollars for that
piece of pork, if you please."

"I'll see you in Egypt first."

       *       *       *       *       *

Peter whipped; but if Keyser _did_ give in first, Peter went home with
a bleeding nose, and the next day he was arrested for killing the
pig. The case is coming up soon, and Peter's brother is on, ready to
testify about that cane. Peter himself walks now with a hickory stick.



CHAPTER XIV.

_RESPECTING CERTAIN SAVAGES_.


When young Mr. Spooner, Judge Twiddler's nephew, left college, he made
up his mind to enter the ministry and become a missionary. One day he
met Captain Hubbs; and when he mentioned that he thought of going out
as a missionary, Captain Hubbs asked him, "Where are you going?"

_S_. "To the Navigator Islands. I sail in October."

_Capt_. (shaking his head mournfully). "Pore young man! Pore young
man! It is too bad--too bad indeed! Going to the Navigator Islands!
Not married yet, I reckon? No? Ah! so much the better. No wife and
children to make widows and orphans of. But it's sad, anyway. A
promising young fellow like you! My heart bleeds for you."

_S_. "What d'you mean?"

_Capt_. "Oh, nothing. I don't want to frighten you. I know you're
doing it from a sense of duty. But I've been there to the Navigator
Islands, and I'm acquainted with the people's little ways, and
I--well, I--I--the fact is, you see, that--well, sooner'n disguise the
truth, I don't mind telling you straight out that the last day I was
there the folks et one of my legs--sawed it off an' et it. Now you can
see how things are yourself. Those Navigators gobbled that leg right
up. It was a leg a good deal like yours, only heavier, I reckon."

_S_. "You astonish me!"

_Capt._ "Oh, that's nothing. They did that just for a little bit of
fun. The chief told me the day before that they never et anything but
human beings. He said his family consumed about three a day all the
year round, counting holidays and Sundays. He was a light eater
himself, he said, on account of gitting dyspepsia from a tough
Australian that he et in 1847, but the girls and the old woman, so he
said, were very hearty eaters, and it kept him busy prowling around
after human beings to satisfy 'em. The old woman, he said, rather
preferred to eat babies, on account of her teeth being poor, but the
girls could eat the grizzliest sailor that ever went aboard ship."

_S_. "This is frightful."

_Capt_. "And the chief said sometimes the supply was scarce, but
lately they had begun to depend more on imported goods than on the
home products. And they were better, anyhow, for all the folks
preferred white meat. He said the missionary societies were shipping
them some nice lots of provender, and the tears came in his eyes when
he said how good they were to the poor friendless savage away on a
distant island. He said he liked a missionary not too old or too
young. But let's see; what's your age, did you say?"

[Illustration: MR. SPOONER IS ALARMED]

_S_. "I am twenty-eight."

_Capt._ "I think he mentioned twenty-seven; but howsomedever, he liked
'em old enough to be solid and young enough to be tender. And he said
he liked missionaries because they never used rum or tobacco and
always kept their flavor. I know I seen one young fellow who came out
there from Boston. He got up a camp-meeting in the woods; and while
he was giving out the hymn, one of the congregation banged him on the
head with a club, and in less than no time he was sizzling over a fire
right in front of the pulpit. They lit the fire with his hymn-book and
kept her going with his sermons. He was a man just about your build--a
little leaner'n you, maybe. And they like a man to be stoutish. He
eats more tender."

_S_. "I had no idea that such awful practices existed."

_Capt_. "I haven't told you half, for I don't want to discourage you.
I know you mean well, and maybe they'll let you alone. But I remember,
when I told the chief that there was a whole lot of you chaps studying
to be missionaries, he laughed and rubbed his hands, and ordered the
old woman to plant more horseradish and onions the following year. He
was a forehanded kind of a man for a mere pagan. He said that if they
would only give his tribe time, if they would send him along the
supplies regular, so's not to glut the market, they could put away the
entire clergy of the United States and half the deacons without an
effort. He was nibbling at a missionary-bone when he spoke, and the
old woman was making a new club out of another one. They are an
economical people. They utilize everything."

_S_. "This is the most painful intelligence that I ever received. If I
felt certain about it, I would remain at home."

_Capt_. "Don't let me induce you to throw the thing up. I wouldn't a
told you, anyway, only you kind of drew the information out of me. And
as long as I've gone this far, I might as well tell you that I got a
letter the other day from a man who'd just come from there, and he
said the crops were short, eatable people were scarce, and not one of
them savages had had a square meal for months. When he left, they
were sitting on the rocks, hungry as thunder, waiting for a
missionary-society ship to arrive. And now I must be going.
Good-bye. I know I'll never see you again. Take a last look at me.
Good-morning."

Then the captain hobbled off.

Mr. Spooner has concluded to stay at home and teach school.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another rather more enthusiastic friend of the savage is Mr. Dodge. He
came into the office the _Patriot_ one day and sought a desk where a
reporter was writing. Seating himself and tilting the chair until
it was nicely balanced upon two legs, he smiled a serene and
philanthropic smile, and said,

"You see, I'm the friend of the poor Indian; he regards me as his
Great White Brother, and I reciprocate his confidence and affection
by doing what I can to alleviate his sufferings in his present
unfortunate situation. Young man, you do not know the anguish that
fills the soul of the red man as civilization makes successive inroads
upon his rights. It is too sacred for exhibition. He represses his
emotion sternly, and we philanthropists only detect it by observing
that he betrays an increased longing for firewater and an aggravated
indisposition to wash himself. Now, what do you suppose is the _last_
sorrow that has come to blast the happiness of this persecuted being?
What do you think it is?"

"I don't know, and I don't care."

"I will tell you. It is the increasing tendency of the white man to
baldness. As civilization pushes upward, the hair of the pale face
recedes. Eventually, I suppose, about every other white man will be
bald. I notice that even you are gradually being reduced to a mere
fringe around the base of your skull. Now, imagine how an Indian feels
when he considers this tendency. Is it any wonder that the future
seems dark and gloomy and hairless to him? The scalping operation
to him is a sacred rite. It is interwoven with his most cherished
traditions. When he surrenders it, he dies with a broken heart. What
then, is to be done?"

"Oh, do hush up and quit."

"There is but one thing to be done to meet this grave emergency. We
cannot justly permit that grand aboriginal man who once held sway over
this mighty continent to be filled with desolation and misery by
the inaccessibility of the scalps of his fellow-creatures. My idea,
therefore, is to bring those scalps within his reach, even when they
are baldest and shiniest. But how?"

"That'll do now. Don't want to hear any more."

"Here my ingenuity comes into play. I have invented a simple little
machine which I call 'The Patent Adjustable Atmospheric Scalp-lifter.'
Here it is. The device consists of a disk of thin leather about six
inches in diameter. In the centre is a hole through which runs a
string. When the Indian desires to deal with a man with a bald head,
he proceeds as follows--observe the simplicity of the operation: He
wets the leather, stamps it carefully down upon the surface of the
scalp, slides his knife around over the ears, gives the string a jerk,
and off comes the scalp as nicely as if it had been Absalom's. In
fact, you will see at once that it is an ingenious application of the
'sucker' used by boys to raise bricks and stones. I know what you are
going to say--that a white man who is to be manipulated by an Indian
needs succor worse than the red man. It is an old joke, and a good
one; but my desire is to bring joy to the wigwam of the Kickapoo and
to make the heart of the Arapahoe glad."

"Oh, do dry up and go down stairs."

"You catch the idea, of course; but perhaps you'd like to see the
apparatus in operation. Wait a moment; I'll show you how splendidly it
works."

Then, as the reporter resolutely continued at his task with his nose
almost against the desk, the friend of the disconsolate red man
suddenly produced a moist sucker and clapped it firmly upon the bald
place on the reporter's head, and then, before the indignant victim
could offer resistance, the Great White Brother, with the string in
his hand, careered around the office a couple of times, drawing the
helpless journalist after him. As he withdrew the machine he smiled
and said,

"Elegant, isn't it? Could pull a horse-car with it. I wish you'd come
to Washington with me and lend me your head, so's I can show the
Secretary of the Interior how the thing works. You have the best scalp
for a good hold of any I've tried yet."

But the reporter was at the speaking-tube calling for a boy to go for
a policeman, and he didn't seem to hear the suggestion. And so Mr.
Dodge folded up the machine, placed it in his carpet-bag, and went
out smiling as though he had been received with enthusiasm and been
promised a gratuitous advertisement. He passed the policeman on the
stairs, and then sailed serenely out of reach, perhaps to seek for
another and more sympathetic bald man upon whom to illustrate the
value of his invention.

       *       *       *       *       *

Reference to the Indians reminds me of the very ungenerous treatment
that Mr. Bartholomew, one of our citizens, received at the hands of
certain red men with whom he trafficked in the West.

A year or two ago Mr. Bartholomew was out in Colorado for a few
months, and just before he started for the journey home he wrote to
his wife concerning the probable time of his arrival. As a postscript
to the letter he added the following message to his son, a boy about
eight years old:

"Tell Charley I am going to bring with me a dear little baby-bear that
I bought from an Indian."

Of course that information pleased Charley, and he directed most of
his thoughts and his conversation to the subject of the bear during
the next two weeks, wishing anxiously for his father to come with
the little pet. On the night which been fixed by Bartholomew for his
arrival he did not come, and the family were very much disappointed.
Charley particularly was dreadfully sorry, because he couldn't get the
bear. On the next evening, while Mrs. Bartholomew and the children
were sitting in the front room with the door open into the hall, they
heard somebody running through the front yard. Then the front door was
suddenly burst open, and a man dashed into the hall and up stairs at a
frightful speed. Mrs. Bartholomew was just about to go up after him to
ascertain who it was, when a large dark animal of some kind darted in
through the door and with an awful growl went bowling up stairs after
the man. It suddenly flashed upon the mind of Mrs. Bartholomew that
the man was her husband, and that that was the little baby-bear. Just
then the voice of Bartholomew was heard calling from the top landing:

"Ellen, for gracious sake get out of the house as quick as you can,
and shut all the doors and window-shutters."

[Illustration: THE LITTLE BABY-BEAR]

Then Mrs. Bartholomew sent the boys into Partridge's, next door, and
she closed the shutters, locked all the doors and went into the
yard to await further developments. When she got outside, she saw
Bartholomew on the roof kneeling on the trap-door, which he kept down
only by the most tremendous exertions. Then he screamed for somebody
to come up and help him, and Mr. Partridge got a ladder and a hatchet
and some nails, and ascended. Then they nailed down the trap-door, and
Bartholomew and Partridge came down the ladder together. After he had
greeted his family, Mrs. Bartholomew asked him what was the matter,
and he said,

"Why, you know that little baby-bear I said I'd bring Charley? Well, I
had him in a box until I got off the train up here at the depot, and
then I thought I'd take him out and lead him around home by the chain.
But the first thing he did was to fly at my leg; and when I jumped
back, I ran, and he after me. He would've eaten me up in about a
minute. That infernal Indian must have fooled me. He said it was a cub
only two months old and it had no teeth. I believe it's a full-grown
bear."

It then became a very interesting question how they should get the
bear out of the house. Bartholomew thought they had better try to
shoot him, and he asked a lot of the neighbors to come around to help
with their shot-guns. When they would hear the bear scratching at one
of the windows, they would pour in a volley at him, but after riddling
every shutter on the first floor they could still hear the bear
tearing around in there and growling. So Bartholomew and the others
got into the cellar, and as the bear crossed the floor they would fire
up through it at about the spot where they thought he was. But the
bombardment only seemed to exasperate the animal, and after each shot
they could hear him smashing something.

Then Partridge said maybe a couple of good dogs might whip him; and he
borrowed a bulldog and a setter from Scott and pushed them through the
front door. They listened, and for half an hour they could hear a most
terrific contest raging; and Scott said he'd bet a million dollars
that bull-dog would eat up any two bears in the Rocky Mountains. Then
everything became still, and a few moments later they could hear
the bear eating something and cracking bones with his teeth; and
Bartholomew said that the Indian out in Colorado told him that the
bear was particularly fond of dog-meat, and could relish a dog almost
any time.

At last Bartholomew thought he would try strategy. He procured a huge
iron hook with a sharp point to it, tied it to a rope and put three
or four pounds of fresh beef on the hook. Then he went up the ladder,
opened the trap-door in the roof and dropped in the bait. In a few
moments he got a bite, and all hands manned the rope and pulled,
when out came Scott's bull-dog, which had been hiding in the garret.
Bartholomew was disgusted; but he put on fresh bait and threw in
again, and in about an hour the bear took hold, and they hauled him
out and knocked him on the head.

Then they entered the house. In the hall the carpet was covered with
particles of dead setter, and in the parlor the carpet and the windows
had been shot to pieces, while the furniture was full of bullet-holes.
The bear had smashed the mirror, torn up six or seven chairs,
knocked over the lamp and demolished all the crockery in the pantry.
Bartholomew gritted his teeth as he surveyed the ruin, and Mrs.
Bartholomew said she wished to patience he had stayed in Colorado.
However, they fixed things up as well as they could, and then Mrs.
Bartholomew sent into Partridge's for Charley and the youngest girl.
When Charley came, he rushed up to Bartholomew and said,

"Oh, pa! where's my little baby-bear?"

Then Bartholomew gazed at him severely for a moment, looked around to
see if Mrs. Bartholomew had left the room, and then gave Charley the
most terrific spanking that he ever received.

The Bartholomew children have no pets at present but a Poland rooster
which has moulted his tail.



CHAPTER XV.

_LOVE, SUFFERING AND SUICIDE_.


Peter Lamb, a young man who is employed in one of the village stores,
some time ago conceived a very strong passion for a neighbor of his,
Miss Julia Brown, the doctor's daughter. But the Fates seemed to be
against the successful prosecution of his suit, for he managed to
plunge into a series of catastrophes in the presence of the young
lady, and to make himself so absurd that even his affection seemed
ridiculous. One summer evening, when he was just beginning to make
advances, Miss Brown came over to see Peter's sister, and the two
girls sat out upon the front porch together in the darkness, talking.
Peter plays a little upon the bugle, and it occurred to him that it
would be a good thing to exhibit his skill to Julia. So he went into
the dark parlor and felt over the top of the piano for the horn. It
happened that his aunt from Penn's Grove had been there that day and
had left her brass ear-trumpet lying on the piano, and Peter got hold
of this without perceiving the mistake, as the two were of similar
shape. He took it in his hand and went out on the porch where Miss
Brown was sitting. He asked Miss Brown if she was fond of music on the
horn; and when she said she adored it, he asked her how she would like
him to play "Ever of Thee;" and she said that was the only tune she
cared anything for.

So Peter put the small end of the trumpet to his lips and blew. He
blew and blew. Then he blew some more, and then he drew a fresh breath
and blew again. The only sound that came was a hollow moan, which
sounded so queerly in the darkness that Miss Brown asked him if he was
not well. And when he said he was, she said that he went exactly like
a second cousin of hers that had the asthma.

Then Peter remarked that somehow the horn was out of order for "Ever
of Thee;" but if Miss Brown would like to hear "Sweetly I dreamed,
Love," he would try to play it, and Miss Brown said that the fondest
recollections clustered about the melody.

So Peter put the trumpet to his lips again and strained his lungs
severely in an effort to make some music. It wouldn't come, but he
made a very singular noise, which induced Miss Brown to ask if the
horse in the stable back of the house had heaves. Then Peter said he
thought somebody must have plugged the bugle up with something, and
he asked his sister to light the gas in the entry while he cleaned it
out. When she did so, the ear-trumpet became painfully conspicuous,
and both the girls laughed. When Miss Brown laughed, Peter looked up
at her with pain in his face, put on his hat and went out into the
street, where he could express his feelings in violent terms.

A few nights later the Browns had a tea-party, to which Mr. Lamb was
invited. He went, determined to do his full share of entertaining the
company. While supper was in progress, Mr. Lamb said in a loud voice,

"By the way, did you read that mighty good thing in the _Patriot_ the
other day about the woman over in Bridgeport? It was one of the most
amusing things that ever came under my observation. The woman's name,
you see, was Emma. Well, there were two young fellows paying attention
to her, and after she'd accepted one of them the other also proposed
to her and as she felt certain that the first one wasn't in earnest,
she accepted the second one too. So a few days later both of 'em
called at the same time, both claimed her hand, and both insisted on
marrying her at once. Then, of course, she found herself face to face
with a mighty unpleasant--unpleasant--Er--er--er--Less see; what's the
word I want? Unpleasant--Er--er--Blamed if I haven't forgotten that
word."

"Predicament," suggested Mr. Potts.

"No, that's not it. What's the name of that thing with two horns?
Unpleasant--Er--er--Hang it! it's gone clear out of my mind."

"A cow," hinted Miss Mooney.

"No, not a cow."

"Maybe it's a buffalo," remarked Dr. Dox.

"No, no kind of an animal. Something else with two horns. Mighty queer
I can't recall it."

"Perhaps it's a brass band," observed Butterwick.

"Or a man who's had a couple of drinks," suggested Dr. Brown.

"Of course not."

"You don't mean a fire company?" asked Mrs. Banger.

"N--no. That's the confounded queerest thing I ever heard of, that I
can't remember that word," said Mr. Lamb, getting warm and beginning
to feel miserable.

"Well, give us the rest of the story without it," said Potts.

"That's the mischief of it," said Mr. Lamb. "The whole joke turns on
that infernal word."

"_Two_ horns did you say?" asked Dr. Dox. "Maybe it is a catfish."

"Or a snail," remarked Judge Twiddler.

"N--no; none of those."

"Is it an elephant or a walrus?" asked Mrs. Dox.

"I guess I'll have to give it up," said Mr. Lamb, wiping the
perspiration from his brow.

"Well, that's the sickest old story I ever encountered," remarked
Butterwick to Potts. Then everybody smiled, and Mr. Lamb, looking
furtively at Julia, appeared to feel as if he would welcome death on
the spot.

The mystery is yet unsolved; but it is believed that Peter was
trying to build up the woman's name, Emma, into a pun upon the word
"dilemma." The secret, however, is buried in his bosom.

Peter professes to be an expert in legerdemain, and he came to Brown's
prepared to perform some of his best feats. When the company assembled
in the drawing-room after tea, he determined to redeem the fearful
blunder that he had made in the dining-room.

Several of the magicians who perform in public do what they call
"the gold-fish trick." The juggler stands upon the stage, throws a
handkerchief over his extended arm and produces in succession three or
four shallow glass dishes filled to the brim with water in which live
gold-fish are swimming. Of course the dishes are concealed somehow
upon the person of the performer.

Peter had discovered how the trick was done, and he resolved to do it
now. So the folks all gathered in one end of the parlor, and in a few
moments Lamb entered the door at the other end. He said,

"Ladies and gentlemen, you will perceive that I have nothing about me
except my ordinary clothing; and yet I shall produce presently two
dishes filled with water and living fish. Please watch me narrowly."

Then Peter flung the handkerchief over his hand and arm, and we could
see that he was working away vigorously at something beneath it. He
continued for some moments, and still the gold-fish did not appear. Then
he began to grow very red in the face, and we saw that something was the
matter. Then the perspiration began to stand on Peter's forehead, and
Mrs. Brown asked him if anything serious was the matter. Then the
company smiled, and the magician grew redder; but he kept on fumbling
beneath that handkerchief, and apparently trying to reach around under
his coat-tails. Then we heard something snap, and the next moment a
quart of water ran down the wizard's left leg and spread out over the
carpet. By this time he looked as if joy had forsaken him for ever. But
still he continued to feel around under the handkerchief. At last
another snap was heard, and another quart of water plunged down his
right leg and formed a pool about his shoe. Then the necromancer
hurriedly said that the experiment had failed somehow, and he darted
into the dining-room. We followed him, and found him sitting on the sofa
trying to remove his pantaloons. He exclaimed,

"Oh, gracious! Come here quick, and pull these off! They're soaking
wet, and I've got fifteen live gold-fish inside my trousers flipping
around, and rasping the skin with their fins enough to set a man
crazy. Ouch! Hurry that shoe off, and catch that fish there at my left
knee, or I'll have to howl right out."

[Illustration: THE GOLDFISH TRICK]

Then we undressed him and picked the fish out of his clothes, and we
discovered that he had had two dishes full of water and covered with
India-rubber tops strapped inside his trousers behind. In his struggle
to get at them he had torn the covers to rags. We fixed him up in a
pair of Dr. Brown's trousers, which were six inches too short for
him, and then he climbed over the back fence and went home. Such
misfortunes would have discouraged most men utterly, but Peter was
desperately in love; and a week or two later, without stopping to
estimate his chances, he proposed to his fair enchantress. She refused
him promptly, of course. He seemed almost wild over his defeat, and
his friends feared that some evil consequences would ensue. Their
apprehensions were realized. Peter called upon young Potts and asked
him if he had a revolver, and Potts said he had. Peter asked Potts to
lend it to him, and Potts did so. Then Peter informed Potts that he
had made up his mind to commit suicide. He said that since Miss Brown
had dealt so unkindly with him he felt that life was an insupportable
burden, and he could find relief only in the tomb. He intended to go
down by the river-shore and there blow out his brains, and so end all
this suffering and grief and bid farewell to a world that had grown
dark to him. He said that he mentioned the fact to Potts in confidence
because he wanted him to perform some little offices for him when he
was gone. He entrusted to Potts a sonnet entitled "A Last Farewell,"
and addressed to Julia Brown. This he asked should be delivered to
Miss Brown as soon as his corpse was discovered. He said it might
excite a pang in her bosom and induce her to cherish his memory. Then
he gave Potts his watch as a keepsake, and handed him forty dollars,
with which he desired Mr. Potts to purchase a tombstone. He said he
would prefer a plain one with his simple name cut upon it, and he
wanted the funeral to be as unostentatious as possible.

Potts promised to fulfill these commissions, and he suggested that he
would lend Mr. Lamb a bowie-knife, with which he could slash himself
up if the pistol failed.

But the suicide said that he would make sure work with the revolver,
although he was much obliged for the offer all the same. He said he
would like Potts to go around in the morning and break the news as
gently as possible to his unhappy mother, and to tell her that his
last thought was of her. But he particularly requested that she would
not put on mourning for her erring son.

Then he said that the awful act would be performed on the beach, just
below the gas-works, and he wished Potts to come out with some kind of
a vehicle to bring the remains home. If Julia came to the funeral,
she was to have a seat in the carriage next to the hearse; and if she
wanted his heart, it was to be given to her in alcohol. It beat only
for her. Potts was to tell his employers at the store that he parted
with them with regret, but doubtless they would find some other person
more worthy of their confidence and esteem. He said he didn't care
where he was buried, but let it be in some lonely place far from the
turmoil and trouble of the world--some place where the grass grows
green and where the birds come to carol in the early spring-time.

Mr. Potts asked him if he preferred a deep or a shallow grave; but Mr.
Lamb said it made very little difference--when the spirit was gone,
the mere earthly clay was of little account. He owed seventy cents for
billiards down at the saloon, and Potts was to pay that out of the
money in his hands, and to request the clergyman not to preach a
sermon at the cemetery. Then he shook hands with Potts and went away
to his awful doom.

The next morning Mr. Potts wrote to Julia, stopped in to tell them at
the store, and nearly killed Mrs. Lamb with the intelligence. Then he
borrowed Bradley's wagon; and taking with him the coroner, he drove
out to the beach, just below the gas-works, to fetch home the
mutilated corpse. When they reached the spot, the body was not there,
and Potts said he was very much afraid it had been washed away by the
flood tide. So they drove up to Keyser's house, about half a mile
from the shore, to ask if any of the folks there had heard the fatal
pistol-shot or seen the body.

On going around to the wood-pile they saw Keyser holding a terrier dog
backed close up against a log. The dog's tail was lying across the
log, and another man had the axe uplifted. A second later the axe
descended and cut the tail off close to the dog, and while Keyser
restrained the frantic animal, the other man touched the bleeding
stump with caustic. As they let the dog go Potts was amazed to see
that the chopper was the wretched suicide. He was amazed, but
before he could ask any questions Peter stepped up to him and said,
"Hush-sh-sh! Don't say anything about that matter. I thought better
of it. The pistol looked so blamed dangerous when I cocked it that I
changed my mind and came over here to Keyser's to stay all night. I'm
going to live just to spite that Brown girl."

[Illustration: A CURTAILMENT]

Then the coroner said that he didn't consider he had been treated like
a gentleman, and he had half a notion to give Mr. Lamb a pounding.
But they all drove home in the wagon, and just as Mrs. Lamb got done
hugging Peter a letter was handed him containing the sonnet he had
sent Julia. She returned it with the remark that it was the most
dreadful nonsense she ever read, and that she knew he hadn't courage
enough to kill himself. Then Peter went back to the store, and was
surprised to find that his employers had so little emotion as to dock
him for half a day's absence. What he wants now is to ascertain if he
cannot compel Potts to give up that watch. Potts says he has too much
respect for the memory of his unfortunate friend to part with it, but
he is really sorry now that he ordered that tombstone. On the first of
May, Peter's bleeding heart had been so far stanched as to enable him
to begin skirmishing around the affections of a girl named Smith; and
if she refuses him, he thinks that tombstone may yet come into play.
But we all have our doubts about it.



CHAPTER XVI.

_MR. FOGG AS A SPORTSMAN AND A SPOUSE_.


Game was so plenty about our neighborhood last fall that Mr. Fogg
determined to become a sportsman. He bought a double-barrel gun, and
after trying it a few times by firing it at a mark, he loaded it and
placed it behind the hall door until he should want it. A few days
later he made up his mind to go out and shoot a rabbit or two, so he
shouldered his gun and strode off toward the open country. A mile
or two from the town he saw a rabbit; and taking aim, he pulled the
trigger. The gun failed to go off. Then he pulled the other trigger,
and again the cap snapped. Mr. Fogg used a strong expression of
disgust, and then, taking a pin, he picked the nipples of the gun,
primed them with a little powder and made a fresh start. Presently
he saw another rabbit. He took good aim, but both caps snapped. The
rabbit did not see Mr. Fogg, so he put on more caps, and they snapped
too.

Then Mr. Fogg cleaned out the nipples again, primed them and leveled
the gun at a fence. The caps snapped again. Then Mr. Fogg became
furious, and in his rage he expended forty-two caps trying to make the
gun go off. When the forty-second cap missed also, Mr. Fogg thought,
perhaps, there might be something the matter with the inside of the
gun, and so he sounded the barrels with his ramrod. To his utter
dismay, he discovered that both barrels were empty. Mrs. Fogg, who is
nervous about firearms, had drawn the loads without telling Fogg. The
language used by Mr. Fogg when he made this discovery was extremely
disgraceful, and he felt sorry for it a moment afterward. As he grew
cooler he loaded both barrels and started afresh for the rabbits. He
saw one in a few moments and was about to fire, when he noticed that
there were no caps on the gun. He felt for one, and, to his dismay,
found that he had snapped the last one off. Then he ground his teeth
and walked home. On his way he saw a greater number of rabbits than he
ever saw before or is likely to see again, and as he looked at them
and thought of Mrs. Fogg he felt mad and murderous. He went gunning
eight or ten times afterward that autumn, always with a full supply of
ammunition, but he never once saw a rabbit or any other kind of game
within gun-shot.

[Illustration: AN INDIGNANT GUNNER]

But he forgave Mrs. Fogg, and for a while their domestic peace was
unruffled. One evening, however, while they were sitting together,
they got to talking about their married life and their past troubles
until both of them grew quite sympathetic. At last Mrs. Fogg suggested
that it might help to kindle afresh the fire of love in their hearts
if they would freely confess their faults to each other and promise to
amend them. Mr. Fogg said it struck him as being a good idea. For his
part, he was willing to make a clean breast of it, but he suggested
that perhaps his wife had better begin. She thought for a moment, and
this conversation ensued:

"Well, then," said Mrs. Fogg, "I am willing to acknowledge that I am
the worst-tempered woman in the world."

_Mr. Fogg_ (turning and looking at her). "Maria, that's about the only
time you ever told the square-toed truth in your life."

_Mrs. Fogg_ (indignantly). "Mr. Fogg, that's perfectly outrageous. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself."

_F_. "Well, you know it's so. You _have_ got the worst temper of any
woman I ever saw--the very worst; now haven't you?"

[Illustration: CONFESSING THEIR FAULTS]

_Mrs. F_. "No, I haven't, either. I'm just as good-tempered as you
are."

_F_. "That's not so. You're as cross as a bear If you were married to
a graven image, you'd quarrel with it."

_Mrs. F_. "That's an outrageous falsehood! There isn't any woman about
this neighborhood that puts up with as much as I do without getting
angry. You're a perfect brute."

_F_. "It's you that is the brute."

_Mrs. F_. "No, it isn't."

_F_. "Yes, it is. You're as snappish as a mad dog. It's few men that
could live with you."

_Mrs. F_. "If you say that again, I'll scratch your eyes out."

_F_. "I dare you to lay your hands on me, you vixen."

_Mrs. F_. "You do, eh? Well, take that! and that" (cuffing him on the
head).

_F_. "You let go of my hair, or I'll murder you."

_Mrs. F_. "I will; and I'll leave this house this very night; I won't
live any longer with such a monster."

_F_. "Well, quit; get out. The sooner, the better. Good riddance to
bad rubbish; and take your clothes with you."

_Mrs. F_. "I'm sorry I ever married you. You ain't fit to be yoked
with any decent woman, you wretch you!"

_F_. "Well, you ain't half as sorry as I am. Good-bye. Don't come back
soon."

Then Mrs. Fogg put on her bonnet and went around to her mother's, but
she came back in the morning. Mr. Fogg hasn't yet confessed what his
principal failing is.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Fogg's life has been very troublous. He told me that he had a fit
of sleeplessness one night lately, and after vainly trying to lose
himself in slumber he happened to remember that he once read in an
almanac that a man could put himself to sleep by imagining that he
saw a lot of sheep jumping over a fence, and by counting them as they
jumped. He determined to try the experiment; and closing his eyes, he
fancied the sheep jumping and began to count. He had reached his one
hundred and fortieth sheep, and was beginning to doze off, when Mrs.
Fogg suddenly said,

"Wilberforce!"

"Oh, what?"

"I believe that yellow hen of ours wants to set."

"Oh, don't bother me with such nonsense as that now! Do keep quiet and
go to sleep."

Then Mr. Fogg started his sheep again and commenced to count. He got
up to one hundred and twenty, and was feeling as if he would drop off
at any moment, when, just as his one hundred and twenty-first sheep
was about to take that fence, the baby began to cry.

"Hang that child!" he shouted at Mrs. Fogg. "Why don't you tend to it
and put it to sleep? Hush, you little imp, or I'll spank you!"

When Mrs. Fogg had quieted it, Mr. Fogg, although a little nervous and
excited, concluded to try it again. Turning on the imaginary mutton,
he began. Only sixty-four sheep had slid over the fence, when Fogg's
aunt knocked at the door and asked if he was awake. When she learned
that he was, she said she believed he had forgotten to close the back
shutters, and she thought she heard burglars in the yard.

Then Mr. Fogg arose in wrath and went down to see about it. He
ascertained that the shutters were closed, as usual, and as he
returned to bed he resolved that his aunt should leave the house for
good in the morning, or he would. However, he thought he might as well
give the almanac-plan another trial; and setting the sheep in motion,
he began to count. This time he reached two hundred and forty, and
would probably have got to sleep before the three hundredth sheep
jumped, had not Mix's new dog, in the next yard, suddenly become
home-sick and begun to express his feelings in a series of prolonged
and exasperating howls.

Mr. Fogg was indignant. Neglecting the sheep, he leaped from bed and
began to bombard Mix's new dog with boots, soap-cups and every loose
object he could lay his hands on. He hit the animal at last with a
plaster bust of Daniel Webster, and induced the dog to retreat to the
stable and think about home in silence.

It seemed almost ridiculous to resume those sheep again, but he
determined to give the almanac-man one more chance, and soon as they
began to jump the fence he began to count, and after seeing the
eighty-second sheep safely over he was gliding gently in the land of
dreams, when Mrs. Fogg rolled out of bed and fell on the floor with
such violence that she waked the baby and started it crying, while Mr.
Fogg's aunt came down stairs four steps at a time to ask if they felt
that earthquake.

The situation was too awful for words. Mr. Fogg regarded it for a
minute with speechless indignation, and then, seizing a pillow, he
went over to the sofa in the back sitting-room and lay down.

He fell asleep in ten minutes without the assistance of the almanac,
but he dreamed all night that he was being butted around the equator
by a Cotswold ram, and he woke in the morning with a terrific headache
and a conviction that sheep are good enough for wool and chops, but
not worth anything as a narcotic.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Fogg has a strong tendency to exaggeration in conversation, and he
gave a striking illustration of this in a story that he related one
day when I called at his house. Fogg was telling me about an incident
that occurred in a neighboring town a few days before, and this is the
way he related it:

"You see old Bradley over here is perfectly crazy on the subject of
gases and the atmosphere and such things--absolutely wild; and one day
he was disputing with Green about how high up in the air life could be
sustained, and Bradley said an animal could live about forty million
miles above the earth if--"

"Not forty millions, my dear," interposed Mrs. Fogg; "only forty
miles, he said."

"Forty, was it? Thank you. Well, sir, old Green, you know, said that
was ridiculous; and he said he'd bet Bradley a couple of hundred
thousand dollars that life couldn't be sustained half that way up, and
so--"

"Wilberforce, you are wrong; he only offered to bet fifty dollars,"
said Mrs. Fogg.

"Well, anyhow, Bradley took him up quicker'n a wink, and they agreed
to send up a cat in a balloon to decide the bet. So what does Bradley
do but buy a balloon about twice as big as our barn and begin to--"

"It was only about ten feet in diameter, Mr. Adeler; Wilberforce
forgets."

"--Begin to inflate her. When she was filled, it took eighty men to
hold her; and--"

"Eighty men, Mr. Fogg!" said Mrs. F. "Why, you know Mr. Bradley held
the balloon himself."

"He did, did he? Oh, very well; what's the odds? And when everything
was ready, they brought out Bradley's tomcat and put it in the basket
and tied it in, so it couldn't jump, you know. There were about one
hundred thousand people looking on; and when they let go, you never
heard such--"

"There was not one more than two hundred people there," said Mrs.
Fogg; "I counted them myself."

"Oh, don't bother me!--I say, you never heard such a yell as the
balloon went scooting up into the sky, pretty near out of sight.
Bradley said she went up about one thousand miles, and--now, don't
interrupt me, Maria; I know what the man said--and that cat, mind you,
howling like a hundred fog-horns, so's you could a heard her from here
to Peru. Well, sir, when she was up so's she looked as small as a
pin-head something or other burst. I dunno know how it was, but pretty
soon down came that balloon, a-hurtling toward the earth at the rate
of fifty miles a minute, and old--"

"Mr. Fogg, you know that the balloon came down as gently as--"

"Oh, do hush up! Women don't know anything about such things.--And old
Bradley, he had a kind of registering thermometer fixed in the basket
along with that cat--some sort of a patent machine; cost thousands of
dollars--and he was expecting to examine it; and Green had an idea
he'd lift out a dead cat and take in the stakes. When all of a sudden,
as she came pelting down, a tornado struck her--now, Maria, what in
the thunder are you staring at me in that way for? It was a tornado--a
regular cyclone--and it struck her and jammed her against the
lightning-rod on the Baptist church-steeple; and there she
stuck--stuck on that spire about eight hundred feet up in the air, and
looked as if she had come there to stay."

"You may get just as mad as you like," said Mrs. Fogg, "but I am
positively certain that steeple's not an inch over ninety-five feet."

"Maria, I wish to _gracious_ you'd go up stairs and look after the
children.--Well, about half a minute after she struck out stepped that
tomcat onto the weathercock. It made Green sick. And just then the
hurricane reached the weathercock, and it began to revolve six hundred
or seven hundred times a minute, the cat howling until you couldn't
hear yourself speak.--Now, Maria, you've had your put; you keep
quiet.--That cat stayed on the weathercock about two months--"

"Mr. Fogg, that's an awful story; it only happened last Tuesday."

"Never mind her," said Mr. Fogg, confidentially.--And on Sunday the
way that cat carried on and yowled, with its tail pointing due east,
was so awful that they couldn't have church. And Sunday afternoon the
preacher told Bradley if he didn't get that cat down he'd sue him for
one million dollars damages. So Bradley got a gun and shot at the
cat fourteen hundred times.--Now you didn't count 'em, Maria, and I
did.--And he banged the top of the steeple all to splinters, and at
last fetched down the cat, shot to rags; and in her stomach he found
his thermometer. She'd ate it on her way up, and it stood at eleven
hundred degrees, so old--"

"No thermometer ever stood at such a figure as that," exclaimed Mrs.
Fogg.

"Oh, well," shouted Mr. Fogg, indignantly, "if you think you can tell
the story better than I can, why don't you tell it? You're enough to
worry the life out of a man."

Then Fogg slammed the door and went out, and I left. I don't know
whether Bradley got the stakes or not.



CHAPTER XVII.

_HOW WE CONDUCT A POLITICAL CAMPAIGN_.


The people of Millburg feel a very intense interest in politics, and
during a campaign there is always a good deal of excitement. The
bitterest struggle that the town has had for a long while was that
which preceded the election of a couple of years ago, when I was not a
resident of the place. One incident particularly attracted a good
deal of attention. Mr. Potts related the facts to me in the following
language:

"You know we nominated Bill Slocum for burgess. He was the most
popular man in the place; everybody liked him. And a few days after
the convention adjourned Bill was standing talking to Joe Snowden
about the election, and Bill happened to remark, 'I've got to win.'
Mrs. Martin was going by at the time; and as Bill was speaking very
rapidly, he pronounced it like this: 'I've got t'win;' and Mrs. Martin
thought he was telling Snowden that he'd got _twins_. And Mrs. Martin,
just like all women about such matters, at once went through the
village spreading the report that Mrs. Slocum had twins.

"So, of course, there was a fuss right off; and the boys said that as
Bill was a candidate, and a mighty good fellow anyhow you took him,
it'd be nothing more than fair to congratulate him on his good luck
by getting up some kind of a public demonstration from his
fellow-citizens. Well, sir, you never saw such enthusiasm. The way
that idea took was wonderful, and all hands agreed that we ought
to have a parade. So they ran up the flags on the hotels and the
town-hall, and on the two schooners down at the wharf, and Judge
Twiddler adjourned the court over till the next day, and the
supervisors gave the public schools a holiday and got up a turkey
dinner for the convicts in the jail.

"And some of the folks drummed up the brass band, and it led off, with
Major Slott following, carrying an American flag hung with roses. Then
came the clergy in carriages, followed by the Masons and Odd Fellows
and Knights of Pythias. And the Young Men's Christian Association
turned out with the Sons of Temperance, about forty strong, in full
regalia. And General Trumps pranced along on a white horse ahead of
the Millburg Guards. After them came the judges on foot, followed by
the City Council and the employés of the gas-works, and the members of
the Bible Society and Patriotic Sons of America. Then came citizens
walking two and two, afoot, while a big crowd of men and boys brought
up the rear.

"The band, mind you, all this time playing the most gorgeous
music--'Star-Spangled Banner,' 'Life on the Ocean Wave,' 'Beautiful
Dreamer,' 'Home Again,' and all those things, with cymbals and
Jenkins' colored man spreading himself on the big drum. And Bill never
knew anything about it. It was a perfect surprise to him. And when the
procession stopped in front of his house, they gave him three cheers,
and he came rushing out on the porch to see what all the noise was
about. As soon as he appeared the band struck up 'See, the Conquering
Hero Comes,' and Major Slott lowered the flag, and General Trumps
waved his hat, and the guard fired a salute, and everybody cheered.

"Bill bowed and made a little speech, and said how honored he was by
such a demonstration, and he said he felt certain of victory, and when
he was in office he would do his best to serve his fellow-citizens
faithfully. Bill thought it was a political serenade; and when he got
through, General Trumps cried,

"'Bring out the twins.'

"Bill looked puzzled for a minute, and then he says,

"'I don't think I understand you. What d'you say?'

"'Bring out the twins,' said Judge Twiddler. 'Less look at 'em.'

"'Twins!' says Bill. 'Twins! Why, what d'ye mean, judge?'

"'Why, the twins. Rush 'em out. Hold 'em in the window, so's we can
see 'em,' said Major Slott.

"'Gentlemen,' said Bill, 'there must be some little, some slight
mistake respecting the--that is, you must have been misinformed about
the--the--er--er--Why, there are no twins about this house.'

"Then they thought he was joking, and the band broke in with 'Listen
to the Mocking-bird,' and Bill came down to find out the drift of
Judge Twiddler's remarks. And when he really convinced them that
there wasn't a twin anywhere about the place, you never saw a worse
disgusted crowd in your life. Mad as fury. They said they had no idea
Bill Slocum would descend to such trickery as that.

"So they broke up. The judge went back to the court-room so indignant
he sentenced a prisoner for twenty years, when the law only allowed
him to give ten. The supervisors, they took their spite out by docking
the school-teachers half a day and cutting off the cranberry sauce
from the turkey dinner at the jail. General Trumps got drunk as an
owl. The City Councils held an adjourned meeting and raised the water
rent on Slocum, and Jenkins' nigger burst in the head of the big drum
with a brick. Mad's no word for it. They were wild with rage.

"And that killed Bill. They beat him by two hundred majority at the
election, just on account of old Mrs. Martin misunderstanding him.
Rough, wasn't it? But it don't seem to me like the fair thing on
Bill."

Mr. Slocum was defeated, despite the fact that he wished to succeed.
Mr. Walsh, it appears, was disappointed, in the same contest, in a
wholly different manner. Mr. Walsh was the predecessor of our present
coroner, Mr. Maginn. How Mr. Walsh was elected he informed me in these
words:

"You know," said Mr. Walsh, "that I didn't want that position. When
they talked of nominating me, I told them, says I, 'It's no use; you
needn't elect me; I'm not going to serve. D'you s'pose I'm going to
give up a respectable business to become a kind of State undertaker?
I'm opposed to this _post-mortem_ foolery, any way. When a man's blown
up with gunpowder, it don't interest me to know what killed him; so
you needn't make me coroner, for I won't serve.'

"Well, do you believe that they persisted in nominating me on the
Republican ticket--actually put me up as a candidate? So I published a
letter declining the nomination; but they absolutely had the impudence
to keep me on the ticket and to hold mass-meetings, at which they made
speeches in my favor. I was pretty mad about it, because it showed
such a disregard of my feelings; and so I chummed in with the
Democrats, and for about two months I went around to the Democratic
mass-meetings and spoke against myself and in favor of the opposition
candidate. I thought I had them for sure, because I knew more about my
own failings than those other fellows did, and I enlarged upon them
until I made myself out--Well, I heaped up the iniquity until I used
to go home feeling that I was a good deal wickeder sinner than I ever
thought I was before. It did me good, too: I reformed. I've been a
better man ever since.

"Now, you'd a thought people would a considered me pretty fair
authority about my own unfitness for the office, but hang me if the
citizens of this county positively didn't go to the polls and elect me
by about eight hundred majority. I was the worst disappointed of any
man you ever saw. I had repeaters around at the polls, too, voting for
the Democratic candidate, and I paid four of the judges to falsify the
returns, so as to elect him. But it was no use; the majority was too
big. And on election night the Republican executive committee came
round to serenade me, and as soon as the band struck up I opened on
them with a shot-gun and wounded the bass drummer in the leg. But they
kept on playing; and after a while, when they stopped, they poked some
congratulatory resolutions under the front door, and gave me three
cheers and went home. I was never so annoyed in my life.

"Then they sent me round my certificate of election, but I refused to
receive it; and those fellows seized me and held me while Harry Hammer
pushed the certificate into my coat-pocket, and then they all quit.
The next day a man was run over on the railroad, and they wanted me to
tend to him. But I was angry, and I wouldn't. So what does the sheriff
do but come here with a gang of police and carry me out there by
force? And he hunted up a jury, which brought in a verdict. Then they
wanted me to take the fees, but I wouldn't touch them. I said I wasn't
going to give my sanction to the proceedings. But of course it was
no use. I thought I was living in a free country, but I wasn't. The
sheriff drew the money and got a mandamus from the court, and he came
here one day while I was at dinner. When I said I wouldn't touch a
dollar of it, he drew a pistol and said if I didn't take the money
he'd blow my brains out. So what was a man to do? I resigned fifteen
times, but somehow those resignations were suppressed. I never heard
from them. Well, sir, at last I yielded, and for three years I kept
skirmishing around, perfectly disgusted, meditating over folks that
had died suddenly.

[Illustration: FORCED TO DO DUTY]

"And do you know that on toward the end of my term they had the face
to try to nominate me again? It's a positive fact. Those politicians
wanted me to run again; said I was the most popular coroner the county
ever had; said that everybody liked my way of handling a dead person,
it was so full of feeling and sympathy, and a lot more like that. But
what did I do? I wasn't going to run any such risk again. So I went up
to the city, and the day before the convention met I sent word down
that I was dead. Circulated a report that I'd been killed by falling
off a ferry-boat. Then they hung the convention-hall in black and
passed resolutions of respect, and then they nominated Barney Maginn.

"On the day after election I turned up, and you never saw men look so
miserable, so cut to the heart, as those politicians. They said it was
an infamous shame to deceive them in that way, and they declared that
they'd run me for sheriff at the next election to make up for it. If
they do, I'm going to move for good. I'm going to sail for Colorado,
or some other decent place where they'll let a man alone. I'll die in
my tracks before I'll ever take another office in this county. I will,
now mind me!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

_THE MATUTINAL ROOSTER_.


Horatio remarks to Hamlet, "The morning cock crew loud;" and I have no
doubt he did; he always does, especially if he is confined during the
performance of his vocal exercises to a narrow city yard surrounded by
brick walls which act as sounding-boards to carry the vibrations to
the ears of a sleeper who is already restless with the summer heat
and with the buzzing of early and pertinacious flies. To such a man,
aroused and indignant, there comes a profound conviction that the
urban rooster is far more vociferous than his rural brethren; that he
can sing louder, hold on longer and begin again more quickly than the
bucolic cock who has communed only with nature and known no envious
longings to outshriek the morning milkman or the purveyor of catfish.
And he who is thus afflicted perhaps may be justified if he regards
"the cock, that trumpet of the morn," as an insufferable nuisance,
whose only excuse for existence is that he is pleasant to the eye and
the palate when, bursting with stuffing, he lies, brown and crisp,
among the gravy, ready for the carving-knife.

But the man who is fortunate enough to dwell in the country during
the ardent summer days takes a different and more kindly view of
chanticleer. If he is waked early in the morning by the clarion voice
of some neighboring cock, he will not repine, provided he went to bed
at a reasonably early hour, for he will hear some music that is not
wholly to be despised. The rooster in the neighboring barn-yard gives
out the theme. His voice is a deep, but broken, bass. It is suggestive
of his having roosted during the night in a draft, which has inflamed
his vocal chords so that his tones have lost their sweetness. It is
as if a coffee-mill had essayed to crow. The theme is taken up by a
thin-voiced rooster a quarter of a mile away, and scarcely has he
reached the concluding note before a baritone cock, a little more
remote, repeats the cadence, only to have his song broken in upon by
a nearer bird who understands exactly the part he is to play in the
fugue. And so it passes on from the one to the other, growing fainter
and fainter in the distance as Shanghai sings to Bantam and Chittagong
to Brahmapootra, until, at last, there is silence; and then, "O hark!
O hear! How thin and clear!" far, far away some rooster sends out a
delicate falsetto note that might have come from a microscopic cock
who is practicing ventriloquism in the cellar. Instantly the catarrhal
chicken in the next yard begins the refrain again with his hoarse
voice; and then again and again the fugue goes round, never tiring the
listener, but always growing more musical, until the sun is fairly up,
the hens awake and the scratching of the day is ready to begin.

The note of the cock has been misrepresented. Shakespeare, following
usage, perhaps, has given it as "cock-a-doodle-doo," and that is the
accepted interpretation of it. But this does not convey the proper
impression. We should say that if human syllables can tell the story
they would assume some such form as:

_Ooauk-auk-auk-au-au-au-auk_!

It is a song that ought to be studied and glorified in print. Think
what a history it has! That identical combination of sounds which
wakes and maddens the sleeping citizen of to-day was heard by Noah and
his family with precisely the same cadence and accent in the ark. It
was that very crow that Peter heard when he had denied his Master. It
is a crow that has come down to us from Eden almost without a moment's
intermission. It is a crow which has passed round the world century
after century, and now passes, as the herald of the coming of the sun.
It may yet be made the theme of a majestic musical composition, now
that Wagner has come to teach men how to build a lyric drama upon
a phrase. Perhaps the coming American national song may have this
familiar crow for its inspiration and its burden. We might do worse,
perhaps, than to take the rooster for our national bird, even if we
reject his song as the basis of our national anthem. We took our eagle
from Rome, as France did hers; would it not have been wiser if we had
taken the cock instead, as France did after the Revolution? The Romans
and Greeks regarded the cock as a sacred bird. The principal thing
that the average school-boy remembers about Socrates is that he killed
himself immediately after ordering that a cock should be sacrificed to
Aesculapius; and some have held that the reason of his suicide was the
vociferousness of the cock, which he wanted to kill in revenge for the
misery it had caused him while he was trying to sleep or to think.

[Illustration: THE EARLY COCK]

The cock is a braver bird than the eagle. He has ever been a bold and
ready warrior, and has worn a warrior's spurs from the beginning. He
has one high soldierly quality: he knows when he is whipped; for who
has not seen him, when defeated in a gallant contest, sneak away to a
distant-corner to stand, with ruffled feathers, upon a single leg, the
very picture of humiliation and despair? And he is vigilant, for
has he not for ages revolved upon church-steeples as the emblem of
watchfulness? He has the homelier virtues. He is a kind father and a
fond as well as a multitudinous husband. He knows how to protect his
family from errant and disreputable roosters, and he is always willing
to stand aside with unsatisfied appetite and permit them to devour a
dainty he has found. He is useful and admirable in his relation to
this world, and he is not without value to the next, for popular
belief has credited him with the office of warning revisiting spirits
to retire from the earth; and when he crows all through the night, the
Katie Kings and other ghostly persons who come from space to rap
upon tables and evoke discordant twangs from guitars are deaf to the
seductive entreaties of the mediums. When

  "This bird of dawning singeth all night long,
  ... then they say no spirit dares stir abroad."

Perhaps the true method of expelling Satan from the land and of
reforming the corruption which afflicts the country is to place
the cock upon our standards and to offer him inducements to crow
perpetually. There should be something to that effect in the political
platforms. A goose saved Rome; why should not a rooster rescue
America? Let the patriot who curses the noisy bird which crows him
from his drowsy couch at an unseemly hour think of these things and
allay his wrath with reflections upon the well-deserved glories of the
matutinal rooster.

I have one neighbor who does not regard the crowing cock with proper
enthusiasm--who is indeed inclined to look upon it with disgust; but
as he has been a victim of the bird's vociferousness, perhaps his
sentiments of dislike for the proud bird may be excused.

The agricultural society of our county held a poultry show last fall,
and Mr. Butterwick, who is a member of the society, was invited to
deliver the address at the commencement of the fair. Mr. Butterwick
prepared what he considered a very learned paper upon the culture of
domestic fowls; and when the time arrived, he was on the platform
ready to enlighten the audience. The birds were arranged around the
hall in cages; and when the exhibition had been formally opened by the
chairman, the orator came forward with his manuscript in his hand.
Just as he began to read it a black Poland rooster close to the stage
uttered a loud and defiant crow. There were about two hundred roosters
in the hall, and every one of them instantly began to crow in the most
vehement manner, and the noise excited the hens so much that they all
cackled as loudly they could.

Of course the speaker's voice could not be heard, and he came to a
dead halt, while the audience laughed. After waiting for ten minutes
silence was again obtained, and Butterwick began a second time.

As soon as he had uttered the words "Ladies and gentlemen," the Poland
rooster, which seemed to have a grudge against the speaker, emitted
another preposterous crow, and all the other fowls in the room joined
in the deafening chorus. The audience roared, and Butterwick grew red
in the face with passion. But when the noise subsided, he went at it
again, and got as far as "Ladies and gentlemen, the domestic barn-yard
fowl affords a subject of the highest interest to the--" when the
Poland rooster became engaged in a contest with an overgrown Shanghai
chicken, and this set the hens of the combatants to cackling, and in a
moment the entire collection was in another uproar. This was too
much. Mr. Butterwick was beside himself with rage. He flung down his
manuscript, rushed to the cage, and shaking his fist at the Poland
chicken exclaimed,

"You diabolical fiend, I've half a mind to murder you!"

Then he kicked the cage to pieces with his foot, and seizing the
rooster twisted its neck and flung it on the floor. Then he fled from
the hall, followed by peals of laughter from the audience and more
terrific clatter from the fowls. The exhibition was opened without
further ceremony, and the dissertation on the domestic barn-yard fowl
was ordered to be printed in the annual report of the proceedings of
the society.

One day while I was talking with Mr. Keyser upon the subject of the
cock he pointed to a chicken that was roosting upon an adjoining
fence, and told me a story about the fowl that I must refuse to
believe.

"Perhaps you never noticed that rooster," said Keyser--"very likely
you wouldn't have observed him; but I don't care in what light you
look at him, the more you study him, the more talented he appears.
You talk about your American iggles and birds of freedom, but that
insignificant-looking chicken yonder can give any of them twenty
points and pocket them at the first shot. That rooster has traits of
character that'd adorn almost any walk of life.

[Illustration: THE AFFAIR AT THE POULTRY-SHOW]

"Most chickens are kinder stupid; but what I like about him is that he
is sympathetic, he has feeling. I know last fall that my Shanghai hen
was taken sick while she was trying to hatch out some eggs, and that
rooster was so compassionate that he used to go in and set on that
nest for hours, trying to help her out, so that she could go off
recreating after exercise. And when she died, he turned right in and
took charge of things--seemed to feel that he ought to be a father to
those unborn little orphans; and he straddled around over those eggs
for ever so long. He never got much satisfaction out of it, though.
Most of them were duck eggs, and it seemed to kinder cut him up when
he looked at those birds after they hatched out. He took it to heart,
and appeared to feel low-spirited and afflicted. He would go off and
stand by himself--stand on one leg in a corner of the fence and let
his mind brood over his troubles until you'd pity him. It disgusted
him to think how the job turned out.

"Now, you wouldn't think such a chicken as that would have much
courage, but he'd just as leave fight a wagon-load of tigers as not.
He got a notion in his head that that rooster over there on the
Baptist church-steeple was alive, and he couldn't bear to think that
it was up there sailing around and putting on airs over him, and a
good many times I've seen him try to fly up at it, so's to arrange a
fight. When he found he couldn't make it, he'd crow at the Baptist
rooster and dare it to come down, and at last, when all his efforts
were useless, would you believe that rooster one day attacked the
sexton as the weathercock's next friend, and drove his spurs so far
into the sexton's shanks that he walked on crutches for more'n a week?
I never saw a mere chicken have such fine instincts and such pluck.

"He is a splendid fighter, anyway, just as he stands. Why, he had a
little fuss with Murphy's Poland rooster here some time back, and
instead of going at him and taking the chances of getting whipped,
that chicken actually put himself into training, ate nothing but corn,
took regular exercise, went to roost early, took a cold bath every
morning and got a pullet to rub him down with a corn-cob. It was
wonderful; and in a week or so he was all bone and muscle, and he
flickered over the fence after Murphy's rooster and sent him whizzing
into the next world on the fourth round.

"I never knew such a rooster. Now, do you know I believe that chicken
actually takes an interest in politics? Oh, you may laugh, but last
fall during the campaign he was so excited about something that he
couldn't eat, and the night they had the Republican mass-meeting here
he roosted on the chandelier in the hall, and every time General
Trumps made a good point that chicken would cackle and flap his wings,
as much as to say, 'Them's my sentiments!' And on the day of the
parade he turned out and followed the last wagon, keeping step with
the music and never dropping out of line but once, when he stopped to
fight a Democratic rooster belonging to old Byerly, who was on the
Democratic ticket. And in the morning, after the Republicans won, he
just got on the fence out here and crowed so vociferously you could've
heard him across the river, particularly when I ran up the American
flag and read the latest returns.

"Yes, sir. Now, I know you'll think it's ridiculous when I tell you,
but it's an actual fact, that that very day my daughter was playing
the 'Star-spangled Banner' on the piano, and that rooster, when he
heard it, came scudding into the parlor, and after flipping up on the
piano he struck out and crowed that tune just as natural as if he was
an educated musician. Positive truth; and he beat time with his tail.
He don't crow like any other rooster. Every morning he works off
selections from Beethoven and Mozart and those people, and on Sundays
he frequently lets himself out on hymn-tunes. I've known him to set on
that fence for more'n an hour at a time practicing the scales, and he
nearly kicked another rooster to death one day because that rooster
crowed flat. I saw him do it myself. And now I really must be going.
Good-morning."

I think I shall send out and kill that rooster at the first
opportunity. I want Keyser to have one thing less to fib about. He has
too much variety at present.



CHAPTER XIX.

_AN UNRULY METER.--SCENES IN A SANCTUM_.


During one of the cold spells of last winter the gas-meter in my
cellar was frozen. I attempted to thaw it out by pouring hot water
over it, but after spending an hour upon the effort I emerged from the
contest with the meter with my feet and trousers wet, my hair full of
dust and cobwebs and my temper at fever heat. After studying how I
should get rid of the ice in the meter, I concluded to use force
for the purpose, and so, seizing a hot poker, I jammed it through
a vent-hole and stirred it around inside of the meter with a
considerable amount of vigor. I felt the ice give way, and I heard the
wheels buzz around with rather more vehemence than usual. Then I went
up stairs.

I noticed for three or four days that the internal machinery of the
meter seemed to be rattling around in a remarkable manner; it could
be heard all over the house. But I was pleased to find that it
was working again in spite of the cold weather, and I retained my
serenity.

About two weeks afterward my gas bill came. It accused me of burning
during the quarter about one million five hundred thousand feet of
gas, and it called on me to settle to the extent of nearly three
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I put on my hat and went down to
the gas-office. I addressed one of the clerks:

"How much gas did you make at the Blank works last quarter?"

"I dunno; about a million feet, I reckon."

"Well, you have charged me in my bill for burning half a million more
than you made; I want you to correct it."

"Less see the bill. Hm--m--m! this is all right. It's taken off of the
meter. That's what the meter says."

"S'pose'n it does; I _couldn't_ have burned more'n you made."

"Can't help that; the meter can't lie."

"Well, but how d'you account for the difference?"

"Dunno; 'tain't our business to go nosing and poking around after
scientific truth. We depend on the meter. If that says you burned six
million feet, why, you _must_ have burned it, even if we never made a
foot of gas out at the works."

"To tell you the honest truth," said I, "the meter was frozen, and I
stirred it up with a poker and set it whizzing around."

"Price just the same," said the clerk. "We charge for pokers just as
we do for gas."

"You are not actually going to have the audacity to ask me to pay
three hundred and fifty thousand dollars on account of that poker?"

"If it was seven hundred thousand dollars, I'd take it with a calmness
that would surprise you. Pay up, or we'll turn off your gas."

"Turn it off and be hanged," I exclaimed as I emerged from the office,
tearing the bill to fragments. Then I went home; and grasping that
too lavish poker, I approached the meter. It had registered another
million feet since the bill was made out; it was running up a score of
a hundred feet a minute; in a month I would have owed the gas company
more than the United States Government owes its creditors. So I beat
the meter into a shapeless mass, tossed it into the street and turned
off the gas inside the cellar.

Then I went down to the _Patriot_ office to persuade Major Slott
to denounce the fraud practiced by the company. While I was in the
editorial room two or three visitors came in. The first one behaved
in a violent and somewhat mysterious manner. He saluted the major by
throwing a chair at him. Then he seized the editor by the hair, bumped
his head against the table three or four times and kicked him. When
this exhilarating exercise was over, the visitor shook his fist very
close to the major's nose and said, "You idiot and outcast, if you
don't put that notice in to-morrow, I'll come round here and murder
you! Do you hear me?" Then he cuffed the major's ears a couple of
times, kicked him some more, emptied the ink-stand over his head,
poured the sand from the sand-box in the same place, knocked over the
table and went out. During all this time the major sat still with a
sickly kind of a smile upon his face and never uttered a word. When
the man left, the major picked up the table, wiped the ink and sand
from his face, and turning to me said,

"Harry will have his little fun, you see."

[Illustration: THE SHERIFF IS MAD]

"He is a somewhat exuberant humorist," I replied. "What was the object
of the joke?"

"Well, he's going to sell his furniture at auction, and I promised to
notice the fact in to-day's _Patriot_, but I forgot it, and he called
to remind me of it."

"Do all of your friends refresh your memory in that vivid manner? If
I'd been in your place, I'd have knocked him down."

"No, you wouldn't," said Slott--"no, you wouldn't. Harry is the
sheriff, and he controls two thousand dollars' worth of official
advertising. I'd sooner he'd kick me from here to Borneo and back
again than to take that advertising away from the _Patriot_. What are
a few bumps and a sore shin or two compared with all that fatness? No,
sir; he can have all the fun he wants out of me."

The next visitor was less demonstrative. He was tall and slender and
clad in the habiliments of woe. He entered the office and took a
chair. Removing his hat, he wiped the moisture from his eyes, rubbed
his nose thoughtfully for a moment, put his handkerchief in his hat,
his hat upon the floor, and said,

"You didn't know Mrs. Smith?"

"I hadn't that pleasure. Who was she?"

"She was my wife. She's been sick some time. But day before yesterday
she was took worse, and she kep' on sinking until evening, when she
gave a kinder sudden jump a couple of times, and then her spirit
flickered. Dead, you know. Passed away into another world."

"I'm very sorry."

"So am I. And I called around to see if I couldn't get some of
you literary people to get out some kind of a poem describing her
peculiarities, so that I can advertise her in the paper."

"I dunno; maybe we might."

[Illustration: MR. SMITH'S GRIEF]

"Oh, you didn't know her, you say? Well, she was a sing'lar kinder
woman. Had strong characteristics. Her nose was the crookedest in the
State--all bent around sideways. Old Captain Binder used to say that
it looked like the jibsail of an oyster-sloop on the windward tack.
Only his fun, you know. But Helen never minded it. She said herself
that it aimed so much around the corner that whenever she sneezed
she blew down her back hair. There were rich depths of humor in that
woman. Now, I don't mind if you work into the poem some picturesque
allusion to the condition of her nose, so her friends will recognize
her. And you might also spend a verse or two on her defective eye."

"What was the matter with her eye?"

"Gone, sir--gone! Knocked out with a chip while she was splitting
kin'ling-wood when she was a child. She fixed it up somehow with a
glass one, and it gave her the oddest expression you ever saw. The
false one would stand perfectly still while the other one was rolling
around, so that 'bout half the time you couldn't tell whether she was
studying astronomy or watching the hired girl pare potatoes. And she
lay there at night with the indisposed eye wide open glaring at me,
while the other was tight shut, so that sometimes I'd get the horrors
and kick her and shake her to make her get up and fix it. Once I got
some mucilage and glued the lid down myself, but she didn't like it
when she woke in the morning. Had to soak her eye in warm water, you
know, to get it open.

"Now, I reckon you could run in some language about her eccentricities
of vision, couldn't you? Don't care what it is, so that I have the
main facts."

"Was she peculiar in other respects?"

"Well, yes. One leg was gone--run over by a wagon when she was little.
But she wore a patent leg that did her pretty well. Bothered her
sometimes, but most generally gave her a good deal of comfort. She was
fond of machinery. She was very grateful for her privileges. Although
sometimes it worried her, too. The springs'd work wrong now and then,
and maybe in church her leg'd give a spurt and begin to kick and
hammer away at the board in front of the pew until it sounded like a
boiler-factory. Then I'd carry her out, and most likely it'd kick at
me all the way down the aisle and end up by dancing her around the
vestibule, until the sexton would rebuke her for waltzing in church.
Seems to me there's material for poetry in that, isn't there? She was
a self-willed woman. Often, when she wanted to go to a sewing-bee or
to gad about somewhere, maybe, I'd stuff that leg up the chimney or
hide it in the wood-pile. And when I wouldn't tell her where it was,
do you know what she'd do?"

"What?"

"Why, she'd lash an umbrella to her stump and drift off down the
street 'sif that umbrella was born there. You couldn't get ahead of
her. She was ingenious.

"So I thought I'd mention a few facts to you, and you can just throw
them together and make them rhyme, and I'll call 'round and pay you
for them. What day? Tuesday? Very well; I'll run in on Tuesday and see
how you've fixed her up."

Then Mr. Smith smoothed up his hat with his handkerchief, wiped the
accumulated sorrow from his eyes, placed his hat upon his head,
and sailed serenely out and down the stairs toward his desolated
hearthstone.

The last caller was an artist. He took a chair and said,

"My name is Brewer; I am the painter of the allegorical picture of
'The Triumph of Truth' on exhibition down at Yelverton's. I called,
major, to make some complaint about the criticism of the work which
appeared in your paper. Your critic seems to have misunderstood
somewhat the drift of the picture. For instance, he says--Let me quote
the paragraph:

"'In the background to the left stands St. Augustine with one foot
on a wooden Indian which is lying upon the ground. Why the artist
decorated St. Augustine with a high hat and put his trousers inside
his boots, and why he filled the saint's belt with navy revolvers and
tomahawks, has not been revealed. It strikes us as being ridiculous to
the very last degree.'

"Now, this seems to me to be a little too harsh. That figure does
_not_ represent St. Augustine. It is meant for an allegorical picture
of Brute Force, and it has its foot upon Intellect--_Intellect_, mind
you! and _not_ a cigar-store Indian. It is a likeness of Captain Kidd,
and I set it back to represent the fact that Brute Force belonged to
the Dark Ages. How on earth that man of yours ever got an idea that it
was St. Augustine beats me."

"It is singular," said the major.

"And now let me direct your attention to another paragraph. He says,

"'We were astonished to notice that while Noah's ark goes sailing
in the remote distance, there is close to it a cotton-factory, the
chimney of which is pouring out white smoke that covers the whole of
the sky in the picture, while the ark seems to be trying to sail down
that chimney. Now, they didn't have cotton-factories in those days;
the thing don't hang. The artist must have been drunk.'

"Now, this insinuation pains me. How would you like it if you painted
a picture of the tower of Babel, and somebody should come along and
insist that it was the chimney of a cotton-factory, and that the
clouds with which the sky is covered were smoke? Cotton-factory! Your
man certainly cannot be familiar with the Scriptures; and when he
talks about the ark sailing down that chimney, he forgets that the
reason why it is standing on one end is that the water is so rough as
to make it pitch. You know the Bible says that arks did pitch 'without
and within.' Now, don't it?"

"I think maybe it does," said the major.

"But that's not the worst. I can stand that; but what do you think
of a man that goes to criticising a work of art, and says--Now just
listen to this:

"'On the right is a boy who has his clothes off and has apparently
been in swimming, and has been rescued by a big yellow dog just as he
was about to drown. What this has to do with the Triumph of Truth we
don't know, but we do know that the dog is twice as large as the boy,
and that he has the boy's head in his mouth, while the boy's hands are
tied behind his back. Now, for a boy to go in swimming with his hands
tied, and for a dog to swallow his head so as to drag him out, appears
to us the awfulest foolishness on earth.'

"You will probably be surprised to learn that your critic is here
referring to a very beautiful study of a Christian martyr who has been
thrown among the wild beasts of the arena, and who is engaged in being
eaten by a lion. The animal is not a yellow dog; that human being has
not been in swimming; and the reason that he is smaller than the lion
is that I had to make him so in order to get his head into the lion's
mouth. Would you have me represent the lion as large as an elephant?
Would you have me paste a label on the Christian martyr to inform the
public that 'This is not a boy who has been treading water with
his hands tied'? Now, look at the matter calmly. Is the _Patriot_
encouraging art when it goes on in this manner? Blame me if I think it
is."

"It certainly doesn't seem so."

"Well, then, what do you say to this? What do you think of a critic
who remarks,

"'But the most extraordinary thing in the picture is the group in
the foreground. An old lady with an iron coal-scuttle on her head is
handing some black pills to a ballet-dancer dressed in pink tights,
while another woman in a badly-fitting chemise stands by them brushing
off the flies with the branch of a tree, with a canary-bird resting
upon her shoulder and trying to sing at some small boys who are seen
in the other corner of the field. What this means we haven't the
remotest idea; but we do know that the ballet-dancers' legs have the
knee-pans at the back of the joint, and that the canary-bird looks
more as if he wanted to eat the coal-scuttle than as if he desired to
sing.'

"This is too bad. Do you know what that beautiful group really
represents? That old lady, as your idiot calls her, is Minerva, the
goddess of War, handing cannon balls to the goddess of Love as a token
there shall be no more war. And the figure in what he considers the
chemise is the genius of Liberty holding out an olive branch with
one hand, while upon her shoulder rests an American eagle screaming
defiance at the enemies of his country, who are seen fleeing in the
distance. Canary bird! small boys! ballet-girl! The man is crazy, sir;
stark, staring mad. And now I want you to write up an explanation for
me. This kind of thing exposes me to derision. I can't stand it, and,
by George! I won't! I'll sue you for libel."

Then the major promised to make amends, and Mr. Brewer withdrew in a
calmer mood.



CHAPTER XX.

_HIGH ART_.


An itinerant theatrical company gave two or three performances in
Millburg last winter, and in a very creditable fashion, too. One of
the plays produced was Shakespere's "King John," with the "eminent
tragedian Mr. Hammer" in the character of the _King_. It is likely
that but for an unfortunate misunderstanding the entertainment would
have been wholly delightful. There is a good deal of flourishing of
trumpets in the drama, and the manager, not having a trumpeter of his
own, engaged a German musician named Schenck to supply the music.
Schenck doesn't understand the English language very well, and the
manager put him behind the scenes on the left of the stage, while the
manager stood in the wing at the right of the stage. Then Schenck was
instructed to toot his trumpet when the manager signaled with his
hand. Everything went along smoothly enough until _King John_ (Mr.
Hammer) came to the passage, "Ah, me! this tyrant fever burns me up!"
Just as _King John_ was about to utter this the manager brushed a fly
off of his nose, and Schenck, mistaking the movement for the appointed
signal, blew out a frightful blare upon his bugle. The _King_ was
furious and the manager made wild gestures for Schenck to stop, but
that estimable German musician imagined that the manager wanted him to
play louder, and every time a fresh motion was made Schenck emitted a
more terrific blast The result was something like the following:

_King John_. "Ah, me! this tyrant--"

_Schenck_ (with his cheeks distended and his eyes beaming through
his spectacles). "Ta-tarty; ta-ta-tarty, rat-tat tarty-tarty-tarty,
ta-ta-ta, tanarty-arty, te-tarty."

_King John_. "Fever burns--"

_Schenck_. "Rat-tat-tarty, poopen-arty, oopen-arty,
ta-tarty-arty-oopen-arty; ta-ta; ta-ta-ta-tarty poopen-arty, poopen
a-a-a-arty-arty."

_King John_. "Ah, me! this--"

_Schenck_ (ejecting a hurricane from his lungs).
"Hoopen-oopen-oopen-arty, ta-tarty; tat-tat-ta-tarty-ti-ta-tarty;
poopen-ta-poopen-ta-poopen-ta-a-a-a-tarty-whoop ta-ta."

_King John_ (quickly). "Tyrant fever burns me up."

_Schenck_ (with perspiration standing out on his forehead).
"To-ta ta-ta. Ta-ta ta-ta tatten-atten-atten arty te-tarty
poopen oopen-oo-oo-oo-oo-oopen te-tarty ta-ta-ar-ar-ar-te
tarty-to-ta-a-a-a-_a_-A-+A+-+_A!_+"

_King John_ (to the audience). "Ladies and gentlemen--"

_Schenck_. "Ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta, poopen-oopen, poopen-oopen, te-ta,
tarty oo-hoo oo-hoo-te tarty arty, appen-arty."

_King John_. "There is a German idiot behind the scenes here who is--"

_Schenck_. "Whoopen-arty te-tarty-arty-arty-ta-ta-a-a-a tat-tarty."

_King John_. "Blowing infamously upon a horn, and--"

_Schenck_. "Poopen-arty."

_King John_. "If you will excuse me--"

_Schenck_. "Pen-arty-arty."

_King John_. "I will go behind the scenes and check him in his wild
career."

_Schenck_. "Poopen-arty ta-tarty-arty poopen-a-a-a-arty
tat-tat-ta-tarty."

Then _King John_ disappeared and a scuffle was heard, with some
violent expressions in the German language. Ten minutes later a
gentleman from the Fatherland might have been seen standing on the
pavement in front of the theatre with a bugle under his arm and a
handkerchief to his bleeding nose, wondering what on earth was the
matter. In the mean time the _King_ had returned to the stage, and the
performance concluded without any music. After this the manager will
employ home talent when he wants airs on the bugle.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have been studying the horn to some extent myself. Nothing is more
delightful than to have sweet music at home in the evenings. It
lightens the burdens of care, it soothes the ruffled feelings, it
exercises a refining influence upon the children, it calms the
passions and elevates the soul. A few months ago I thought that it
might please my family if I learned to play upon the French horn. It
is a beautiful instrument, and after hearing a man perform on it at a
concert I resolved to have one. I bought a splendid one in the city,
and concluded not to mention the fact to any one until I had learned
to play a tune. Then I thought I would serenade Mrs. A. some evening
and surprise her. Accordingly, I determined to practice in the garret.
When I first tried the horn I expected to blow only a few gentle notes
until I learned how to handle it; but when I put the mouth-piece to my
lips, no sound was evoked. Then I blew harder. Still the horn remained
silent. Then I drew a full breath and sent a whirlwind tearing through
the horn; but no music came. I blew at it for half an hour, and then I
ran a wire through the instrument to ascertain if anything blocked it
up. It was clear. Then I blew softly and fiercely, quickly and slowly.
I opened all the stops. I puffed and strained and worked until I
feared an attack of apoplexy. Then I gave it up and went down stairs;
and Mrs. A. asked me what made me look so red in the face. For four
days I labored with that horn, and got my lips so puckered up and
swollen that I went about looking as if I was perpetually trying to
whistle. Finally, I took the instrument back to the store and told the
man that the horn was defective. What I wanted was a horn with insides
to it; this one had no more music to it than a terra-cotta drainpipe.
The man took it in his hand, put it to his lips and played "Sweet
Spirit, Hear my Prayer," as easily as if he were singing. He said that
what I needed was to fix my mouth properly, and he showed me how.

After working for three more afternoons in the garret the horn at last
made a sound. But it was not a cheering noise; it reminded me forcibly
of the groans uttered by Butterwick's horse when it was dying last
November. The harder I blew, the more mournful became the noise, and
that was the only note I could get. When I went down to supper, Mrs.
A. asked me if I heard that awful groaning. She said she guessed it
came from Twiddler's cow, for she heard Mrs. Twiddler say yesterday
that the cow was sick.

For four weeks I could get nothing out of that horn but blood-curdling
groans; and, meantime, the people over the way moved to another house
because our neighborhood was haunted, and three of our hired girls
resigned successively for the same reason.

Finally, a man whom I consulted told me that "No One to Love" was an
easy tune for beginners; and I made an effort to learn it.

After three weeks of arduous practice, during which Mrs. A. several
times suggested that it was brutal that Twiddler didn't kill that
suffering cow and put it out of its misery, I conquered the first
three notes; but there I stuck. I could play "No One to--" and that
was all. I performed "No One to--" over eight thousand times; and
as it seemed unlikely that I would ever learn the whole tune, I
determined to try the effect of part of it on Mrs. A. About ten
o'clock one night I crept out to the front of the house and struck
up. First, "No One to--" about fifteen or twenty times, then a few of
those groans, then more of the tune, and so forth. Then Butterwick set
his dog on me, and I suddenly went into the house. Mrs. A. had the
children in the back room, and she was standing behind the door with
my revolver in her hand. When I entered, she exclaimed,

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come home! Somebody's been murdering a man in
our yard. He uttered the most awful shrieks and cries I ever heard. I
was dreadfully afraid the murderers would come into the house. It's
perfectly fearful, isn't it?"

[Illustration: A SCARED FAMILY]

Then I took the revolver away from her--it was not loaded, and she
had no idea that it would have to be cocked--and went to bed without
mentioning the horn. I thought perhaps it would be better not to.
I sold it the next day; and now if I want music I shall buy a good
hand-organ. I know I can play on that.

       *       *       *       *       *

As music and sculpture are the first of the arts, I may properly refer
in this chapter to some facts relative to the condition of the latter
in the community in which I live. Some time ago there was an auction
out at the place of Mr. Jackson, and a very handsome marble statue
of William Penn was knocked down to Mr. Whitaker. He had the statue
carted over to the marble-yard, where he sought an interview with
Mr. Mix, the owner. He told Mix that he wanted that statue "fixed up
somehow so that 'twould represent one of the heathen gods." He had an
idea that Mix might chip the clothes off of Penn and put a lyre in his
hand, "so that he might pass muster as Apollo or Hercules."

But Mix said he thought the difficulty would be in wrestling with
William's hat. It was a marble hat, with a rim almost big enough for a
race-course; and Mix said that although he didn't profess to know much
about heathen mythology as a general thing, still it struck him
that Hercules in a broad-brimmed hat would attract attention by his
singularity, and might be open to criticism.

Mr. Whitaker said that what he really wanted with that statue, when he
bought it, was to turn it into Venus, and he thought perhaps the hat
might be chiseled up into some kind of a halo around her head.

But Mix said that he didn't exactly see how he could do that when the
rim was so curly at the sides. A halo that was curly was just no
halo at all. But, anyway, how was he going to manage about Penn's
waistcoat? It reached almost to his knees, and to attempt to get out
a bare-legged Venus with a halo on her head and four cubic feet of
waistcoat around her middle would ruin his business. It would make the
whole human race smile.

Then Whitaker said Neptune was a god he always liked, and perhaps Mix
could fix the tails of Penn's coat somehow so that it would look as
if the figure was riding on a dolphin; then the hat might be made to
represent seaweed, and a fish-spear could be put in the statue's hand.

Mix, however, urged that a white marble hat of those dimensions, when
cut into seaweed, would be more apt to look as if Neptune was coming
home with a load of hay upon his head; and he said that although art
had made gigantic strides during the past century, and evidently had
a brilliant future before it, it had not yet discovered a method by
which a swallow-tail coat with flaps to the pockets could be turned
into anything that would look like a dolphin.

Then Mr. Whitaker wanted to know if Pan wasn't the god that had horns
and split hoofs, with a shaggy look to his legs; for if he was, he
would be willing to have the statue made into Pan, if it could be done
without too much expense.

And Mr. Mix said that while nothing would please him more than to
produce such a figure of Pan, and while William Penn's square-toed
shoes, probably, might be made into cloven hoofs without a very
strenuous effort, still he hardly felt as if he could fix up those
knee-breeches to resemble shaggy legs; and as for trying to turn that
hat into a pair of horns, Mr. Whitaker might as well talk of emptying
the Atlantic Ocean through a stomach-pump.

Thereupon, Mr. Whitaker remarked that he had concluded, on the whole,
that it would be better to split the patriarch up the middle and take
the two halves to make a couple of little Cupids, which he could hang
in his parlor with a string, so that they would appear to be sporting
in air. Perhaps the flap of that hat might be sliced up into wings and
glued on the shoulders of the Cupids.

But Mr. Mix said that while nobody would put himself out more to
oblige a friend than he would, still he must say, if his honest
opinion was asked, that to attempt to make a Cupid out of one leg and
half the body of William Penn would be childish, because, if they used
the half one way, there would be a very small Cupid with one very long
leg; and if they used it the other way, he would have to cut Cupid's
head out of the calf of William's leg, and there wasn't room enough,
let alone the fact that the knee-joint would give the god of Love the
appearance of having a broken back. And as for wings, if the man had
been born who could chisel wings out of the flap of a hat, all he
wanted was to meet that man, so that he could gaze on him and study
him. Finally Whitaker suggested that Mix should make the statue into
an angel and sell it for an ornament to a tombstone.

But Mix said that if he should insult the dead by putting up in the
cemetery an angel with a stubby nose and a double-chin, that would let
him out as a manufacturer of sepulchres.

And so Whitaker sold him the statue for ten dollars, and Mix sawed it
up into slabs for marble-top tables. High art doesn't seem to flourish
to any large extent in this place.



CHAPTER XXI.

_CERTAIN DENTAL EXPERIENCES.--AN UNFORTUNATE OFFICIAL_.


Mr. Potts has suffered a good deal from the toothache, and one day
he went around to the office of Dr. Slugg, the dentist, to have the
offending tooth pulled. The doctor has a very large practice; and in
order to economize his strength, he invented a machine for pulling
teeth. He constructed a series of cranks and levers fixed to a movable
stand and operating a pair of forceps by means of a leather belt,
which was connected with the shafting of a machine-shop in the street
back of the house. The doctor experimented with it several times on
nails firmly inserted in a board, and it worked splendidly. The first
patient he tried it on was Mr. Potts. When the forceps had been
clasped upon Potts' tooth, Dr. Slugg geared the machine and opened the
valve. It was never known with any degree of exactness whether the
doctor pulled the valve too far open or whether the engine was working
at that moment under extraordinary pressure. But in the twinkling of
an eye Mr. Potts was twisted out of the chair and the movable stand
began to execute the most surprising manoeuvres around the room.
It would jerk Mr. Potts high into the air and souse him down in
an appalling manner, with one leg among Slugg's gouges and other
instruments of torture, and with the other in the spittoon. Then it
would rear him up against the chandelier three or four times, and
shy across and drive Potts' head through the oil portrait of Slugg's
father over the mantel-piece. After bumping him against Slugg's
ancestor it would swirl Potts around among the crockery on the
wash-stand and dance him up and down in an exciting manner over the
stove, until finally the molar "gave," and as Potts landed with his
foot through the pier-glass and his elbow on a pink poodle worked in a
green rug, the machine dashed violently against Dr. Slugg and tried
to seize his leg with the forceps. When they carried Potts home, he
discovered that Slugg had pulled the wrong tooth; and Dr. Slugg never
sent to collect his bill. He canceled his contract with the man who
owned the planing-mill, and began to pull teeth in the old way, by
hand. I have an impression that Slugg's patent can be bought at a
sacrifice.

[Illustration: DR. SLUGG'S INVENTION]

Mr. Potts, a day or two later, resolved to take the aching tooth out
himself. He had heard that a tooth could be removed suddenly and
without much pain by tying a string around it, fixing the string to
a bullet and firing the bullet from a gun. So he got some string and
fastened it to the tooth and to a ball, rammed the latter into his
gun, and aimed the gun out of the window. Then he began to feel
nervous about it, and he cocked and uncocked the gun about twenty
times, as his mind changed in regard to the operation. The last time
the gun was cocked he resolved _not_ to take the tooth out in that
way, and he began to let the hammer down preparatory to cutting the
string. Just then the hammer slipped, and the next minute Mr. Potts'
tooth was flying through the air at the rate of fifty miles a minute,
and he was rolling over on the floor howling and spitting blood. After
Mrs. Potts had picked him up and given him water with which to wash
out his mouth he went down to the front window. While he was sitting
there thinking that maybe it was all for the best, he saw some men
coming by carrying a body on a shutter. He asked what was the matter,
and they told him that Bill Dingus had been murdered by somebody.

Mr. Potts thought he would put on his hat and go down to the coroner's
office and see what the tragedy was. When he got there, Mr. Dingus
had revived somewhat, and he told his story to the coroner. He was
trimming a tree in Butterwick's garden, when he suddenly heard the
explosion of a gun, and the next minute a bullet struck him in the
thigh and he fell to the ground. He said he couldn't imagine who did
it. Then the doctor examined the wound and found a string hanging from
it, and a large bullet suspended upon the string. When he pulled the
string it would not move any, and he said it must be tied to
some other missile still in the flesh. He said it was the most
extraordinary case on record. The medical books reported nothing of
the kind.

Then the doctor gave Mr. Dingus chloroform and proceeded to cut into
him with a knife to find the other end of the string, and while he was
at work Mr. Potts began to feel sick at his stomach and to experience
a desire to go home. At last the doctor cut deep enough; and giving
the string a jerk, out came a molar tooth that looked as if it
might have been aching. Then the doctor said the case was 'more
extraordinary than he had thought it was. He said that tooth couldn't
have been fired from a gun, because it would have been broken to
pieces; it couldn't have been swallowed by Dingus and then broken
through and buried itself in his thigh, for then how could the string
and ball be accounted for?

"The occurrence is totally unaccountable upon any reasonable theory,"
said the doctor, "and I do not know what to believe, unless we are to
conceive that the tooth and the ball were really meteoric stones that
have assumed these remarkable shapes and been shot down upon the earth
with such force as to penetrate Mr. Dingus' leg, and this is so very
improbable that we can hardly accept it unless it is impossible to
find any other. Hallo! What's the matter with you, Potts? Your mouth
and shirt are all stained with blood!"

"Oh, nothing," said Potts, forgetting himself. "I just lost a tooth,
and--"

"You lost a--Who pulled it?" asked the doctor.

"Gentlemen," said Potts, "the fact is I shot it out with my gun."

Then they put Potts under bail for attempted assassination, and Dingus
said that as soon as he got well he would bang Mr. Potts with a club.
When the crowd had gone, the coroner said to Potts,

"You're a mean sort of a man, now, ain't you?"

"Well, Mr. Maginn," replied Potts, "I really didn't know Mr. Dingus
was there; and the gun went off accidentally, any way."

"Oh, it isn't that," said the coroner--"it isn't that. I don't mind
your shooting him, but why in the thunder didn't you kill him while
you were at it, and give me a chance? You want to see me starve, don't
you? I wish you'd a buried the tooth in his lung and the ball in his
liver, and then I'd a had my regular fees. But as it is, I have all
the bother and get nothing. I'd starve to death if all men were like
you."

And Potts went away with a dim impression that he had injured Maginn
rather more than Mr. Dingus.

       *       *       *       *       *

Coroner Maginn's condition, however, is one of chronic discontent.
Upon the occasion of a recent encounter with him I said to him,

"Business seems to be dull to-day, Mr. Maginn."

"Dull! Well, that's just no name for it. This is the deadest town I
ever--Well, exceptin' Jim Busby's tumblin' off the market-house last
month, there hasn't been a decent accident in this place since last
summer. How'm I goin' to live, I want to know? In other countries
people keep things movin'. There are murders and coal-oil explosions
and roofs fallin' in--'most always somethin' lively to afford a
coroner a chance. But here! Why, I don't get 'nough fees in a year to
keep a poll-parrot in water-crackers. I don't--now, that's the honest
truth."

"That does seem discouraging."

"And then the worst of it is a man's friends won't stand by him.
There's Doolan, the coroner in the next county. He found a drowned man
up in the river just beyond the county line. I ought to have had the
first shy at the body by rights, for I know well enough he fell in
from this county and then skeeted up with the tide. But no; Doolan
would hold the inquest; and do you believe that man actually wouldn't
float the remains down the river so's I could sit on 'em after he'd
got through? Actually took 'em out and buried 'em, although I offered
to go halves with him on my fees if he would pass the body down this
way. That's a positive fact. He refused. Now, what do you think of a
man like that? He hasn't got enough soul in him to be worth preachin'
to. That's my opinion."

"It wasn't generous."

"No, sir. Why, there's Stanton come home from Peru with six mummies
that he dug out of some sepulchre in that country. They look exackly
like dried beef. Now, my view is that I ought to sit on those things.
They're human beings; nobody 'round here knows what they died of. The
law has a right to know. Stanton hasn't got a doctor's certificate
about 'em, and I'm sworn to look after all dead people that can't
account for bein' dead, or that are suspicioned of dyin' by foul play.
I could have made fifty dollars out of those deceased Peruvians, and
I ought to've done it. But no! Just as I was about to begin, the
supervisors, they shut down on it; they said the county didn't care
nothin' about people that had been dead for six hundred years, and
they wouldn't pay me a cent. Just as if _six thousand_ years was
anything in the eye of the law, when maybe a man's been stabbed, or
something, and when I'm under oath to tend to him! But it's just my
luck. Everything appears to be agin me, 'specially if there's money in
it."

"You do seem rather unfortunate."

"Now, there's some countries where they frequently have earthquakes
which rattle down the houses and mash people, and volcanoes which
burst out and set hundreds of 'em afire, and hurricanes which blow 'em
into Hereafter. A coroner can have some comfort in such a place as
that. He can live honest and respectable. Just think of settin' on
four or five hundred bodies killed with an earthquake! It makes my
mouth water. But nothin' of that sort ever happens in this jackass
kind of a land. Things go along just 'sif they were asleep. We've got
six saw-mills 'round this town, but nobody ever gets tangled in the
machinery and sawed in half. We've got a gunpowder-factory out beyond
the turnpike, but will that ever go up? It wouldn't if you was to toss
a red-hot stove in among the powder--leastways, not while I'm coroner.
There's a river down there, but nobody ever drowns in it where I can
have a hitch at him; and if there's a freshet, everybody at once gets
out of reach. If there's a fire, all the inmates get away safe, and no
fireman ever falls off a ladder or stands where a wall might flatten
him out. No, sir; I don't have a fair show. There was that riot out
at the foundry. In any other place three or four men would have been
killed, and there'd a been fatness for the coroner; but of course,
bein' in my county, nothin' occurred exceptin' Sam Dixon got kicked
in the ribs and had part of his ear bitten off. A man can't make an
honest livin' under sech circumstances as them; he can't, really."

"It does appear difficult."

"I did think maybe I might get the supervisors to let me go out to
the cemetery and set on the folks that are buried there, so's I could
overhaul 'em and kinder revise the verdicts that've been rendered on
'em. I'd a done it for half price; but those fellows have got such
queer ideas of economy that they wouldn't listen to it; said the town
couldn't go to any fresh expense while it was buildin' water-works.
And I wanted to put the new school-house out yer by the railroad or
down by the river, so's some of the children'd now and then get
run over or fall in; but the parents were 'posed to it for selfish
reasons, and so I got shoved out of that chance. Yes, sir, it's rough
on me; and I tell you that if there are not more sudden deaths in this
county the law's got to give me a salary, or I'm goin' to perish by
starvation. Not that I'd mind that much for myself, but it cuts me up
to think that as soon as I stepped out the next coroner'd begin right
off to earn a livin' out of me."

Then I said "Good-morning" and left, while Mr. Maginn selected a fresh
stick to whittle. Mr. Maginn, however, had one good chance recently to
collect fees.

The country around the town of Millburg is of limestone formation. The
town stands, as has already been mentioned, on a high hill, at the
foot of which there is a wonderful spring, and the belief has always
been that the hill is full of great caves and fissures, through which
the water makes its way to feed the spring. A year or two ago they
organized a cemetery company at Millburg, and they located the
graveyard upon the hill a short distance back of the town. After
they had deposited several bodies in the ground, one day somebody
discovered a coffin floating in the river. It was hauled out, and it
turned out to be the remains of Mr. Piggott, who was buried in the
cemetery the day before. The coroner held an inquest, and they
reinterred the corpse.

On the following morning, however, Mr. Piggott was discovered bumping
up against the wharf at the gas-works in the river. People began to
be scared, and there was some talk to the effect that he had been
murdered and couldn't rest quietly in his grave. But the coroner was
not scared. He empaneled a jury, held another inquest, collected his
fees and buried the body. Two days afterward some boys, while in
swimming, found a burial-casket floating under the bushes down by the
saw-mill. They called for help, and upon examining the interior of the
casket they discovered the irrepressible Mr. Piggott again. This was
too much. Even the ministers began to believe in ghosts, and hardly
a man in town dared to go out of the house that night alone. But the
coroner controlled his emotions sufficiently to sit on the body, make
the usual charges and bury Mr. Piggott in a fresh place in his lot.

The next morning, while Peter Lamb was drinking out of the big spring,
he saw something push slowly out of the mud at the bottom of the pool.
He turned as white as a sheet as he watched it; and in a few minutes
he saw that it was a coffin. It floated out, down the creek into the
river, and then Peter ran to tell the coroner. That official had a
jury waiting, and he proceeded to the coffin. It was old Mr. Piggott,
as usual; and they went through the customary routine with him, and
were about to bury him, when his family came forward and said they
would prefer to inter him in another place, being convinced now there
must be a subterranean channel leading from the cemetery to the
spring. The coroner couldn't object; but after the Piggotts were gone
he said to the jury that people who would take the bread out of the
mouth of a poor man in that way would be certain to come to want
themselves some day. He said he could easily have paid off the
mortgage on his house and let his little girl take lessons on the
melodeon besides, if they'd just allowed Piggott to wobble around the
way he wanted to.

There was no more trouble up at the cemetery after that until they
buried old Joe Middles, who used to have the fish-house over the river
at Deacon's. They entombed the old man on Thursday night. On Friday
morning one of the Keysers was walking down on the river-bank, and he
saw a man who looked very much like Mr. Middles sitting up in a canoe
out in the stream fishing. He watched the man as he caught two or
three fish, and was just about to conclude that it was some unknown
brother of Mr. Middles, when the fisherman looked up and said,

"Hello, Harry."

[Illustration: JOE MIDDLES]

"Who are you?" asked Keyser.

"Who am I? Why, Joe Middles, of course. Who'd you think I was?"
remarked the fisherman.

"You ain't Joe Middles, for he's dead. I went to his funeral
yesterday."

"Funeral!" exclaimed the fisherman as he stepped ashore. "Well, now,
by George! maybe that explains the thing. I've been bothering myself
the worst kind to understand something. You know that I remember being
at home in bed, and then I went to sleep somehow; and when I woke up,
it was dark as pitch. I gave a kick to stretch myself, and knocked the
lid off of this thing here--a canoe I thought it was; and then I set
up and found myself out here in the river. I took the lid to split
into paddles, and I saw on it a plate with the words 'Joseph Middles,
aged sixty-four;' and I couldn't imagine how in thunder that ever got
on that lid. Howsomdever, I pulled over to the shanty and got some
lines and bait and floated out again, thinking while I was here I
might as well get a mess of fish before I got home. And so it's a
coffin, after all, and they buried me yesterday. Well, that beats the
very old Harry, now, don't it? I'm going to row right over to the
house. How it'll skeer the old woman to see me coming in safe and
sound!"

Then the resurrected Mr. Middles paddled off. The cemetery company
failed the following month, from inability to sell the lots.



CHAPTER XXII.

_JUSTICE, AND A LITTLE INJUSTICE_.


The administration of justice in this county is chiefly in the hands
of Judge Twiddler; and while his methods generally are excellent, he
sometimes makes unpleasant mistakes. Mr. Mix was the victim of one
such blunder upon a recent occasion. Mr. Mix is bald; and in order to
induce his hair to grow again, he is using a very excellent article
of "hair vigor" upon his scalp. Some time ago he was summoned as a
juryman upon a case in the court, and upon the day of the trial, just
before the hour at which the court met, he remembered that he had not
applied the vigor to his head that morning. He had only a few minutes
to spare, but he flew up stairs and into the dark closet where he kept
the bottle; and pouring some fluid upon a sponge, he rubbed his head
energetically. By some mishap Mr. Mix got hold of the wrong bottle,
and the substance with which he inundated his scalp was not vigor, but
the black varnish with which Mrs. Mix decorated her shoes. However,
Mix didn't perceive the mistake, but darted down stairs, put on his
hat and walked off to the courtroom. It was a very cold morning, and
by the time Mix reached his destination the varnish was as stiff as
a stone. He felt a little uncomfortable about the head, and he
endeavored to remove his hat to discover the cause of the difficulty,
but to his dismay it was immovable. It was glued fast to the skin, and
his efforts to take it off gave him frightful pain.

Just then he heard his name called by the crier, and he had to go into
court to answer. He was wild with apprehension of coming trouble;
but he took his seat in the jury-box and determined to explain the
situation to the court at the earliest possible moment. As he sat
there with a guilty feeling in his soul it seemed to him that his hat
kept getting bigger and bigger, until it appeared to him to be as
large as a shot-tower. Then he was conscious that the lawyers were
staring at him. Then the clerk looked hard at him and screamed, "Hats
off in court!" and Mix grew crimson. "Hats off!" yelled the clerk
again, and Mix was about to reply when the judge came in, and as his
eye rested on Mix he said,

"Persons in the court-room must remove their hats."

"May it please Your Honor, I kept my hat on because--"

"Well, sir, you must take it off now."

"But I say I keep it on because I----"

"We don't want any arguments upon the subject, sir. Take your hat off
instantly!" said the judge.

"But you don't let me--"

"Remove that hat this moment, sir! Are you going to bandy words with
me, sir? Uncover your head at once!"

"Judge, if you will only give me a chance to--"

"This is intolerable! Do you mean to insult the court, sir? Do you
mean to profane this sacred temple of justice with untimely levity?
Take your hat off, sir, or I will fine you for contempt. Do you hear
me?"

"Well, it's very hard that I can't say a word by way of ex--"

"This is too much," said the judge, warmly--"this is just a little
too much. Perhaps you'd like to come up on the bench here and run the
court and sentence a few convicts? Mr. Clerk, fine that man fifty
dollars. Now, sir, remove your hat."

"Judge, this is rough on me. I----"

"Won't do it yet?" said the judge, furiously. "Why, you impudent
scoundrel, I've a notion to--Mr. Clerk, fine him one hundred dollars
more, and, Mr. Jones, you go and take that hat off by force."

Then the tipstaff approached Mix, who was by this time half crazy with
wrath, and hit the hat with his stick. It did not move. Then he struck
it again and caved in the crown, but it still remained on Mix's head.
Then he picked up a volume of Brown _On Evidence_, and mashed the
crown in flat. Then Mix sprang at him; and shaking his fist under the
nose of Jones, he shrieked,

"You miserable scullion, I've half a notion to kill you! If that
jackass on the bench had any sense, he could see that the hat is glued
fast. I can't take it off if I wanted to, and I wouldn't take it off
now if I could."

[Illustration: A COURT SCENE]

Then the judge removed the fines and excused him, and Mix went home.
He slept in his hat for a week; and even when it came off, the top of
his head looked as black as if mortification had set in.

But if the judge is too particular, our sheriff is hardly careful
enough. The manner in which he permits our jail to be conducted always
seemed to me interesting and original.

One day I wanted to hire a man to wheel half a dozen loads of rubbish
out of my garden, and after looking around a while I found a seedy
chap sitting on the end of a wharf fishing. When I asked him if he
would attend to the job, he replied thus:

"I really can't. I'm sorry; but the fact is I'm in jail for six months
for larceny--sentenced last December. I don't mind it much, only they
don't act honest with me up at the jail. The first week I was there
Mrs. Murphy--she's the keeper's wife--wanted to clean up, and so she
turned me out, and I had to hang round homeless for more'n a week.
Then, just as I was getting settled agin comfortably, the provisions
ran short, and Murphy tried to borrow money of me to feed the
convicts; and as I had none to lend, out I had to go agin. In about
two weeks I started in fresh and got everything snug and cheerful,
when Murphy's aunt stepped out. Then what does that ass do but put me
out agin and lock up the jail and put crape on the door, while he went
off to the funeral.

"So, of course, I had to browse around, huntin' up meals where I could
get them, sometimes nibblin' somethin' at the tavern and other times
takin' tea with a friend. Well, sir, hardly was that old woman buried,
and me once more in the cell with the home-like feelin' beginnin' to
creep over me, but Murphy, he says he and his wife's got to go up
to the city to get a hired girl; and when I refused to quit, Murphy
grabbed me by the collar and pushed me into the street, and said he'd
sick his dog on me if I came around there makin' a fuss.

"I hung about a few days; and when I went to the jail, the boy said
Murphy hadn't got back and I'd have to call agin. Next time I applied
the boy hollered from the window that he was 'engaged' and couldn't
see me. Murphy was still rummagin' for that hired girl. I went there
eight times, and there was always some jackass of an excuse for
crowdin' me out, and I don't know if I'll ever get in agin. Night
afore last I busted a window with a brick and tried to crawl in
through the hole, but the boy fired a gun at me, and said if I'd just
wait till Mr. Murphy came back he'd have me arrested for burglary.

"Now, I think I've been treated mighty bad. I've got a right in that
jail, and it's pretty mean in a man like Murphy to shove me off in
weather like this; and I'm bound to live six months in the prison some
time or other, whether he likes it or not. I don't mind puttin' myself
to some trouble to oblige a friend, but I hate like thunder to be
imposed on.

"'Pears to me it's no way to run a penal institution any way. There's
Botts; he's in jail for perjury for nine years, and Murphy's actually
turned that convict out so often and made him run 'round after his
meals that Botts has lost heart, and has gone to canvassin' for a life
insurance company--gone to perambulatin' all over the country tryin'
to do a little somethin' to keep clothes on his back, when he ought to
be layin' serenely in that jail. But I ain't goin' to do that. If
the law keeps me in custody, it's got to support me; and that's what
Simpson says, too. Ketch him workin' for his livin'. He's in for four
years for assault and battery; and when they turn him out of the jail,
he puts up at a hotel and has the bills sent in to Murphy.

"Murphy don't have consideration for the prisoners, any way. You know
he raises fowls in the jail-yard; and just after Christmas he had a
big lot of turkeys left on his hands, and do you believe that man
actually kept feedin' us on those turkeys for more than a month?
Positively refused to allow us anything else until they was gone. I
had half a notion to quit for good. I was disgusted. And Simpson
said if that is the way they were goin' to treat convicts, why,
civilization is a failure. All through Lent, too, wouldn't allow us an
oyster; kept stuffin' us with beef and such trash, although Botts said
he'd never been used to such wickedness, for his parents were very
particular. Wouldn't even give us fish-balls twice a week. But what
does Murphy care? He's perfectly enthusiastic when he can tread on a
man's feelin's and stamp all the moral sensibility out of him.

"And Mrs. Murphy, she's not much better. All the warm days she's
home she hustles that baby of hers onto me. Makes me take the little
sucklin' out in his carriage for an airin', and then gets mad if he
falls out while I'm conversin' for a few minutes with a friend. I'd
a slid him into the river long ago, only I know well enough they'd
sentence me for life, and then I'd maybe have to stand Murphy's
persecution for about forty years; and that'd kill me. It would
indeed. He's so inconsiderate.

"He used to give me the key of the jail to keep while he'd go over to
Barnes' to fight roosters or to play poker, and one day I lost it.
He raised an awful fuss, and even Botts was down on me because they
couldn't keep the boys out, and they used to come in and tickle Botts
with straws while he was sleepin' in his cell. I believe they expect
Murphy back day after to-morrow, but I know mighty well I'm not goin'
to have much satisfaction when he does come. He'll find some excuse
for shufflin' me out 'bout as soon as I get stowed away in my old
quarters. If he does, I've got a notion to lock him out some night and
run the jail myself for a while, so's I kin have some peace. There's
such a thing as carryin' abuses a little too far. Excuse me for a
minute. I think I have a bite."

Then I left to hunt for another man. I feel that the Society for the
Alleviation of the Sufferings of Prisoners has a great work to perform
in our town.



CHAPTER XXIII.

_THE TRAMP WITH GENIUS AND WITHOUT IT_.


The tramp is as familiar a figure in the village and the surrounding
country as he is in other populous rural neighborhoods. The ruffian
tramp, of course, is the most constant of the class, but now and then
appears one of the fraternity who displays something like genius in
his attempts to impose himself upon people as a being of a higher
order than an idle, worthless vagabond. A fellow of this description
came into the editorial room of the _Patriot_ one day while I was
sitting there, and announced in a loud voice that he was a professor
of pisciculture and an aspirant for a position upon the State Fish
Commission. As the statement did not attract the attention of anybody,
he seated himself in a chair, placed his feet upon the table, and
aiming with surprising accuracy at a spittoon, said his name was
Powell. Still nobody paid any attention to him, but the fact did not
seem to depress his spirits, for he talked straight ahead fluently and
with some vehemence:

"What are they doing for the fishery interest, any way, these
commissioners? What do they know about fishing? More'n likely when
they go out they hold the hook in their hands and let the pole float
in the water. Why, one of 'em was talking with me the other day, and
says he, 'Powell, I want the Legislature to make an appropriation for
the cultivation of canned lobsters in the Susquehanna.' 'How are you
going to do it?' says I. 'Why,' says he, 'my plan is to cross the
original lobster with some good variety of tin can, breed 'em in and
in, and then feed the animal on solder and green labels.'

"Perfect ass, of course; but I let him run along, and pretty soon he
says, 'I've just bought half a barrel of salt mackerel, which I'm
going to put in the Schuylkill. My idea,' says he, 'is to breed a
mackerel that'll be all ready soaked when you catch him. The ocean
mackerel always tastes too much of the salt. What the people want is
a fish that is fresher.' And so, you know, that immortal idiot is
actually going to dump those mackerel overboard in the hope that
they'll swim about and make themselves at home. Well, if the governor
_will_ appoint such chuckle-head commissioners, what else can you
expect?

"However, I said nothing. I wasn't going to set him up in business
with my brains and experience, and so, directly, he says to me,
'Powell, I'm now engaged in transplanting some desiccated codfish into
the Schuylkill; but it scatters too much when it gets into the
water. Now, how would it do to breed the ordinary codfish with a
sausage-chopper or a mince-meat machine? Do you think a desiccated
codfish would rise to a fly, or wouldn't you have to fish for him with
a colander?' And so he kept reeling out a jackassery like that until
directly he said, 'I'll tell you, professor, what this country needs
is a fresh-water oyster. Now, it has occurred to me that maybe the
best variety to plant would be the ordinary fried oyster. It seems to
be popular, and it has the advantage of growing without a shell.
One of the other commissioners,' so this terrific blockhead said,
'insisted on trying the experiment with the oyster that produces
tripe, so's to enable the people to catch tripe and oysters when they
go a-fishing. But for my part,' says he, 'I want either the fried
oyster or the kind that grow in pie crust, like they have 'em at the
restaurants.' Actually said that.

"Well, he driveled along for a while, talking the awfulest bosh; and
pretty soon he asked me if I was fond of mock-turtle soup. Said
that the commission had discovered the feasibility of adding the
mock-turtle to the food-animals of our rivers. He allowed that he had
understood that they could be cultivated best by spawning calves'
heads on forcemeat balls, and that they were in season for the table
during the same months of the year that gravy is. And he said that a
strenuous effort ought to be made to have our rivers swarming with
this delicious fish.

"And then he talked a whole lot of delirious slush of that kind, and
about improving the tadpole crop, and so on, until I--Wh-wh-what d'you
say? Want me to take my legs off that table and quit? You don't want
to hear any more news about the fisheries? Oh, all right; there's
plenty of other papers that'll be glad to get the intelligence. Next
time you want my views about pisciculture you'll have to send for me."

Then the professor aimed again at the spittoon, missed it, rubbed the
ragged crown of his forlorn hat with his shining elbow, buttoned up
his coat over a shirt-bosom which last saw the washerwoman during the
presidency of General Harrison, and sauntered out and down stairs. The
impression that he left was that he would be more available to the
Fish Commission as bait than in any other capacity.

Upon another occasion a more forlorn and dismal vagabond, a cripple,
too, sauntered into Brown's grocery-store, where a crowd was sitting
around the stove discussing politics. Taking position upon a nail-keg,
he remarked,

"Mr. Brown, you don't want to buy a first-rate wooden leg, do you?
I've got one that I've been wearing for two or three years, and I want
to sell it. I'm hard up for money; and although I'm attached to that
leg, I'm willing to part with it so's I kin get the necessaries of
life. Legs are all well enough; they are handy to have around the
house, and all that; but a man must attend to his stomach if he has
to walk about on the small of his back. Now, I'm going to make you an
offer. That leg is Fairchild's patent; steel springs, India-rubber
joints, elastic toes and everything, and it's in better order now than
it was when I bought it. It'd be a comfort to any man. It's the most
luxurious leg I ever came across. If bliss ever kin be reached by a
man this side of the tomb, it belongs to the person that gets that leg
on and feels the consciousness creeping over his soul that it is his.
Consequently, I say that when I offer it to you I'm doing a personal
favor; and I think I see you jump at the chance and want to clinch the
bargain before I mention--you'll hardly believe it, I know--that I'll
actually knock that leg down to you at four hundred dollars. Four
hundred, did I say? I meant six hundred; but let it stand. I never
back out when I make an offer; but it's just throwing that leg
away--it is, indeed."

"But I don't want an artificial leg," said Brown.

"The beautiful thing about the limb," said the stranger, pulling up
his trousers and displaying the article, "is that it is reliable. You
kin depend on it. It's always there. Some legs that I've seen were
treacherous--most always some of the springs bursting out, or the
joints working backward, or the toes turning down and ketching in
things. Regular frauds. But it's almost pathetic the way this leg goes
on year in and year out like an old faithful friend, never knowing an
ache or a pain, no rheumatism, nor any such foolishness as that, but
always good-natured and ready to go out of its way to oblige you. A
man feels like a man when he gets such a thing under him. Talk about
your kings and emperors and millionaires, and all that sort of
nonsense! Which of 'em's got a leg like that? Which of 'em kin unscrew
his knee-pan and look at the gum thingamajigs in his calf? Which of
'em kin leave his leg down stairs in the entry on the hat-rack and go
to bed with only one cold foot? Why, it's enough to make one of them
monarchs sick to think of such a convenience. But they can't help it.
There's only one man kin buy that leg, and that's you. I want you to
have it so bad that I'll deed it to you for fifty dollars down. Awful,
isn't it? Just throwing it away; but take it, take it, if it does make
my heart bleed to see it go out of the family."

"Really, I have no use for such a thing," said Mr. Brown.

"You can't think," urged the stranger, "what a benediction a leg like
that is in a family. When you don't want to walk with it, it comes
into play for the children to ride horsey on; or you kin take it off
and stir the fire with it in a way that would depress the spirits of
a man with a real leg. It makes the most efficient potato-masher you
ever saw. Work it from the second joint and let the knee swing loose;
you kin tack carpets perfectly splendid with the heel; and when a cat
sees it coming at him from the winder, he just adjourns _sine die_
and goes down off the fence screaming. Now, you're probably afeard of
dogs. When you see one approaching, you always change your base. I
don't blame you; I used to be that way before I lost my home-made leg.
But you fix yourself with this artificial extremity, and then what do
you care for dogs? If a million of 'em come at you, what's the odds?
You merely stand still and smile, and throw out your spare leg, and
let 'em chaw, let 'em fool with that as much as they're a mind to, and
howl and carry on, for you don't care. An' that's the reason why I say
that when I reflect on how imposing you'd be as the owner of such a
leg I feel like saying that if you insist on offering only a dollar
and a half for it, why, take it; it's yours. I'm not the kinder man to
stand on trifles. I'll take it off and wrap it up in paper for you;
shall I?"

"I'm sorry," said Brown, "but the fact is I have no use for it. I've
got two good legs already. If I ever lose one, why, maybe then I'll--"

"I don't think you exactly catch my idea on the subject," said the
stranger. "Now, any man kin have a meat-and-muscle leg; they're as
common as dirt. It's disgusting how monotonous people are about such
things. But I take you for a man who wants to be original. You have
style about you. You go it alone, as it were. Now, if I had your
peculiarities, do you know what I'd do? I'd get a leg snatched off
some way, so's I could walk around on this one. Or if you hate to go
to the expense of amputation, why not get your pantaloons altered and
mount this beautiful work of art just as you stand? A centipede, a
mere ridicklous insect, has half a bushel of legs, and why can't a
man, the grandest creature on earth, own three? You go around this
community on three legs, and your fortune's made. People will go wild
over you as the three-legged grocer; the nation will glory in you;
Europe will hear of you; you will be heard of from pole to pole. It'll
build up your business. People'll flock from everywheres to see you,
and you'll make your sugar and cheese and things fairly hum. Look at
it as an advertisement! Look at it any way you please, and there's
money in it--there's glory, there's immortality. I think I see you now
moving around over this floor with your old legs working as usual, and
this one going clickety-click along with 'em, making music for you all
the time and attracting attention in a way to fill a man's heart with
rapture. Now, look at it that way; and if it strikes you, I tell you
what I'll do: I'll actually swap that imperishable leg off to you for
two pounds of water-crackers and a tin cup full of Jamaica rum. Is it
ago?"

Then Brown weighed out the crackers, gave him an awful drink of rum,
and told him if he would take them as a present and quit he would
confer a favor. And he did. After emptying the crackers in his pockets
and smacking his lips over the rum, he went to the door, and as he
opened it he said,

"Good-bye. But if you ever really do want a leg, Old Reliable is ready
for you; it's yours. I consider that you've got a mortgage on it, and
you kin foreclose at any time. I dedicate this leg to you. My will
shall mention it; and if you don't need it when I die, I'm going to
have it put in the savings' bank to draw interest until you check it
out. I'll bid you good-evening."

The tramp that has a dog to sell is a little more common than such
children of genius as the professor and the owner of the patent leg.
But I had with one of them a queer experience which may be worth
relating.

One day recently a rough-looking vagabond called at my house,
accompanied by a forlorn mongrel dog. I came out upon the porch to see
him, and he said,

"I say, pardner, I understood that you wanted to buy a watch-dog, and
I brought one around for you You never seen such a dog for watching as
this one You tell that dog to watch a thing, and bet your life he'll
sit down and watch it until he goes stone blind. Now, I'll tell you
what I'll let you have--"

I cut his remarks short at this point with the information that I
didn't want a dog, and that if I had wanted a dog nothing on earth
could induce me to accept that particular dog. So he left and went
down the street. He must have made a mistake and come in again through
the back gate, thinking it was another place, for in a few minutes the
cook said there was a man in the kitchen who wanted to see me; and
when I went down, there was the same man with the same dog. He didn't
recognize me, and as soon as I entered he remarked,

"I say, old pard, somebody was saying that you wanted to buy a
watch-dog. Now, here's a watch-dog that'd rather watch than eat any
time. Give that dog something to fasten his eye on--don't care what
it is: anything from a plug hat to a skating-rink--and there his eye
stays like it was chained with a trace-chain. Now, I'll tell you what
I'll do with--"

I suddenly informed him in a peremptory tone that nothing would induce
me to purchase a dog at that moment, and then I pushed him out and
shut the door. When he was gone, I went across the street to see
Butterwick about top-dressing my grassplot. He was out, and I sat down
on the porch chair to wait for him. A second later the proprietor of
the dog came shuffling through the gate with the dog at his heels.
When he reached the porch, he said, not recognizing me,

"I say, pardner, the man across the street there told me you wanted a
good watch-dog, and I came right over with this splendid animal. Look
at him! Never saw such an eye as that in a dog, now, did you? Well,
now, when this dog fixes that eye on anything, it remains. There it
stays. Earthquakes, or fires, or torchlight processions, or bones, or
nothing, can induce him to move. Therefore, what I say is that I offer
you that dog for--"

[Illustration: A DOG FOR SALE]

Then I got up in silence and walked deliberately out into the street,
and left the man standing there. As I reached the sidewalk I saw
Butterwick going into Col. Coffin's office. I went over after him,
while the man with the dog went in the opposite direction. Butterwick
was in the back office; and as the front room was empty, I sat down
in a chair until he got through with Coffin and came out. In a few
minutes there was a rap at the door. I said,

"Come in!"

The door slowly opened, and a dog crept in. Then the man appeared. He
didn't seem to know me. He said,

"I say, old pardy--I dunno your right name--I'm trying to sell a
watch-dog; that one there; and I thought maybe you might be hungry to
get a valuable animal who can watch the head off of any other dog in
this yer county, so I concluded to call and throw him away for the
ridic'lous sum of--"

"I wouldn't have him at any price."

"What! don't want him? Don't want a dog with an eye like a two-inch
auger, that'll sit and watch a thing for forty years if you'll tell
him to? Don't want a dog like that?"

"Certainly I don't".

"Well, this _is_ singular. There don't appear to be a demand for
watch-dogs in this place, now, does there? You're the fourth man I've
tackled about him. You really don't want him?"

"Of course not."

"Don't want any kind of a dog--not even a litter of good pups or a
poodle?"

"No, sir."

"Well, maybe you could lend me five dollars on that dog. I'll pay you
back to-morrow."

"Can't do it."

"Will you take him as a gift, and give me a chaw of terbacker?"

"I don't chew."

"Very strange," he muttered, thoughtfully. "There's no encouragement
for a man in this world. Sure you won't take him?"

"Yes, certain."

"Then, you miserable whelp, git out of here, or I'll kick the breath
out of you. Come, now, git!" And he gave the dog a kick that sent him
into the middle of the street, and then withdrew himself.

The trade in dogs certainly is not active in Millburg.



CHAPTER XXIV.

_THE DOG OF MR. BUTTERWICK'S, AND OTHER DOGS_.


One day I met Mr. Butterwick in the street leading his dog with a
chain. He said that it was a very valuable dog and he was anxious to
get it safely home, but he had to catch a train, and I would confer a
personal favor upon him if I would take the dog to my house and keep
it until he returned from the city. The undertaking was not a pleasant
one, but I disliked to disoblige Butterwick, and so I consented.
Butterwick gave me his end of the chain and left in a hurried manner.
I got the dog home with the greatest difficulty, and turned it into
the cellar. About an hour later I received a telegram from Butterwick
saying that he had been compelled to go down to the lower part of
Jersey, and that he wouldn't be home for a week or two. That was on
the 12th of June, and after that time only two persons entered the
cellar. The hired girl went down once after the cold beef, and came up
disheveled and bleeding, with a number of appalling dog-bites in
her legs, and I descended immediately afterward for the purpose of
pacifying the infuriated animal. He did not feel disposed to become
calm, however, and I deem it probable that if I had not suddenly
clambered into the coal-bin, where I remained until he fell asleep in
a distant corner about four hours later, I should certainly have been
torn to pieces. We thought we would have to try to get along with out
using the cellar until Butterwick could come up and take away his dog.
But Butterwick wrote to say that he couldn't come, and the dog, after
eating everything in the cellar and barking all through every night,
finally bolted up stairs into the kitchen on the 2d of July, and
established himself in the back yard. After that we used the front
door exclusively while we were waiting for Butterwick to come up. The
dog had fits regularly, and he always got on the geranium-bed when he
felt them coming on; and consequently, we did not enjoy our flowers
as much as we hoped to. The cherries were ripe during the reign of
Butterwick's dog, but they rotted on the trees, all but a few, which
were picked by Smith's boy, who subsequently went over the fence in a
sensational manner without stopping to ascertain what Butterwick's dog
was going to do with the mouthful of drawers and corduroy trousers
that he had removed from Smith's boy's leg. As Butterwick did not come
up, the dog enjoyed himself roaming about the yard a while; but one
day, finding the back window in the parlor open, he jumped in and
assumed control of that apartment and the hall. I tried to dislodge
him with a clothes-prop, but I only succeeded in knocking two costly
vases off of the mantel-piece, and the dog became so excited and
threatening that I shut the door hurriedly and went up stairs four
steps at a time.

[Illustration: SMITH'S BOY RETREATS]

There was nothing to interest him especially in the parlor, and
I cannot imagine why he wanted to stay there. But he did; and as
Butterwick didn't come up, we couldn't dislodge him. On Thursday he
smashed the mirror during an attempt to get up a fight with another
dog that he thought he saw in there, and he clawed the sofa to rags.
On Saturday he had a fit in the hall, and spoiled about eight square
yards of Brussels carpet utterly. When he recovered, he went back into
the parlor. At last I borrowed Coffin's dog and sent him in to fight
Butterwick's dog out. It was an exhilarating contest. They fought on
the chairs and sofas; they upset a table and smashed all the ornaments
on it; they scattered blood and hair in blotches all over the carpet;
they got entangled in one of the lace curtains and dragged it and the
frame down with a crash; they scratched and bit and tore and frothed
and yelled; and at last Coffin's dog gave in, put his tail between
his legs and retreated, while Butterwick's dog got on a sixty-dollar
Turkish rug, so that he could bleed comfortably.

It didn't seem to occur to him to go home, and still Butterwick didn't
come up. The next day I loaded a shot-gun and determined to kill him
at any sacrifice. I aimed carefully at him, but at the critical moment
he dodged, and two handfuls of bird-shot went into the piano and tore
it up badly. Then I tossed some poisoned meat' at him, but he ate all
around the poison, and seemed to feel better after the meal than he
had done for years. Finally, Butterwick came home, and he called to
get his dog. He entered the parlor bravely and attempted to seize
the animal, when it bit him. I was never so glad in my life. Then
Butterwick got mad; and seizing the dog by the tail, he smashed him
through my French glass window into the street. Then I was not so very
glad. Then the dog went mad and a policeman killed him. The next time
I am asked to take a strange dog home I will kill him to begin with.

When I explained to Colonel Coffin the unpleasant nature of my
experience with Mr. Butterwick's dog, the colonel said that he had had
a good deal to do lately, in a legal way, with dogs; and he gave me
the facts respecting two interesting cases. The first was Tompkins'
case.

A man called at the colonel's law-office one day and said,

"Colonel, my name is Tompkins. I called to see you about a dog
difficulty that bewilders me, and I thought maybe you might throw some
light on it--might give me the law points, so's I'd know whether it
was worth while suing or not.

"Well, colonel, you see me and Potts went into partnership on a dog;
we bought him. He was a setter; and me and Potts went shares on him,
so's to take him out a-hunting. It was never exactly settled which
half of him I owned and which half belonged to Potts; but I formed an
idea in my own mind that the hind end was Tompkins' and the front end
Potts'. Consequence was that when the dog barked I always said, 'There
goes Potts half exercising himself;' and when the dog's tail wagged, I
always considered that my end was being agitated. And, of course,
when one of my hind legs scratched one of Potts' ears or one of his
shoulders, I was perfectly satisfied--first, because that sort of
thing was good for the whole dog; and, second, because the thing would
get about even when Potts' head would reach around and bite a flea off
my hind legs or snap at a fly.

"Well, things went along smooth enough for a while, until one day that
dog began to get into the habit of running around after his tail. He
was the foolishest dog about that I ever saw. Used to chase his tail
round and round until he'd get so giddy he couldn't bark. And you know
I was scared lest it might hurt the dog's health; and as Potts didn't
seem to be willing to keep his end from circulating in pursuit of my
end, I made up my mind to chop the dog's tail off, so's to make him
reform and behave. So last Saturday I caused the dog to back up agin a
log, and then I suddenly dropped the axe on his tail pretty close up,
and the next minute he was running around that yard howling like a
boat-load of wild-cats. Just then Potts came up, and he let on to be
mad because I'd cut off that tail. One word brought on another; and
pretty soon Potts set that dog on me--my own half too, mind you--and
the dog bit me in the leg. See that! look at that leg! About half a
pound gone; et up by that dog.

"Now, what I want to see you about is this: Can't I recover damages
for assault and battery from Potts? What I chopped off belonged to me,
recollect. I owned an undivided half of that setter pup, from the tip
of his tail clear up to his third rib, and I had a right to cut away
as much of it as I'd a mind to; while Potts, being sole owner of the
dog's head, is responsible when he bites anybody, or when he barks at
nights."

"I don't know," replied the colonel, musingly. "There haven't been any
decisions on cases exactly like this. But what does Mr. Potts say upon
the subject?"

"Why, Potts' view is that I divided the dog the wrong way. When he
wants to map out his half he draws a line from the middle of the nose
right along the spine and clear to the end of the tail. That gives me
one hind leg and one fore leg and makes him joint proprietor in the
tail. And he says that if I wanted to cut off my half of the tail I
might have done it, and he wouldn't've cared, but what made him mad
was that I wasted his property without consulting him. But that theory
seems to me a little strained; and if it's legal, why, I'm going to
close out my half of the dog at a sacrifice sooner than hold any
interest in him on those principles. Now, what do you think about it?"

"Well," said the colonel, "I can hardly decide so important a question
off-hand; but at the first glance my opinion is that you own the whole
dog, and that Potts also owns the whole dog. So when he bites you, a
suit won't lie against Potts, and the only thing you can do to obtain
justice is to make the dog bite Potts also. As for the tail, when it
is separated from the dog it is no longer the dog's tail, and it is
not worth fighting about."

"Can't sue Potts, you say?"

"I think not."

"Can't get damages for the piece that's been bit out of me?"

"I hardly think you can."

"Well, well, and yet they talk about American civilization, and
temples of justice, and such things! All right. Let it go. I can stand
it; but don't anybody ever undertake to tell me that the law protects
human beings in their rights. Good-morning."

"Wait a moment, Mr. Tompkins; you've forgotten my fee."

"F-f-f-fee! Why, you don't charge anything when I don't sue, do you?"

"Certainly, for my advice. My fee is ten dollars."

"Ten dollars! Ten dollars! Why, colonel, that's just what I paid for
my half of that dog. I haven't got fifty cents to my name. But I'll
tell you what I'll do: I'll make over all my rights in that setter pup
to you, and you kin go round and fight it out with Potts. If that dog
bites me again, I'll sue you and Potts as sure as my name's Tompkins."

The other case was of a somewhat more serious character. Upon a
subsequent occasion a man hobbled into the office upon crutches.
Proceeding to a chair and making a cushion of some newspapers, he sat
down very gingerly, placed a bandaged leg upon another chair, and
said,

"Col. Coffin, my name is. Briggs. I want to get your opinion about a
little point of law. Now, colonel, s'posin' you lived up the 'pike
here a half a mile, next door to a man named Johnson. And s'posin' you
and Johnson was to get into an argument about the human intellect,
and you was to say to Johnson that a splendid illustration of the
superiority of the human intellect was to be found in the power of
the human eye to restrain the ferocity of a wild animal. And s'posin'
Johnson was to remark that that was all bosh, because nobody _could_
hold a wild animal with the human eye, and you should declare that you
could hold the savagest beast that was ever born if you could once fix
your gaze on him.

"Well, then, s'posin' Johnson was to say he'd bet a hundred dollars he
could bring a tame animal that you couldn't hold with your eye, and
you was to take him up on it, and Johnson was to ask you to come down
to his place to settle the bet. You'd go, we'll say, and Johnson'd
wander round to the back of the house and pretty soon come front
again with a dog bigger'n any four decent dogs ought to be. And then
s'posin' Johnson'd let go of that dog and set him on you, and he'd
come at you like a sixteen-inch shell out of a howitzer, and you'd
get scary about it and try to hold the dog with your eye, and
couldn't. And s'posin' you'd suddenly conclude that maybe your kind
of an eye wasn't calculated to hold that kind of a dog, and you'd
conclude to run for a plum tree in order to have a chance to collect
your thoughts, and to try to reflect what sort of an eye would be
best calculated to mollify that sort of a dog. You ketch my idea, of
course?

"Very well, then; s'posin you'd take your eye off of that dog,
Johnson, mind you, all the time hissing him on and laughing, and you'd
turn and rush for the tree, and begin to swarm up as fast as you
could. Well, sir, s'posin' just as you got three feet from the ground
Johnson's dog would grab you by the leg and hold on like a vise,
shaking you until you nearly lost your hold. And s'posin' Johnson was
to stand there and holloa, "Fix your eye on him, Briggs! Why don't you
manifest the power of the human intellect?" and so on, howling out
ironical remarks like those; and s'posin' he kept that dog on that leg
until he made you swear to pay the bet, and then at last had to pry
the dog off with a hot poker, bringing away at the same time some of
your flesh in the dog's mouth, so that you had to be carried home on
a stretcher, and to hire several doctors to keep you from dying with
lockjaw.

"S'posin' this, what I want to know is, couldn't you sue Johnson for
damages and make him pay heavily for what that dog did? That's what I
want to get at."

The colonel thought for a minute and then said, "Well, Mr. Briggs, I
don't think I could. If I agreed to let Johnson set the dog at me, I
should be a party to the transaction and I could not recover."

"Do you mean to say that the law won't make that infernal scoundrel
Johnson suffer for letting his dog eat me up?"

"I think not, if you state the case properly."

"It won't, hey?" exclaimed Mr. Briggs, hysterically. "Oh, very well,
very well! I s'pose if that dog had chewed me all up and spit me out
it'd've been all the same to this constitutional republic. But hang me
if I don't have satisfaction. I'll kill Johnson, poison his dog, and
emigrate to some country where the rights of citizens are protected.
If I don't, you may bust me open!"

Then Mr. Briggs got on his crutches and hobbled out. He is still a
citizen, and will vote at the next election.



CHAPTER XXV.

_A PERSECUTED JOURNALIST_.


That the editor of every daily paper is persecuted by poetasters is an
unquestionable fact; and it is probable that some of the worst of the
sufferers would be justified in taking extreme measures to protect
themselves from such outrages. But that Major Slott of _The Patriot_
ever proposed to murder a poet in self-defence I doubt. The editor of
a rival sheet in our county declares, however, that the major actually
thirsts for blood; and in proof of the assertion he has printed the
following narrative, which, he says, he obtained from Mr. Grady, the
policeman:

"One day recently the major sent for a policeman; and when Mr. Grady,
of the force, arrived, the major shut the door of his sanctum and
asked him to take a seat.

"Mr. Grady," he said, "your profession necessarily brings you into
contact with the criminal classes and familiarizes you with them. This
is why I have sent for you. My business is of a confidential nature,
and I trust to your honor to regard it as a sacred trust confided in
you. Mr. Grady, I wish to ascertain if among your acquaintances of the
criminal sort you know of any one who is a professional assassin--who
rents himself out to any one who wants to destroy a fellow-creature?
Do you know of such a person?'

"'I dunno as I do,' said Mr. Grady, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.
'There's not much demand for murderers now.'

"'Well,' said the editor, 'I wish you'd look around and see if you can
light on such a man, and get him to do a little job for me. I want a
butcher who will slay a person whom I will designate. I don't care
how he does it. He may stab him, or drown him, or bang him with a
shot-gun. It makes no difference to me; I will pay him all the same.
Now, will you get me such a man?'

"'I s'pose I might. I'll look round, any way.'

"'Between you and me,' said the editor, 'the chap I'm going to
assassinate is a poet--a fellow named Markley. He has been sending
poetry to this paper every day for eight months. I never printed a
line, but he keeps stuffing it in as if he thought I was depositing it
in the bank and drawing interest on it. Well, sir, it's got to be so
bad that it annoys me terribly. It keeps me awake at night. I'm losing
flesh. That man and his poetry haunt me. I'm getting gloomy and
morose. Life is beginning to pall upon me. I seem to be under the
influence of a perpetual nightmare. I can't stand it much longer, Mr.
Grady; my reason will totter upon its throne. Here, only this morning,
he sent me a poem entitled "Lines to Hannah." Are you fond of poetry,
Grady?'

"'Oh, I dunno; I don't care so very much about it.'"

"'Well, I'll read you one verse of the "Lines to Hannah." He says--to
Hannah, mind you--

  "The little birds sing sweetly
    In the weeping willows green,
  The village girls dress neatly--
    Oh, tell me, do I dream?"

Now, you see, Grady, that is what is unseating my mind. A man can't
stand more than a certain amount of that kind of thing. What do the
public care whether he is dreaming or whether he is drunk? What does
Hannah care? Why, they don't care a cent. Now, do they?

"'Not a red cent.'

"'Of course not. And yet Markley sends me another poem, entitled
"Despondency," in which he exclaims,

  "Oh, bury me deep in the ocean blue,
    Where the roaring billows laugh;
  Oh, cast me away on the weltering sea,
    Where the dolphins will bite me in half."

Now, Mr. Grady, if you can find a competent assassin, I wouldn't make
it a point with him to oblige Mr. Markley. I don't care particularly
to have the poet buried in the weltering sea. If he can't find a
roaring billow, I'll be perfectly satisfied to have him chucked into a
creek. And I dare say that it'll make no material difference whether
the dolphins gobble him or the catfish and eels nibble him up. It's
all the same in the long run. Mention this to your murderer when you
speak to him, will you? Now, I'll show you why this thing takes all
the heart out of me. In his poem entitled "Longings" he uses this
language:

  "Oh, sing to me, darling, a sweet song to-night,
    While I bask in the smile of thine eyes,
  While I kiss those dear lips in the dark silent room,
    And whisper my saddening good-byes."

Now, you see how it is yourself, Grady, don't you? How is she going to
sing to him while he kisses those lips, and how is he going to whisper
good-bye? Isn't that awful slush? Now, isn't it? And then, if the room
is dark, what I want to know is how he's going to tell whether her
eyes are smiling or not? Mr. Grady, either the man is insane or I am;
and if your butcher is going to stab Markley, you'll oblige me by
telling him that I want him to jab him deep, and maybe fill him up
with poison or something to make it absolutely certain.

"'I know that when he sent me that poem about "The Unknown" I parsed
it, and examined it with a microscope, and sent it around to a
chemist's to be analyzed, but hang me if I know yet what he's driving
at when he says,

  "The uffish spectral gleaming of that wild resounding clang
  Came hooting o'er the margin of the dusky moors that hang
  Like palls of inky darkness where the hoarse, weird raven calls,
  And the bhang-drunk Hindoo staggers on and on until he falls."

Isn't that--Well, now, isn't that just the most fearful mess of stuff
that was ever ground out of a lunatic asylum?'

"'It's the awfullest I ever saw.'

"'Well, then, I get eighteen of them a week, and they madden me.
They keep my brain in a frenzied whirl. Grady, this man must die.
Self-preservation is the first law of nature. I have a wife and
children; I conduct a great paper; I educate the public mind. My life
is valuable to my country. Destroy this poet, and future generations
will praise your name. He must be wiped out, exterminated, obliterated
from the face of the earth. Kill him dead and bury him deep, and
fix him in so's he will stay down, and bring in the bill for the
tombstone. I leave the case to you. You need not tell me you have done
this job. When the poems cease to come to me, I will know that he is
dead. That will settle it. Good-morning.'"

It is believed that the poet must have been warned by Grady, for the
supplies suddenly ceased; and Markley is saving up his effusions for
some other victim.

       *       *       *       *       *

But the major has other persecutors. One of them came into the
editorial-room of the _Patriot_ during one of those very hot days in
June. Major Slott was perspiring in an effort to hammer out an article
on "The Necessity for Speedy Resumption." The visitor seized a chair
and nudged up close to the major. Then he said,

"My name is Partridge. I called to show you a little invention of
mine."

"Haven't got time to look at it. I'm busy."

"I see you are. Won't keep you more'n a minute" (removing his hat).
"Look at that hat and tell me how it strikes you."

"Oh, don't bother me! I'm not interested in hats just now."

"I know you ain't, and that's not a hat. That's Partridge's Patent
Atmospheric Refresher. Looks exactly like a high hat, don't it? Now,
what's the thing you want most this kind of weather?"

"The thing I want most is to have you skip out of here."

"What everybody wants is to keep cool, of course. Now, how are you
going to do it? Why, if you know when you are well off, you will do it
with this hat. But how? I will explain. If you compress air until it
attains a considerable pressure, and then suddenly release it, the
rapid expansion causes the air to absorb heat and to produce quite a
marked degree of cold. You know this, of course?"

"I wish you'd compress _your_ air, and then expand it in the ears of
somebody besides me."

"Now, in my invention I have utilized this beautiful law of nature in
a manner that is certain to confer an inestimable blessing upon the
human race. This hat is really made of light boiler iron covered with
silk. The compressed air is contained in it. At the present moment it
is subjected to a pressure of eighty-seven pounds to the square inch.
If that hat should explode while I am sitting here, it would blow the
roof off of this building."

"So it killed you I wouldn't care."

"Well, sir, the way I work this wonderful appliance is this: The
air-pump is concealed in the small of my back, under my coat. A pipe
connects it with the receiver in my hat, and there is a kind of crank
running down my right trouser leg and fastened to my boot, so that
the mere act of walking pumps the air into the receiver. But how do
I effect the cooling process? Listen: Another pipe comes from
the receiver and empties into a kind of a sheet-iron undershirt,
perforated with holes, which I wear beneath my outside shirt--"

"If you'd wear something _over_ that shirt, so as to hide the dirt,
you'd be more agreeable."

"Now, s'posin' it's a warm day. I'm going along the street with the
air-crank in operation. The receiver is full. I want to cool off. I
pull the string which runs down my left sleeve; the air rushes from
the receiver, suddenly expands about my body, and makes me feel so
cold that I wish I had brought my overcoat with me."

"I wish to gracious you'd go home and get it now."

"You see, then, that this invention is of the utmost value and
importance, and my idea in calling upon you was to give you a chance
to mention and describe it in your paper, so that the public might
know about it. You are the only editor I have revealed the secret to.
I thought I'd give you the first chance to become a benefactor of your
race."

"I'm the kind of benefactor that charges one dollar a line for such
philanthropy."

"To assure yourself that the machine is perfect you must try it for
yourself. Just stand up and take your coat off. Then I'll put the hat
on your head, screw the pump into the small of your back and fix the
other machinery down your legs."

"I'll see you hanged first."

"Well, then, I'll put it on myself and illustrate the theory for you.
You see the rod here in my trousers? This is the air-pump here,
just above my suspender buttons. The hat now contains about six
atmospheres. Now I am ready to move. See? You observe how it works?
The only noise you hear is a slight click of the valve in the pump. A
couple more turns, and you put your hand on my shirt-collar and feel
how near zero it is. I will get the pressure up to one hundred pounds
before I----"

BANG!!!

As soon as the major began to realize the situation he crawled out from
beneath his overturned desk, wiped the contents of the inkstand from his
face and hair with the copy of that unfinished article upon "The
Necessity for Speedy Resumption," and looked about him. Mr. Partridge
was lying in the corner with a splintered table over his legs, his head
in a spittoon, and fragments of ruined machinery bursting out through
enormous rents in his trousers and his coat. His cast-iron undershirt
protruded in jagged points from a dozen orifices in his waistcoat. As
the major took him by the leg to haul him out of the _débris_ Partridge
opened his eyes wearily and said,

"Awful clap, wasn't it? You ought to've had lightning-rods on this
building. Struck by lightning, wasn't I?"

[Illustration: BANG!!!]

"You intolerable ass!" exclaimed the major as the clerks and reporters
came rushing in and began to place Partridge on his legs; "it wasn't
lightning. It was that infernal machine that you wanted me to put on
my head. If it had driven you under ground about forty feet, I'd have
been glad, even if it had also demolished the building."

"What! the receiver exploded, did it? Too bad, ain't it? Blamed if I
didn't think she was strong enough to bear twice that pressure. I must
have made a mistake in my calculations, however," said Partridge,
pinning up his clothes and holding his handkerchief to his bloody
nose; "I'll have another one made, and come around to show you the
invention to better advantage."

"If you do, I'll brain you with an inkstand," said the major.

Then Partridge limped out, and the major, abandoning the subject of
resumption, began a fresh editorial upon "The Extraordinary Prevalence
of Idiots at the Present Time."

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Patriot_ has shown a remarkable amount of enterprise lately in
obtaining, or professing to obtain, an interview with the Wandering
Jew. The reader can form his own estimate of the value of the report,
which appeared in the _Patriot_ in the following fashion:

Reports were floating about the city yesterday to the effect that the
Wandering Jew had been seen over in New Jersey. A reporter was sent
over at once to hunt him up, and to interview him if he should be
found. After a somewhat protracted search the reporter discovered
a promising-looking person sitting on the top rail of a fence just
outside of Camden engaged in eating some crackers and cheese. The
reporter approached him and addressed him at a venture:

"Beautiful day, Cantaphilus!"

This familiarity seemed necessary; because if the Wandering Jew has
any family name, the fact has not been revealed to the public.

"Bless my soul, young man, how on earth did you know me?" exclaimed
the Jew.

"Oh, I don't know; something about your appearance told me who it was.
I'm mighty glad to see you, any way. When did you arrive?"

"I came on here yesterday. Been down in Terra del Fuego, where I heard
about the Centennial, and I thought I'd run up and have a look at it.
Be a good thing, I reckon. Time flies, though, don't it? Seems to me
only yesterday that a man over here in Siberia told me that you people
were fighting your Revolutionary war."

[Illustration: THE WANDERING JEW]

He sat upon the fence as he talked; his feet, cased in gum shoes,
rested on the third rail from the bottom; his umbrella was under his
arm; his face was deeply wrinkled, and his long white beard bobbed up
and down as he ate his lunch voraciously, diving into his carpet-bag
every now and then for more. The reporter remarked that he feared that
such a liberal diet of cheese would disagree with the eater, but the
old man said,

"Why, my goodness, sonny, I've been hunting all over the earth for
seventeen centuries for something to disagree with me. That's what I
yearn for. If I could only get dyspepsia once, I might hope to wear
myself out. But it's no use. I could lunch on a pound of nails and
feel as comfortable as a baby after a bottle of milk. That's one of my
peculiarities. You know nothing ever hurts me. Why, I've been thrown
out of volcanoes--lemme see: well, dozens of times--and never been
singed a bit. 'Most always, in real cold weather, I step over to Italy
and roost around inside of Vesuvius; and then, maybe, there's an
eruption, and I'm heaved out a couple of hundred miles or so, but
always safe and sound. What I don't know about volcanic eruptions, my
child, isn't worth knowing. I went sailing around through the air when
Pompeii was destroyed. Yes, sir, I was there; saw the whole thing.
Why, I could tell you the most wonderful stories. You wouldn't
believe."

"How do you travel generally?"

"Oh, different ways. I have gone around some in sleeping-cars, and had
my baggage checked through; but generally I prefer to walk. I'm never
in a hurry, and I like to take my own route. I'm a mighty good walker.
I did think of getting up some kind of a pedestrian match with some
of your champion walkers, but it's no use; it'd only create an
excitement."

"How do people treat you usually?"

"Well, I can't complain. Snap me up for a tramp sometimes, or make
disagreeable remarks about me. But generally I get along well enough.
The undertakers are hardest on me. They say I exercise a depressing
influence on their business by setting a bad example to other people;
and one of 'em, over in Constantinople, he said a man who'd defrauded
about fifty-four generations of undertakers ought to be ashamed to
show his face in civilized society. But bless you, sonny, I don't mind
them. Business, you know, is business. It's perfectly natural for them
to feel that way about it; now, isn't it?"

"Will you have a cigar, after eating?"

"No; none for me. Raleigh wanted me to learn to smoke when he was in
Virginia, but I didn't care for it. You remember him, of course?
Oh no; I forgot how young you are. Pleasant man, but a little too
chimerical. I liked Columbus better. Nero was a man who'd've suited
you newspaper people. 'Most always a murder every day. And then that
fire in Rome when he fiddled; made a splendid report for the papers,
wouldn't it? Poor sort of a man, though. The only time I ever saw him
was when he was drowning his mother. Dropped the old lady over and let
her drift off as if he didn't care a cent."

"Talking of newspapers, how would you like to make an engagement as
the traveling correspondent of the _Patriot_?"

"Well, I dunno. I wouldn't mind sending you a letter now and then, but
I don't care to make any regular engagement. You see I haven't written
a great deal for about eighteen hundred years, and a man kind of gets
out of practice in that time. I write such an awful poor hand, too.
No; I guess I won't contribute regularly. I have thought sometimes
maybe I might do a little work as a book-agent, so's to pick up a few
stray dollars. But I never had a fair chance offered to me, and I
didn't care enough about it to hunt it up; and so nothing ever came
of it. I could make a good book fairly hum around this globe, though,
don't you think?"

"Were you ever married? Did you ever have a wife?"

"See here, my son, I never did you any harm, and what's the use of
your bringing up such disagreeable reminiscences? The old lady died in
Egypt in 73. They made her up into a mummy, and I reckon they put a
pyramid on her to hold her down. That's enough; that satisfies me."

"Is your memory generally good?"

"Well, about fair; that's all. I know I used to get Petrarch mixed up
in my mind with St. Peter, and I've several times alluded to Plutarch
as the god of the infernal regions. I'm often hazy about people. The
queerest thing! You know that once, in conversation with Benjamin
Franklin, I confounded Mark Antony with Saint Anthony, and actually
alluded to the saint's oration over the dead body of Cæsar. Positive
fact. I'll tell you how I often keep the run of things: I say of a
certain event, 'That happened during the century that I was bilious,'
or, 'It occurred in the century when I had rheumatism.' That's the way
I fix the time. I did commence to keep a diary back in 134, but I ran
up a stack of manuscript three or four hundred feet high, and then I
gave it up. Couldn't lug it round with me, you know."

"I suppose you have known a great many celebrated people?"

"Plenty of 'em--plenty of 'em, sir. By the way, did anybody ever tell
you that you looked like Mohammed? Well, sir, you do. Astonishing
likeness! Now, _there_ was an old scalawag for you. A perfect fraud! I
lent that man a pair of boots in 598, and he never returned them; said
I'd get my reward hereafter. I've regretted those boots for nearly
thirteen hundred years."

"Did it ever occur to you to lecture?"

"Oh yes; I've turned it over in my mind. But I guess I won't. You see,
my son, I'm so crammed full of information that if I began a discourse
I could hardly stop under a couple of years; and that's too long for a
lecture, you know. Then they might _encore_ it; and so I hardly think
I'd better go in. No, I'll just trudge along in the old fashion."

"Have you any views about the questions of the day? Are you in favor
of soft money or hard?"

"Young man, the advice to you of a man who has studied the world for
nearly two thousand years is to take any kind you can get. That's
solid wisdom."

Then, as the old man babbled on, he descended from the fence,
shouldered his umbrella, and together the two started for the ferry.
He said he wanted to buy a new suit of clothes. That he had on he had
bought in 1807 in Germany, and it was beginning to get threadbare. So
the reporter led him over the river, put him in a horse-car, asked him
to send his address to the office, and the aged pilgrim nudged up into
a corner seat, put his valise on the floor and sailed serenely out of
sight amid the reverberation of the oaths hurled by the driver at an
Irish drayman who occupied the track in front of the car.



CHAPTER XXVI.

_THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF DR. PERKINS_.


It might be hardly fair to say that Doctor Perkins, a former resident
of the village, was a quack; he may be described in milder phrase
as an irregular practitioner. He belonged to none of the accepted
schools, but treated his patients in accordance with certain theories
of his own. The doctor had a habit of relating remarkable stories of
his own achievements, and the most wonderful of these was his account
of an attempt that he once made to cure a man named Simpson of
consumption by the process of transfusion of blood. The doctor,
according to his own story, determined to inject healthy blood into
Simpson's veins.

As no human being was willing to shed his blood for Simpson, the
doctor bled Simpson's goat; and opening a vein in Simpson's arm, he
injected about two quarts of the blood into the patient's system.
Simpson immediately began to revive, but, singular to relate, no
sooner had his strength returned than he jumped out of bed; and
twitching his head about after the fashion of a goat, he made a savage
attempt to butt the doctor. That medical gentleman, after having
Simpson's head plunged against his stomach three or four times, took
refuge in the closet; whereupon Simpson banged his head against the
panel of the door a couple of times, and would probably have broken
it to splinters had not his mother-in-law entered at that moment and
diverted his attention. One well-directed blow from Simpson floored
her, and then, while she screamed for help, Simpson frolicked around
over the floor, making assiduous efforts to nibble the green flowers
in the ingrain carpet. When they called the hired man in and tied him
down on the bed, an effort was made to interview him, but the only
answer he could give to such questions as how he felt and when he
wanted his medicine was a "ba-a" precisely like that of a goat, and
then he would strain himself in an effort to butt a hole in the
headboard. The condition of the patient was so alarming, and Mrs.
Simpson was so indignant, that Dr. Perkins determined to undo the evil
if possible. So he first bled Simpson freely, and then, by heavily
bribing Simpson's Irishman, he procured fresh blood from him, and
injected Simpson the second time. Simpson recovered, but he shocked
his old Republican friends by displaying an irresistible tendency to
vote the Democratic ticket, and made his mother-in-law mad by speaking
with a strong brogue. He gradually gave up butting, and never indulged
in it in a serious manner but once, and that was on a certain Sunday,
when, one of the remaining corpuscles of goat's blood getting into his
brain just as he was going into church, he butted the sexton halfway
up the aisle, and only recovered himself sufficiently to apologize
just as the enraged official was about to floor him with a hymn-book.

[Illustration: SIMPSON'S CASE]

But the doctor did not succeed with private practice in Millburg,
and so one day he made up his mind to try to get out of poverty by
inventing a patent medicine. After some reflection he concluded that
the two most frequent and most unpopular forms of infirmity were
baldness of head and torpidity of the liver, and he selected compounds
recommended by the pharmacopoeia as the remedies which he would sell
to the public. One he called "Perkins' Hair Vigor," and the other
"Perkins' Liver Regulator." Procuring a large number of fancy bottles
and gaudy labels, he bottled the medicines and advertised them
extensively, with certificates of imaginary cures, which were written
out for him by a friend whose liver was active and whose hair was
abundant.

It is not at all unlikely that Perkins would have achieved success
with his enterprise but for one unfortunate circumstance: he was
totally unfamiliar with the preparations, excepting in so far as
the pharmacopoeia instructed him; and as ill-luck would have it, in
putting them up he got the labels of the liver regulator on the hair
vigor bottles, and the labels of the latter on the bottles containing
the former. Of course the results were appalling; and as Doctor
Perkins had requested the afflicted to inform him of the benefits
derived from applying the remedies, he had not sold more than a few
hundred bottles before he began to hear from the purchasers.

One day, as he was coming out of his office, he observed a man sitting
on the fire-plug with a shotgun in his hand and thunder upon his
brow. The man was bare-headed, and his scalp was covered with a shiny
substance of some kind. When he saw Perkins, he emptied one load of
bird-shot into the inventor's legs, and he was about to give him the
contents of the other barrel, when Perkins hobbled into the office and
shut the door. The man pursued him and tried to break in the door with
the butt of the gun. He failed, and Perkins asked him what he meant by
such murderous conduct.

"You come out here, and I'll show you what I mean, you scoundrel!"
said the man. "You step out here for a minute, and I'll blow the head
off of you for selling me hair vigor that has gummed my head up so
that I can't wear a hat and can't sleep without sticking to the
pillow-case. Turned my scalp all green and pink, too. You put your
head out of that door, and I'll give you more vigor than you want, you
idiot! I expect that stuff'll soak in and kill me."

Then the man took his seat again on the fire-plug, and after reloading
the barrel of his gun put on a fresh cap and waited. Perkins remained
inside and sent a boy out the back way for the mail. The first letter
he opened was from a woman, who wrote:

"My husband took one dose of your liver regulator and immediately went
into spasms. He has had fits every hour for four days. As soon as he
dies I am coming on to kill the fiend who poisoned him."

A clergyman in Delaware wrote to ask what were the ingredients of the
liver regulator. He feared something was wrong, because his aunt had
taken the medicine only twice, when she began to roll over on the
floor and howl in the most alarming manner, and she had been in a
comatose condition for fifteen hours.

A man named Johnson dropped a line to say that after applying the hair
vigor to his scalp he had leaned his head against the back of a chair,
and it had now been in that position two days. He feared he would
never be released unless he cut up the chair and wore the piece
permanently on his head. He was coming to see Perkins in reference to
the matter when he got loose, and he was going to bring his dog with
him.

A Mr. Wilson said that his boy had put some of the vigor on his face
in order to induce the growth of a moustache, and that at the present
moment the boy's upper lip was glued fast to the tip of his nose and
his countenance looked as if it had been coated with green varnish.

There were about forty other letters, giving the details of sundry
other cases of awful suffering and breathing threatenings and
slaughter against Mr. Perkins. Just as Mr. Perkins was finishing
these epistles a friend of his came rushing in through the back door
breathless, and exclaimed,

"By George, Aleck, you better get over the fence and leave town as
quick as you can. There's thunder to pay about those patent medicines
of yours. Old Mrs. Gridley's just gone up on that liver regulator,
after being in convulsions for a week. Thompson's hired girl is lying
at the last gasp, four of the Browns have got the awfulest-looking
heads you ever saw from the hair vigor, and about a dozen other people
are up at the sheriff's office taking out warrants for your arrest.
The people are talking of mobbing you, and the crowd out here on the
pavement are cheering a green-headed man with a gun who says he's
going to bang the head off of you. Now, you take my advice and skip.
It'll be sudden death to stay here. Leave! that's your only chance."

Then Doctor Perkins got over the fence and ran for the early train,
and an hour later the mob gutted his office and smashed the entire
stock of remedies. Perkins is in Canada now, working in a saw-mill.
He is convinced that there is no money for him in the business of
relieving human suffering.



CHAPTER XXVII.

_GENERAL TRUMPS OF THE MILITIA_.


The principal warrior in our community is General Trumps, the
commander of the militia of the district. The general has seen service
in the South and West, and is a pretty good soldier. In these happy
days of peace, however, he does not often have an opportunity to
display his fighting qualities, but sometimes even now, when he is
provoked to wrath, he becomes bloodthirsty and ferocious. Last summer
the general went to Cape May. Previous to his arrival two young men,
whom I will call Brown and Jones, occupied adjoining rooms at a
certain hotel. One day Brown fixed a string to the covers on Jones'
bed and ran the cord through the door into his own room. His purpose
was to pull the covers off as soon as Jones got comfortably fixed for
the night. But that afternoon General Trumps came down; and as the
hotel was crowded, the landlord put Jones in the room with Brown and
gave Jones' apartment to the general. Brown forgot about the string,
and he and Jones went to bed. About midnight Jones' dog, while
prowling around the room, got the string tangled about his leg, and in
struggling to reach the window he slowly dragged the bed-clothes off
of the soldier, next door. That gentleman awoke, and after scolding
his wife for removing the blankets went to sleep again. Presently
Jones' dog saw a rat and darted after it. Off came the covers again.
Then the man of war was angry. He roused his wife and scolded her
vigorously. She protested her innocence, and while she was speaking
Jones' dog heard another dog outside, and hurried to the window to
bark. The covers were again removed. Then the general fumbled about
until he found the cord. Then he loaded up his revolver, drew his
sword and dared Jones and Brown to open their door and come out into
the entry. They peeped at him over the transom, observed his warlike
preparations, glanced at the string and the dog, packed their
carpet-bags, slid down the water-spout outside, and went home in the
five-o'clock train. The manner in which that battle-scarred veteran
roared around the hotel during the day was said to have been
frightful; and when rumors came that Brown and Jones had gone to
another place in the neighborhood, he spent the day hunting for them
with a purpose to commit violence. He gradually became calmer, and as
his anger subsided the humorous aspect of the matter appeared, and he
felt rather glad that he had not encountered the two young men.

[Illustration: THE GENERAL IN A RAGE]

Several years ago the general was out upon the plains fighting the
Indians. One of the men who accompanied his command was a Major
Bing. It happened that the major was captured by the savages, and it
devolved upon the general to bear the melancholy tidings to Mrs. Bing.
It appears that while the general was on his way home Mrs. Bing
moved into another house; and when the general returned with the sad
intelligence, he did not know of the fact, but went to the old house,
which was now occupied by Mrs. Wood. He told the servant-girl to tell
her mistress to come into the parlor, and then he took a seat on the
sofa and thought how he could break the news of the major's death to
her so as not to give her too violent a shock. When Mrs. Wood entered,
the general greeted her mournfully; and when they had taken seats, the
following conversation ensued:

"Madam, I have been the major's friend ever since our childhood. I
played with him when we were boys together. I grew up to manhood with
him; I watched with pride his noble and successful career; I rejoiced
when he married the lovely woman before me; and I went to the West
with him. Need I tell you that I loved him? I loved him only less than
you did."

"I don't understand you, sir," said Mrs. Wood. "Whom are you referring
to?"

"Why, to the major. I say that your love for him alone was greater
than mine; and I am--"

"Your remarks are a mystery to me. I have no attachment of that kind."

"Call it what you will, madam. I know how strong the tie was between
you--how deep the devotion which kept two loving souls in perfect
unison. And knowing this, of course I feel deeply that to wound either
heart by telling of misfortune to the other is a task from which a man
like me might very properly shrink. But I have a duty to perform--a
solemn duty. What would you say, my dear madam, if I should tell you
that the major had lost a leg? What would you say to that?"

"I don't know. If I knew a major who had lost a leg, I should probably
advise him to buy a wooden one."

"Light-hearted as ever," said the general. "Just as he told me you
were. Poor woman! you will need your buoyant spirits yet. But, dear
madam, suppose the major had lost not only one leg, but two; both
gone; no legs at all; not a pin to stand on; now, how would that
strike you?"

"Really, sir, this is getting to be absurd. I don't care whether your
major has as many legs as a centipede or none at all. If you have any
business with me, please transact it as quickly as possible."

"Madam, this is too serious a subject for jest The major has lost not
only his legs, but his arms. He is absolutely without limbs of any
kind at this moment. That's as true as I'm sitting here. Now, don't
scream, please."

"I haven't the slightest idea of screaming."

"Well, you take it mighty cool, I must say. But that's not the worst
of it. All his ribs are gone, his nose has departed, and he only has
one eye and a part of one shoulder-blade. I pledge you my word that's
the truth. I hardly think he will recover."

"I shouldn't think he would, in that condition; but, upon my life, I
cannot see that the fact interests me at all."

"Not interest you! Well, that is amazing! Not int--Why, my goodness,
woman, that's not half of it. The major's scalp's all gone; he hasn't
enough fuzz on his head to make a camel's-hair pencil; he has a stake
through his body, and he's been burnt until he is all doubled up in a
hard knot; and, in my private opinion, it's mighty unlikely he'll ever
be untied and straightened out again. If that doesn't fetch you, you
must have a heart of stone."

"I don't care anything about it, sir. It's none of my business."

"Well, then, as long as you're so indifferent, let me tell you, plump
and plain, that the major's dead as Julius Cæsar! The Indians killed
him, burnt him and minced him up! Now, that's the solemn truth, and
his last words to me were, 'Break the news gently to Maria.' You see
the man loved you. He cared more for you than you seemed to do for
him. He would have welcomed death if he had known you had ceased to
love him."

"What did you say his last words were?"

"Why, just before his soul took its eternal flight he whispered
something in my ear. Then I made a sudden dash and escaped from the
savages, to bring his message back to you. That message was: 'Break
the news gently to Maria.' That's what the major said with his dying
lips."

"Well, then, why don't you break the news to Maria?"

"Madam, such levity is untimely. I have broken it--broken it gently.
You have heard it all."

"Do you suppose I am Major Bing's wife?"

"Certainly."

"Well, she moved around into Market street last December. Maybe you'd
better hunt her up."

The general looked at Mrs. Wood solemnly for a minute, and then he
said he would. Then he bade Mrs. Wood good-morning, bowed himself out
and walked around to look for the widow. When the real widow heard the
news, she was deeply affected, and she sobbed in a most distressing
manner. Subsequently she went into mourning. The life insurance
company paid her the money due upon the major's policy. The major's
lodge passed resolutions of regret, his family divided up his
property, and the community settled down comfortably in the conviction
that the major was finally and hopelessly dead.

About a year afterward, however, Major Bing suddenly arrived in town
without announcing his coming. He had been held as a prisoner by the
Indians, and had escaped. As he stepped from the cars a policeman
looked at him a minute, then seized him by the collar and hurried
him around to the coroner's office. Before he could recover from
his amazement the coroner empaneled a jury, put the action of the
insurance company in evidence and promptly got from the jury a verdict
that "the said Bing came to his death at the hands of the Indians."

Then the major went to his house and found his widow sitting on the
front porch talking to Myers, the man to whom she was engaged to be
married. As he entered the gate his widow gave one little start of
surprise, and then, regaining her composure, she said to Myers,

"Isn't this a new kind of an idea--dead people coming around when
common decency requires them to keep quiet?"

"It's altogether wrong," said Myers. "If I was dead, I'd lie still and
quit wandering about over the face of the earth."

"Maria, don't you know me?" asked the major, indignantly.

"I used to know you when you were alive; but now that you're gone, I
don't expect to recognize you until we meet in a better world."

"But, Maria, I am not dead. You certainly see that I am alive."

"Not dead! Didn't you send word to me that you were? Am I to refuse
to believe my own husband? The life insurance company says you are
deceased; the lodge says so; the coroner officially asserts the fact.
What am I to do? The evidence is all one way."

"But you _shall_ accept me as alive!" shouted the major, in a rage.

"Mr. Myers," said the widow, calmly, "hadn't we better send for the
undertaker to come and bury these remains?"

"Look here!" said Myers. "I'm the last man to do a dead friend an
injury, but I ain't going to have any departed spirit coming in here
and giving this lady hysterics. You pack up and go back, and stay
there, or I'll have you hustled into a tomb quicker'n lightning. Hurry
up now; don't stop to think about it!"

"This beats the very old Harry!" said the major, in astonishment.

"No answering back, now," said Myers. "When I want communications
from the other world, I'll hunt up a spiritualist medium and get my
information out of knocks on a table. All you've got to do is to creep
off into the tomb somewhere and behave."

"You're perfectly certain I'm dead, are you?" said the major, getting
calmer.

"Why, of course."

"Can a dead man violate the laws?"

"Certainly not."

"Well, then, I'm going to hammer you with this club, and I reckon
you'll find me the most energetic corpse in the county."

They say that the fight was terrific. First the major was on top, then
Myers; and as they rolled over and over in the porch the widow sat by
and surveyed the scene. Finally, Myers explained that upon the whole
he believed he had enough; and when the major had given him a few
supplementary thumps, he got up, and gazing at the prostrate Myers and
at the widow, he said,

"Take her; take her, young man. You're welcome to her. I wouldn't have
her if she was the only woman in the temperate zone. But let me tell
you, before you get her, that when you are married to her you'll wish
something'd happen to send you down to the bottom of the ocean and
anchor you there."

[Illustration: "TAKE HER, YOUNG MAN!"]

Then the major slammed the gate and left; and he started life afresh
in New York. Myers has written to him since to say that the only
grudge that he has against him is that he didn't kill him in that
fight in the porch, for the widow has made death seem blissful to him;
and the major's answer was that the reason why he spared his life was
that he wanted to make his revenge fiendish.

Of course I do not vouch for this part of the story which tells of the
major's return. General Trumps is responsible for that; and I know
that sometimes, when his imagination is unduly warmed, he is prone
to exaggeration. The general's own domestic matters are in the most
charming condition. According to his own story, he never had any
unpleasant feeling in his family but once. Several years ago he was in
Williamsport attending to his business. While there he had a strong
premonition that something was the matter at home; so, in order to
satisfy himself, he determined to run down to Philadelphia in the next
train. In the mean time, his mother-in-law sent him a despatch to this
effect: "Another daughter has just arrived. Hannah is poorly; come
home at once." The lines were down, however, and the despatch was held
over; and meanwhile the general reached home, and found his wife doing
pretty well and the nurse walking around with an infant a day old.
After staying twenty-four hours, and finding that everybody was
tolerably comfortable, he returned to Williamsport without anything
having been said about the despatch, his mother-in-law supposing of
course that he had received it. The day after his arrival the lines
were fixed, and that night he received a despatch from the telegraph
office dated that very day, and conveying the following intelligence:

"Another daughter has just arrived. Hannah is poorly; come home at
once."

The general was amazed and bewildered. He couldn't understand it. He
walked the floor of his room all night trying to get the hang of the
thing; and the more he considered the subject, the more he became
alarmed at the extraordinary occurrence. He took the early train
for the city, and during the journey was in a condition of frantic
bewilderment. When he arrived, he jumped in a cab, drove furiously to
the house, and scared his mother-in-law into convulsions by rushing in
in a frenzy and demanding what on earth had happened. He was greatly
relieved to find that there was but one infant in the nursery, and to
learn how the mistake occurred. But he felt as if he would like to
see the telegraph operator who changed the date of that despatch. He
wanted to remonstrate with him.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

_THE MISDIRECTED ENERGIES OF MR. BRADLEY_.


Mr. Bradley, our inventor, has had some experiences in addition to
those already recorded which may perhaps be entertaining to the
reader. One of the peculiarities of Bradley's contrivances is that
when they are designed to do a specified work, that is conspicuously
the work they cannot possibly be induced to do. There, for instance,
was Bradley's famous steam-pump.

Some years ago Bradley invented a steam-pump for use on shipboard. He
claimed for it that it would pump about three times as many gallons in
a minute as any other pump, and he got some of his political friends
in Congress to use their influence with the Navy Department to have it
tried on one of the navy vessels. Finally he succeeded in having it
introduced upon a small steamer, which we will call the Water Witch;
and when everything was ready, the ship started upon a trial trip.
Soon after she got to sea, Bradley, who was aboard, said he would like
to try the pump upon the bilge-water to see how she worked.

The captain ordered the engineer to turn it on, and the machine
operated apparently in the most beautiful manner. In about an hour one
of the officers reported that the water was gaining rapidly in the
hold, and the captain sent some men down to discover where the leak
was. They came back and reported that they couldn't find the hole, but
that the water was pouring in somewhere in frightful quantities.

Then some of the officers went down and spent half an hour in water
up to their waists feeling around after that awful hole, but they
couldn't ascertain where it was. The only thing that they were certain
of was that the water was steadily gaining on them, and the ship was
certain to sink unless something was done. All this time Mr. Bradley's
pump was working away, and the captain continually enjoined the
engineer to give it greater speed.

Then the captain himself went down and made an examination; and
although he failed to find the leak, he was alarmed to discover a
quantity of codfish and porpoises swimming about in the hold, because
he knew that the hole in the hull must be very large indeed to admit
the fish. And still the water rose steadily all the time, although
Bradley's pump was jerking away at it in a terrific manner and all the
other pumps were running at full speed.

At last the captain made up his mind that he should have to desert the
ship, as she was certain to sink; and so the boats were made ready and
packed with provisions and water and a few little comforts, and by
this time the water in the bilge was nearly up to the furnace fires.

Just then Bradley's pump suddenly stopped; and then the captain turned
pale as death and demanded to know who stopped that pump, while
Bradley buckled a life-preserver around him, corked up a note to his
wife in a bottle, and said that now that the pump had ceased he would
give that steamer just four minutes to reach bottom.

While he was speaking the engineer came up and said,

"Mr. Bradley, what did you say was the capacity of your pump?"

"Six hundred gallons a minute."

"Six hundred. Well, Mr. Bradley, how many gallons do you estimate that
there are in the Atlantic Ocean?"

"Blessed if I know. How in the mischief can I tell that?"

"Oh, it don't make any particular difference, only I thought you might
have some kind of an indistinct idea how long it would take you to run
the ocean through your pump."

"I dunno, I'm sure," said Bradley.

"Well, I merely wanted to say that, whatever your calculations
respecting the number of gallons in the Atlantic, it is perfectly
useless for you to try to load up that ocean in this vessel. She won't
hold more'n half of it."

"What do you mean, sir?" demanded Bradley.

"Why, I mean that that diabolical pump of yours, instead of taking out
the bilge, has been spurting water into this vessel for the past four
hours, and that if you have a theory that you can strike dry land by
that process it is ingenious, but it won't work, for it's going to
sink this ship."

Then the captain swore till the air was blue. Then he put Bradley in
irons, and ripped out his pump, and unpacked the boats, and pumped out
the water, and picked up the codfish and porpoises, and set sail for
home for the purpose of making a report on the subject of the new
invention. The Bradley Improved Marine Steam-pump went right out of
use at the end of the voyage.

Another invention of Bradley's was a scientific system of foretelling
the weather. He had a lot of barometers, hygrometers and such things
in his house, and he claimed that by reading these intelligently
and watching the clouds, in accordance with his theory, a man could
prophesy what kind of weather there would be three days ahead. They
were getting up a Sunday-school picnic in town in May; and as Bradley
ascertained that there would be no rain on a certain Thursday, they
selected that day for the purpose. The sky looked gloomy when they
started; but as Bradley declared that it absolutely _couldn't_ rain on
Thursday, everybody felt that it was safe to go. About two hours after
the party reached the grounds, however, a shower came up, and it
rained so hard that it ruined all the provisions, wet everybody to
the skin and washed the cake into dough. On the following Monday the
agricultural exhibition was to be held; but as Mr. Bradley foresaw
that there would be a terrible north-east storm on that day, he
suggested to the president of the society that it had better be
postponed. So they put it off; and that was the only clear Monday we
had during May. About the first of June, Mr. Bradley announced that
there would not be any rain until the 15th; and consequently we had
showers everyday right along up to that time, with the exception of
the 10th when there was a slight spit of snow. So on the 15th, Bradley
foresaw that the rest of the month would be wet; and by an odd
coincidence a drought set in and it only rained once during the two
weeks, and that was the day on which Bradley informed the base-ball
club that it could play a match, because it would be clear.

On toward the first of July he began to have some doubts if his
improved weather-system was correct; he was convinced that it must
work by contraries. So when Professor Jones asked him if it would be
safe to attempt to have a display of fireworks on the night of the
5th, Bradley brought the improved system into play, and discovered
that it promised rainy weather on that night. So then he was certain
it would be clear; and he told Professor Jones to go ahead.

On the night of the 5th, just as the professor got his
Catherine-wheels and sky-rockets all in position, it began to rain;
and that was the most awful storm we had that year: it raised the
river nearly three feet. As soon as it began Bradley got the axe and
went up stairs and smashed his hydrometers, hygrometers, barometers
and thermometers. Then he cut down the pole that upheld the
weathercock and burned the manuscript of the book which he was writing
in explanation of his system. He leans on "Old Probs" now when he
wants to ascertain the probable state of the weather.

       *       *       *       *       *

When his first baby was born, Bradley invented a self-rocking cradle
for it. He constructed the motive-power of the machine from some old
clockwork which was operated by a huge steel ribbon spring strong
enough to move a horse-car and long enough to run for a week without
rewinding. When the cradle was completed, he put the baby in it upon
a pillow and started the machinery. It worked beautifully, and after
watching it for a while Bradley went to bed in a peaceful and happy
frame of mind. Toward midnight he heard something go r-r-r-rip!
Buzz-z-z-z! Crash! Bang! Then a pin or something of the kind in the
clockwork gave way, and before Bradley could get out of bed the cradle
containing the baby was making ninety revolutions a minute, and
hopping around the room and slamming up against the furniture in a
manner that was simply awful to look at.

[Illustration: BRADLEY'S CRADLE]

How to get the child out was now the only consideration which
presented itself to the mind of the inventor. A happy thought struck
him. He took a slat out of the bedstead and held it under the cradle.
On the next down-stroke it stopped with a jerk, and the baby was
thrown, like a stone out of a catapult, against the washstand,
fortunately with the pillow to break its fall. But the machine kept
whizzing round and round the room as soon as the slat was withdrawn,
and Bradley, in an ecstasy of rage, flung it out the back window into
the yard. It continued to make such a clatter there that he had to go
down and pile up barrels and slop-buckets and bricks and clothes-props
and part of the grape-arbor on it, so that all it could do was to lie
there all night buzzing with a kind of smothered hum and keeping the
next-door neighbors awake, so that they pelted it with bootjacks,
under the impression that it was cats.

Mrs. Bradley expressed such decided views respecting cradles of that
pattern that Mr. Bradley turned his attention to other matters
than those of a domestic character. He resolved to revolutionize
navigation. It occurred to him that some kind of an apparatus might be
devised by which a man could walk upon the surface of the water, and
he went to work at it. The result was that in a few weeks he produced
and patented Bradley's Water Perambulator. It consisted of a couple of
shallow scows, each about four feet long. These were to be fastened to
the feet; and Bradley informed his friends that with a little practice
a man could glide over the bosom of a river with the ease and velocity
with which a good skater skims over the ice.

It looked like a splendid thing. Bradley said that it would certainly
produce a revolution in navigation, and make men wholly independent of
steamers and other vessels when they desired to travel upon water with
rapidity. Bradley intimated that the day would come when a man would
mount a water perambulator and go drifting off to India, sliding over
the bounding billows of the dark blue sea as serenely as if he were
walking along a turnpike.

And one day Bradley asked a select party to come down to the river
to see him make a trial-trip. At the appointed time he appeared with
something that looked like a small frigate under each arm; and when he
had fastened them securely upon his feet, he prepared to lower himself
over the edge of the wharf. He asked the spectators to designate a
point upon the thither shore at which they wished him to land. It was
immaterial to him, he said, whether he went one mile or ten, up stream
or down, because he should glide around upon the surface of the stream
with the ease and grace of a swallow. Then they fixed a point for him;
and when he had dropped into the water, he steadied himself for a
moment by holding to the pier while he fastened his eye upon his
destination and prepared to start.

At last he said the experiment would begin; and he struck out with his
left foot. As he did so the front end of that particular scow scuttled
under water, and as he tried to save himself by bringing forward his
right foot, that section of Bradley's Water Perambulator also dipped
under, and Bradley fell.

[Illustration: THE NEW MOTOR]

A moment later he was hanging head downward in the river, with nothing
visible to the anxious spectators but the bottoms of two four-foot
frigates. The perambulator simply kept the body of Bradley under the
water. Then a man went out in a skiff and pulled the inventor in with
a boat-hook. When he came ashore, they unbuckled his scows, took off
his clothing and rolled him upon an oil-barrel. In half an hour he
revived, and with a deep groan he said,

"Where am I?"

His friends explained his situation to him, and then he asked,

"What drowned me?"

They told him sadly that he was injured during an attempt to
revolutionize navigation and to prepare the way for a walk to India.

"How did I try to do it?" he inquired.

They wept as they reminded him that he had started to skim over the
river like a swallow, with a scow upon each foot, and then he faintly
said,

"Where in thunder are those machines?"

His friends produced, the new motor with which Bradley intended to
break up the steamship lines; and when he had looked at them for a
moment, he fell back and whispered,

"It's no use. I can't do 'em justice. Eight men couldn't cuss 'em to
satisfy me. But split 'em up! Have 'em mashed into kin'lin-wood before
I get well, or the sight of 'em'll set me crazy."

Then he was carried home, and after being in bed about a fortnight he
came out with a pallid cheek, a sorrowful heart and ideas for six or
seven new machines.



CHAPTER XXIX.

_THE TRIALS OF MR. KEYSER, GRANGER_.


Mr. Keyser mentioned recently that he had employed a new hired girl,
and that soon after her arrival Mrs. Keyser, before starting to spend
the day with a friend, instructed the girl to whitewash the kitchen
during her absence. Upon returning, Mrs. Keyser found the job
completed in a very satisfactory manner. On Wednesday, Mrs. Keyser
always churns, and on the following Wednesday, when she was ready, she
went out; and finding that Mr. Keyser had already put the milk into
the churn, she began to turn, the handle. This was at eight o'clock
in the morning, and she turned until ten without any signs of butter
appearing. Then she called in the hired man, and he turned until
dinner-time, when he knocked off with some very offensive language,
addressed to the butter, which had not yet come. After dinner the
hired girl took hold of the crank and turned it energetically until
two o'clock, when she let go with a remark which conveyed the
impression that she believed the churn to be haunted. Then Mr. Keyser
came out and said he wanted to know what was the matter with that
churn. It was a good enough churn if people only knew enough to use
it. Mr. Keyser then worked the crank until half-past three, when, as
the butter had not come, he surrendered it again to the hired man
because he had an engagement in the village. The man ground the
machine to an accompaniment of frightful imprecations. Then the Keyser
children each took a turn for half an hour, then Mrs. Keyser tried her
hand; and when she was exhausted, she again enlisted the hired girl,
who said her prayers while she turned. But the butter didn't come.

When Keyser came home and found the churn still in action, he felt
angry; and seizing the handle, he said he'd make the butter come if he
stirred up an earthquake in doing it. Mr. Keyser effected about two
hundred revolutions of the crank a minute--enough to have made
any ordinary butter come from the ends of the earth; and when the
perspiration began to stream from him, and still the butter didn't
come, he uttered one wild yell of rage and disappointment and kicked
the churn over the fence. When Mrs. Keyser went to pick it up, she
put her nose down close to the buttermilk and took a sniff. Then she
understood how it was. The girl had mixed the whitewash in the churn
and left it there. A good, honest and intelligent servant who knows
how to churn could have found a situation at Keyser's the next day.
There was a vacancy.

Mr. Keyser during the summer made a very narrow escape from a
melancholy ending. He dreamed one night that he would die on the 14th
of September. So strongly was he assured of the fact that the vision
would prove true that he began at once to make preparations for his
departure. He got measured for a burial-suit, he drew up his will, he
picked out a nice lot in the cemetery and had it fenced in, he joined
the church and selected six of the deacons as his pall-bearers; he
also requested the choir to sing at the funeral, and he got them to
run over a favorite hymn of his to see how it would sound. Then he
got Toombs, the undertaker, to knock together a burial-casket with
silver-plated handles, and cushions inside, and he instructed the
undertaker to use his best hearse, and to buy sixty pairs of black
gloves, to be distributed among the mourners. He had some trouble
deciding upon a tombstone. The man at the marble-yard, however, at
last sold him a beautiful one with an angel weeping over a kind of a
flower-pot, with the legend, "Not lost, but gone before."

Then he got the village newspaper to put a good obituary notice of him
in type, and he told his wife that he would be gratified if she would
come out in the spring and plant violets upon his grave. He said it
was hard to leave her and the children, but she must try and bear up
under it. These afflictions are for our good, and when he was an angel
he would come and watch over her and keep his eye on her. He said she
might marry again if she wanted to; for although the mere thought of
it nearly broke his heart, he wished her, above all, to be happy, and
to have some one to love her and protect her from the storms of the
rude world. Then he and Mrs. Keyser and the children cried, and
Keyser, as a closing word of counsel, advised her not to plough for
corn earlier than the middle of March.

On the night of the 13th of September there was a flood in the creek,
and Keyser got up at four o'clock in the morning of the 14th and
worked until night, trying to save his buildings and his woodpile. He
was so busy that he forgot all about its being the day of his death;
and as he was very tired, he went to bed early and slept soundly all
night.

About six o'clock on the morning of the 15th there was a ring at the
door-bell. Keyser jumped out of bed, threw up the front window and
exclaimed,

"Who's there?"

"It's me--Toombs," said the undertaker.

"What do you want at this time of the morning?" demanded Keyser.

"Want?" said Toombs, not recognizing Keyser. "Why, I've brought around
the ice to pack Keyser in, so's he'll keep until the funeral. The
corpse'd spoil this kind of weather if we didn't."

Then Keyser remembered, and it made him feel angry when he thought how
the day had passed and left him still alive, and how he had made a
fool of himself. So he said,

"Well, you can just skeet around home agin with that ice; the corpse
is not yet dead. You're a little too anxious, it strikes me. You're
not goin' to inter me yet, if you have got everything ready. So you
can haul off and unload."

About half-past ten that morning the deacons came around, with crape
on their hats and gloom in their faces, to carry the body to the
grave; and while they were on the front steps the marble-yard man
drove up with the flower-pot tombstone and a shovel, and stepped in to
ask the widow how deep she wanted the grave dug. Just then the choir
arrived with the minister, and the company was assembled in the
parlor, when Keyser came in from the stable, where he had been dosing
a horse with patent medicine and warm "mash" for the glanders. He was
surprised, but he proceeded to explain that there had been a little
mistake, somehow. He was also pained to find that everybody seemed to
be a good deal disappointed, particularly the tombstone-man, who went
away mad, declaring that such an old fraud ought to be buried, anyhow,
dead or alive. Just as the deacons left in a huff the tailor's boy
arrived with the burial-suit, and before Keyser could kick him off the
steps the paper-carrier flung into the door the _Patriot_, in which
that obituary notice occupied a prominent place.

Anybody who wants a good reliable tombstone that has a flower-pot and
an angel on it, with an affecting inscription, can buy one of that
kind, at a sacrifice for cash, from Keyser. He thinks the bad dream
must have been caused by eating too much at supper.

After he felt assured that he should have to remain a little longer
in this troublous world, Mr. Keyser determined to effect some
improvements of his farm that he had thought of. He greatly needed a
constant supply of water, and he resolved to bore an artesian well in
the barn-yard. The boring was done with a two-inch auger fixed in the
end of an iron rod, which was twisted around by a wheel worked by two
men. One day, after they had gone down a good many feet, they tried to
pull the rod out, but it would not come. They were afraid to use much
force lest the auger should come off and stay in the hole, and so, as
the boring went along well enough, they concluded to keep on turning,
and to trust to the force of the water, when they struck it, to drive
the loose dirt up from the hole. When they had gone down about three
hundred and fifty feet, they began to think it queer that there were
no signs of water, but they bored a hundred feet farther; and one
day, just as they were beginning on another hundred, something odd
happened.

On the day in question Keyser's boy came running into the house and
told him to come into the garden quick, for there was some kind of an
extraordinary animal with a sharp nose burrowing out of the ground.
Keyser concluded that it must be either a potato-bug or a grasshopper
that had been hatched in the spring, and he took out a bottle of
poison to drop on it when it came up. When Keyser reached the spot, a
couple of hundred yards from where they were boring the well, there
certainly was some kind of a creature slowly pushing its way up
through the sod. Its nose seemed to resemble a sharp point like steel.
Keyser dropped some poison on it; but it didn't appear to mind the
stuff, but kept slowly creeping up from the ground. Then Keyser felt
it, and was astonished to find that it felt exactly like the end of a
fork-prong. He sent the boy over to call Perkins and the rest of the
neighbors. Pretty soon a large crowd collected, and by this time the
animal had emerged to the extent of a couple of inches.

[Illustration: A QUEER PLANT]

Everybody was amazed to see that it looked exactly like the end of a
large auger; and two or three timid men were so scared at the idea of
such a thing actually growing out of the earth that they suddenly
got over the fence and left. Perkins couldn't account for it; but he
suggested that maybe somebody might have planted a gimlet there, and
it had taken root and blossomed out into an auger; but he admitted
that he had never heard of such a thing before.

The excitement increased so that the men who were boring the artesian
well knocked off and came over to see the phenomenon. It was noticed
that as soon as they stopped work the auger ceased to grow; and when
they arrived, they looked at it for a minute, and one of them said,

"Bill, do you recognize that auger?"

"I think I do," said Bill.

"Well, Bill, you go and unhitch that wheel from the other end of the
rod."

Bill did so; and then the other man asked the crowd to take hold of
the auger and pull. They did; and out came four hundred and fifty feet
of iron rod. The auger had slid off to the side, turned upward and
come to the surface in Keyser's garden. Then the artesian well was
abandoned, and Keyser bought a steam-pump and began to get water from
the river.

Another remarkable boring experience that occurred in our neighborhood
deserves to be related here. When Butterwick bought his present place,
the former owner offered, as one of the inducements to purchase, the
fact that there was a superb sugar-maple tree in the garden. It was a
noble tree, and Butterwick made up his mind that he would tap it some
day and manufacture some sugar. However, he never did so until last
year. Then he concluded to draw the sap and to have "a sugar-boiling."

Mr. Butterwick's wife's uncle was staying with him, and after inviting
some friends to come and eat the sugar they got to work. They took a
huge wash-kettle down into the yard and piled some wood beneath it,
and then they brought out a couple of buckets to catch the sap, and
the auger with which to bore a hole in the tree.

Butterwick's wife's uncle said that the bucket ought to be set about
three feet from the tree, as the sap would spurt right out with a good
deal of force, and it would be a pity to waste any of it.

Then he lighted the fire, while Butterwick bored the hole about four
inches deep. When he took the auger out, the sap did not follow, but
Butterwick's wife's uncle said what it wanted was a little time, and
so, while the folks waited, he put a fresh armful of wood on the fire.
They waited half an hour; and as the sap didn't come, Butterwick
concluded that the hole was not deep enough, so he began boring again,
but he bored too far, for the auger went clear through the tree and
penetrated the back of his wife's uncle, who was leaning up against
the trunk trying to light his pipe. He jumped nearly forty feet, and
they had to mend him up with court-plaster.

[Illustration: TOO MUCH OF A BORE.]

Then he said he thought the reason the sap didn't come was that there
ought to be a kind of spigot in the hole, so as to let it run off
easily. They got the wooden spigot from the vinegar-barrel in the
cellar and inserted it. Then, as the sap did not come, Butterwick's
wife's uncle said he thought the spigot must be jammed in so tight
that it choked the flow; and while Butterwick tried to push it out,
his wife's uncle fed the fire with some kindling-wood. As the spigot
could not be budged with a hammer, Butterwick concluded to bore it out
with the auger; and meanwhile his wife's uncle stirred the fire. Then,
the auger broke off short in the hole, and Butterwick had to go half a
mile to the hardware-store to get another one.

Then Butterwick bored a fresh hole; and although the sap would not
come, the company did; and they examined with much interest the
kettle, which was now red-hot, and which Butterwick's wife's uncle
was trying to lift off the fire with the hay-fork. As the sap still
refused to come, Butterwick went over for Keyser to ask him how to
make the exasperating tree disgorge. When he arrived, he looked at the
hole, then at the spigot, then at the kettle and then at the tree.
Then, turning to Butterwick with a mournful face, he said,

"Butterwick, you have had a good deal of trouble in your life, an'
it's done you good; it's made a man of you. This world is full of
sorrow, but we must bear it without grumbling. You know that, of
course. Consequently, now that I've some bad news to break to you, I
feel 'sif the shock won't knock you endways, but'll be received with
patient resignation. I say I hope you won't break down an' give away
to your feelin's when I tell you that there tree is no sugar-maple
at all. Grashus! why, that's a black hickory. It is, indeed; and you
might as well bore for maple-sugar in the side of a telegraph-pole."

Then the company went home, and Butterwick's wife's uncle said he had
an engagement with a man in Hatboro' which he must keep right off.
Butterwick took the kettle up to the house; but as it was burned out,
he sold it next day for fifteen cents for old iron and bought a new
one for twelve dollars. He thinks now maybe it's better to buy your
maple sugar.



CHAPTER XXX.

_MR. BANGER'S AUNT_.


There are two families of Bangers in our neighborhood, the heads of
which have the same name--Henry Banger. The Henry who married the
widow, heretofore mentioned, is a lawyer in the village, while the
other, having no relationship to the former, is a "professor," and he
lives on the opposite side of the river, in a hamlet that has grown up
there. One day Henry Banger, the lawyer, received a telegram saying
that his aunt had died suddenly in Elmira, New York, and that the body
would be sent on at once by express. Mr. Banger made preparations for
the funeral, and upon the day that the remains were due he went down
to the express office to receive them.

They did not come, however; and when the agent telegraphed to ask
about them, he ascertained that Mr. Banger's aunt had been carried
through to Baltimore by mistake. Orders were sent at once to reship
the body with all possible speed; and accordingly, it was placed upon
the cars of the Northern Central Railroad. As the train was proceeding
north a collision occurred. The train was wrecked, and Mr. Banger's
aunt was tossed rudely out upon the roadside.

The people who were attending to things supposed that she was one of
the victims of the accident, and so the coroner held an inquest;
and as nobody knew who she was, she was sent back to Baltimore and
interred by the authorities. As she did not reach Mr. Banger, he
induced the express company to hunt her up; and when her resting-place
was discovered, they took her up, placed her in a casket and shipped
her again.

During that trip some thieves got into the express car and threw out
the iron money-chest and Mr. Banger's aunt, supposing that the casket
contained treasure. On the following morning a farmer discovered Mr.
Banger's aunt in the casket leaning up against a tree in the woods.
He sent for the coroner; and when another inquest had been held, they
were about to bury the remains, and would have done so had not a
telegram come from the express company instructing the authorities to
ship Mr. Banger's aunt back to Baltimore.

Mr. Banger, meantime, endured the most agonizing suspense, and began
to talk about suing the express company for damages. At last, however,
he received information that the departed one had been sent on upon
the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad. So she had. But
as the train was crossing Gunpowder River the express car gave a
lurch, and the next moment Mr. Banger's aunt shot through the door
into the water. She sailed around in the bay for several days,
apparently uncertain whether to seek the ocean and move straight
across for Europe, or to go up into the interior. She chose the
latter course, and a week afterward she drifted ashore in the Lower
Susquehanna.

As soon as she was discovered the coroner held an inquest, and then
put her on the cars again. This time she came directly to Millburg,
and Mr. Banger was at the depot waiting for her with the funeral. By
some mistake, however, she was carried past and put out at the next
town above, and the agent said that the best thing he could do would
be to have her brought down in the morning. In the morning she came,
and Mr. Banger was there with the friends of the family to receive
her.

When they reached the cemetery, Rev. Dr. Dox delivered a most
affecting discourse; and when all was over, and Mr. and Mrs. Banger
had wiped away their tears, they went slowly home, sorrowful, of
course, but somewhat glad that the long suspense was ended.

As Mr. Banger entered his sitting-room he saw a lady reposing in front
of the fire, with her back toward him, toasting her toes. Before he
had time to speak she looked around, and he was amazed to perceive
that it was his dead-and-buried aunt. He was a little frightened at
first, but in a moment he summoned up courage enough to ask,

"Why, how did you get here?"

"I came on the train, of course."

"Yes, I know; but how did you get out of the cemetery?"

"Cemetery? What cemetery? I haven't been in any cemetery!"

"Not been in the cemetery! Why, either I buried you an hour ago, or I
am the worst mistaken man on earth."

"Mr. Banger, what do you mean? This is a curious sort of a jest."

Then Banger explained the situation to her; and as she solemnly
protested that she had not been in Elmira, Banger was about to
conclude that he had been the victim of a joke, when it suddenly
occurred to him that maybe it was the aunt of Professor Banger. He
sent out to investigate the matter, and found that the conjecture was
correct. And when Professor Banger heard about it, he became very
angry, and he entered suit against the lawyer Banger for embezzling
his aunt. Then Lawyer Banger sued the professor for the express
charges and the funeral expenses, and for a time it looked as if that
eccentric and roving old lady would be the cause of infinite trouble;
but the difficulty was finally compromised by the lawyer Banger
accepting half the amount of his expenses.

       *       *       *       *       *

Professor Banger was originally a telegraph-operator, but some years
ago he saved up a small sum of money, with which he constructed a
balloon. Then he tacked "professor" to his name, and began to devote
himself to science and the show business. His account of one of his
recent excursions is not only entertaining, but it proves that he is
an ardent student of natural phenomena. He said to me,

"We went up at Easton, Pennsylvania; Conly, Jones and myself, and
it was the finest trip I ever took. Perfectly splendid! We got the
balloon full about twelve o'clock, and the crowd held her down until
we were ready. Then I gave the word and they let go, and we went
a-humming into the air. One man got caught in a twist of the rope as
she gave her first spurt upward, and it slammed him up against a fence
as if he'd been shot out of a gun. Smashed in three or four of his
ribs, I believe, and cracked his leg.

"But we went up beautifully about fifteen hundred feet, and while we
were looking at the charming scenery we ran into a cloud, and I told
Conly to throw out some ballast. He heaved over a couple of sand-bags,
and one of them accidentally fell on Major Wiggins' hired girl, who
was hanging clothes in the garden, and the other went into his chimney
and choked it up. He was mad as fury about it when we came down. No
enthusiasm for science. Some men don't care a cent whether the world
progresses or not.

[Illustration: BALLAST]

"Well, sir, we shot up about a thousand feet more, and then Jones
dropped the lunch-basket overboard by accident, and we went up nearly
four miles Conly got blue in the face, Jones fainted, and I came near
going under myself. A minute more we'd all've been dead men; but I
gave the valve a jerk, and we came down like a rocket-stick. When the
boys came to, Jones said he wanted to get out; and as we were only a
little distance from the ground, I threw out the grapnel.

"That minute a breeze struck her, and she went along at about ninety
miles an hour over some man's garden, and the grapnel caught his
grape-arbor snatched it up, and pretty soon got it tangled with the
weathercock on the Presbyterian church-steeple. I cut the rope and
left it there, and I understand that the deacons sued the owner
because he wouldn't take it down. Raised an awful fuss and sent the
sheriff after me. Trying to make scientific investigation seem like a
crime, and I working all the time like a horse to unfold the phenomena
of nature! If they had loved knowledge, they wouldn't've cared if
I'd've ripped off their old steeple and dropped it down like an
extinguisher on top of some factory chimney.

"So, when we left the grape-arbor, we went up again, and Jones got
sicker and said he must get out. So I rigged up another grapnel and
threw it over. We were just passing a farm near the river; and as the
wind was high, the grapnel tore through two fences and pulled the roof
off of a smoke-house, and then, as nothing would hold her, we swooped
into the woods, when we ran against a tree. The branches skinned
Conly's face and nearly put out my right eye, and knocked four teeth
out of Jones' mouth. It was the most exciting and interesting voyage
I ever made in my life; and I was just beginning to get some
satisfaction from it--just getting warmed up and preparing to take
some meteorological observations--when Jones became so very anxious to
quit that I didn't like to refuse, although it went fearfully against
the grain for the reason that I hated to give up and abandon my
scientific investigations.

"So I threw out my coat and boots, and made the other fellows do the
same, and we rose above the trees and sailed along splendidly until we
struck the river. Then she suddenly dodged down, and the edge of the
car caught in the water; so the wind took her, and we went scudding
along like lightning, nearly drowned. Conly was washed overboard, and
that lightened her, so she went up again. I was for staying up, but
Jones said he'd die if he didn't get out soon; and besides, he thought
we ought to look after Conly. But I said Conly was probably drowned,
anyhow, so it was hardly worth while to sacrifice our experiments on
that account; and I told Jones that a man of his intelligence ought to
be willing to endure something for the sake of scientific truth. And
Jones said, 'Hang scientific truth!'--actually made that remark; and
he said that if I didn't let him out he'd jump out. He was sick, you
know. The man was not himself, or he would never have talked in that
way about a voyage that was so full of interest and so likely to
reveal important secrets of nature.

"But to oblige him I at last got her down on the other side of the
river, and a farmer ran out and seized the rope. While we were talking
to him I was just telling him that, as the gas was running out of the
neck of the balloon, maybe he'd better put out his cigar, when all of
a sudden there was a terrific bang. The gas exploded and wrapped us in
a sheet of flame, and the next minute some of the neighbors picked up
me and Jones. Jones was roasted nearly to a crisp. Exciting, wasn't
it?

"And they took him over to the farmhouse, where we found that they had
fished out Conly and were bringing him to. When he revived, they sent
the invalid corps back to town in a wagon, Jones groaning all the way
and I arguing with him to show that science requires her votaries to
give up a little of their personal comfort for the benefit it does the
human race, and Conly saying he wished he was well enough to go out
and bang the inventor of balloons with a gun.

"As soon as we got back to Easton a constable arrested me for chucking
that ignorant opponent of scientific inquiry up against the fence
and wrecking him. When I was let off on bail, I began to build a new
balloon. She's nearly done now, and I'm going to make an ascension
early next month in search of the ozone belt. Won't you go up with me?
The day is going to come when everybody will travel that way. It's the
most exhilarating motion in the world. Come on up and help me make
scientific observations on the ozone belt."

But the invitation was declined. The _Patriot_, however, will have a
good obituary notice of the professor all ready, in type.



CHAPTER XXXI.

_VARIOUS THINGS_.


It is a notorious fact that itinerant circus companies pay very
poorly, and that the man who does not get his money from them in
advance is not very likely to get it at all. Major Slott of _The
Patriot_ has suffered a good deal from these concerns; and when "The
Great European Circus and Metropolitan Caravan" tried to slip off the
other day without settling its advertising bill, he called upon the
sheriff and got him to attach the Bengal tiger for the debt. The tiger
was brought in its cage and placed in the composing-room, where it
consumed fifteen dollars' worth of meat in two days--the major's bill
was only twelve dollars--and scratched one trouser leg off of the
reporter, who was standing in front of the cage stirring up the animal
with a broom. On the third day the bottom fell out of the cage; and as
the tiger seemed to want to roam around and inquire into things, the
whole force of compositors all at once felt as if they ought to
go suddenly down stairs and give the animal a chance. With that
mysterious instinct which distinguishes dumb animals, and which goes
far to prove that they have souls, the tiger went at once for the
door of the major's sanctum, and it broke in just as Slott was in the
middle of a tearing editorial upon "Our Tendencies toward Cæsarism."
The major, however, did not hesitate to knock off. He stopped at once,
and emerged with a fine, airy grace through the window, bringing the
sash with him; and then he climbed up the water-spout to the roof,
where he sat until a hook-and-ladder company came and took him off.
_The Patriot_ did not issue for a week; for although the major
bombarded the tiger with shot-guns pointed through the windows, and
although the fire-engine squirted hot water at him, the brute got
along very comfortably until Saturday night, when he tried to swallow
a composing-stick and choked to death. When they entered the room,
they found that the animal had upset all the type and had soaked
himself in ink and then rolled over nearly every square inch of the
floor, while the major's leader on "Cæsarism" was saturated with water
and perforated with shot-holes. After this circus advertisements in
_The Patriot_ will be paid for in advance.

[Illustration: MAJOR SLOTT'S TIGER]

In one of the issues of his paper, just after the trouble with the
tiger, the major offered some reflections upon the general subject
of "Tigers," in which he gave evidence that he had recovered his
good-humor to some extent. He said,

"We have read with very deep interest a description of how Van Amburgh
used to obtain control over tigers and other wild beasts. All he did
was to mesmerize them two or three times, and they soon recognized his
power and obeyed him. The thing seems simple and easy enough, now that
we understand it, and we have a mysterious impression that we could
walk out into a jungle and subdue the first tiger we met by making
a few passes at him with our hands. But we are not anxious to do
this--for one reason, because the Indian jungles are so far away, and
for another, because we do not want to hurt an innocent tiger. If we
have to meddle with such animals, we always prefer to operate with
those that are stuffed. Show us a tiger with sawdust bowels, and
we will stand in front of him and make mesmeric motions for a week
without the quiver of a nerve. Not that we are timid when the tiger
is alive, but simply because a fur-store is more convenient than a
jungle, and there is less danger of wetting our feet. If we happened
to be in India and we wanted a tiger, we should unhesitatingly go out
and stand boldly in front of the very first one we saw--tied to a
tree--and we should bring him home instantly if we could find a man
willing to lead him with a string. But this kind of courage is born
in some men. It cannot be acquired; and timid persons who intend to
practice Van Amburgh's method will find it more judicious to begin the
mesmerizing operation by soothing the animal with a howitzer."

[Illustration: FACING THE TIGER]

       *       *       *       *       *

The lightning-rod man haunts our county as he does the rest of the
civilized portion of the country; and although occasionally he secures
a victim, sometimes it happens that he gets worsted in his attempts to
beguile his fellow-men. Such was his fate upon a recent occasion in
our village.

The other day a lightning-rod man drove up in front of a handsome
edifice standing in the midst of trees and shrubs in Millburg, and
spoke to Mr. Potts, who was sitting on the steps in front. He accosted
Potts as the owner of the residence, and said,

"I see you have no lightning-rods on this house."

"No," said Potts.

"Are you going to put any on?"

"Well, I hadn't thought of it," replied Potts.

"You ought to. A tall building like this is very much exposed. I'd
like to run you up one of my rods; twisted steel, glass fenders,
nickel-plated tips--everything complete. May I put one up to show you?
I'll do the job cheap."

"Certainly you may, if you want to. I haven't the slightest
objection," said Potts.

During the next half hour the man had his ladders up and his
assistants at work, and at the end of that time the job was done. He
called Potts out into the yard to admire it. He said to Potts,

"Now, that is all well enough; but if it was _my_ house, I'd have
another rod put on the other side. There's nothing like being
protected thoroughly."

"That's true," said Potts; "it would be better."

"I'll put up another, shall I?" asked the man.

"Why, of course, if you think it's best," said Potts.

Accordingly, the man went to work again, and soon had the rod in its
place.

"That's a first-rate job," he said to Potts as they both stood eyeing
it. "I like such a man as you are. Big-hearted, liberal, not afraid to
put a dollar down for a good thing. There's some pleasure in dealin'
with you. I like you so much that I'd put a couple more rods on that
house, one on the north end and one on the south, for almost nothin'."

"It would make things safer, I suppose," said Potts.

"Certainly it would. I'd better do it, hadn't I, hey?"

"Just as you think proper," said Potts.

So the man ran up two more rods, and then he came down and said to
Potts, "There! that's done. Now let's settle up."

"Do what?"

"Why, the job's finished, and now I'll take my money."

"You don't expect me to pay you, I hope?"

"Of course I do. Didn't you tell me to put those rods on your house?"

"My house!" shouted Potts. "Thunder and lightning! I never ordered you
to put those rods up. It would have been ridiculous. Why, man, this is
the court-house, and I'm here waiting for the court to assemble. I'm
on the jury. You seemed to be anxious to rush out your rods; and as
it was none of my business, I let you go on. Pay for it! Come, now,
that's pretty good."

The people who were present say that the manner in which that
lightning-rod man tore around and swore was fearful. But when he got
his rods off of the court-house, he left permanently. He don't fancy
the place.

Keyser had lightning-rods placed upon his barn three or four years
ago; but during last summer the building was struck by lightning and
burned. When he got the new barn done, a man came around with a
red wagon and wanted to sell him a set of Bolt & Burnam's patent
lightning-rods.

"I believe not," said Keyser; "I had rods on the barn at the time of
the--"

"I know," exclaimed the agent--"I know you had; and very likely that's
the reason you were struck. Nothin's more likely to attract lightnin'
than worthless rods."

"How do you know they were worthless?"

"Why, I was drivin' by yer in the spring, and I seen them rods, and I
says to myself, 'That barn'll be struck some time, but there's no use
in tryin' to convince Mr. Keyser;' so I didn't call. I knowed it,
because they had iron tips. A rod with iron tips is no better'n a
clothes-prop to ward off lightnin'."

"The man who sold them to me said they had platinum tips," remarked
Keyser.

"Ah! this is a wicked world, Mr. Keyser. You can't be too cautious.
Some of these yer agents lie like a gas-meter. It's awful, sir. They
are wholly untrustworthy. Them rods was the most ridicklus sham I ever
see--a regular gouge. They wa'n't worth the labor it took to put 'em
up. They wa'n't, now. That's the honest truth."

"What kind do you offer?"

"Well, sir, I've got the only genuine lightnin'-rod that's made. It's
constructed on scientific principles. Professor Henry says it's sure
to run off the electric fluid every time--twisted charcoal iron, glass
insulators, eight points on each rod, warranted solid platinum. We
give a written guarantee with each rod. Never had a house struck
since we began to offer this rod to the public. Positive fact. The
lightnin'll play all around a house with one of 'em and never touch
it. A thunder-storm that'd tear the bowels out of the American
continent would leave your house as safe as a polar bear in the middle
of an iceberg. Shall I run you one up?"

"I don't know," said Keyser, musingly.

"I'll put you up one cheap, and then you'll have somethin'
reliable--somethin' there's no discount on."

"You say the old rod was a fraud?"

"The deadliest fraud you ever heard of. It hadn't an ounce of platinum
within a mile of it. The man that sold it ought to be prosecuted, and
the fellow that put it up without insulators should be shot. It's too
bad the farmers should be gouged in this sort of way."

"And Bolt & Burnam's rod is not a fraud?"

"A fraud? Why, really, my dear sir, just cast your eye over Professor
Henry's letter and these certificates, and remember that we give a
_written guarantee_--a positive protection, of course."

"Just cast _your_ eye over that," said Keyser, handing him a piece of
paper.

"Well, upon my word! This is indeed somewhat--that is to say it is,
as it were--it looks--it looks a little like one of our own
certificates."

"Just so," said Keyser. "That old rod was one of Bolt & Burnam's. You
sold it to my son-in-law; you gave this certificate; you swore the
points were platinum, and your man put it up."

"Then I suppose we can't trade?"

"Well, I should think not," said Keyser. Whereupon the man mounted the
red wagon and moved on.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Benjamin P. Gunn, the life insurance agent, called upon Mr.
Butterwick, the following conversation ensued:

_Gunn_. "Mr. Butterwick, you have no insurance on your life, I
believe? I dropped in to see if I can't get you to go into our
company. We offer unparalleled inducements, and--"

_Butterwick_. "I don't want to insure."

_Gunn_. "The cost is just nothing worth speaking of; a mere trifle.
And then we pay enormous dividends, so that you have so much security
at such a little outlay that you can be perfectly comfortable and
happy."

_Butterwick_. "But I don't want to be comfortable and happy. I'm
trying to be miserable."

_Gunn_. "Now, look at this thing in a practical light. You've got to
die some time or other. That is a dreadful certainty to which we must
all look forward. It is fearful enough in any event, but how much more
so when a man knows that he leaves nothing behind him! We all shrink
from death, we all hate to think of it; the contemplation of it fills
us with awful dread; but reflect, what must be the feelings of the
man who enters the dark valley with the assurance that in a pecuniary
sense his life has been an utter failure? Think how--"

_Butterwick_. "Don't scare me a bit. I want to die; been wanting to
die for years. Rather die than live any time."

_Gunn_. "I say, think how wretched will be the condition of those dear
ones whom you leave behind you! Will not the tears of your heartbroken
widow be made more bitter by the poverty in which she is suddenly
plunged, and by the reflection that she is left to the charity of a
cold and heartless world. Will not--"

_Butterwick_. "I wouldn't leave her a cent if I had millions. It'll
do the old woman good to skirmish around for her living. Then she'll
appreciate me."

_Gunn_. "Your poor little children, too. Fatherless, orphaned, they
will have no one to fill their famished mouths with bread, no one to
protect them from harm. You die uninsured, and they enter a life of
suffering from the keen pangs of poverty. You insure in our company,
and they begin life with enough to feed and clothe them, and to raise
them above the reach of want."

_Butterwick_. "I don't want to raise them above the reach of want. I
want them to want. Best thing they can do is to tucker down to work as
I did"

_Gunn_. "Oh, Mr. Butterwick, try to take a higher view of the matter.
When you are an angel and you come back to revisit the scenes of
earth, will it not fill you with sadness to see your dear ones exposed
to the storm and the blast, to hunger and cold?"

_Butterwick_. "I'm not going to be an angel; and if I was, I wouldn't
come back."

_Gunn_. "You are a poor man now. How do you know that your family will
have enough when you are gone to pay your funeral expenses, to bury
you decently?"

_Butterwick_. "I don't want to be buried."

_Gunn_. "Perhaps Mrs. Butterwick will be so indignant at your neglect
that she will not mourn for you, that she will not shed a tear over
your bier."

_Butterwick_. "I don't want a bier, and I'd rather she wouldn't cry
any."

_Gunn_. "Well, then, s'posin' you go in on the endowment plan and take
a policy for five thousand dollars, to be paid you when you reach the
age of fifty?"

_Butterwick_. "I don't want five thousand dollars when I'm fifty. I
wouldn't take it if you were to fling it at me and pay me to take it."

_Gunn_. "I'm afraid, then, I'll have to say good-morning."

_Butterwick_. "I don't want you to say good-morning; you can go
without saying it."

_Gunn_. "I'll quit."

_Butterwick_. "Aha! now you've hit it! I _do_ want you to quit, and as
suddenly as you can."

Then Mr. Gunn left. He thinks he will hardly insure Butterwick.

[Illustration: FINIS]





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