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 _debris_ 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 Caesar. 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 Caesar! 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.”