“Beau” Caldwell was a sporting genius of an extremely versatile
character. Like all his fraternity, he was possessed of a pliancy of
adaptation to circumstances that enabled him to succumb with true
philosophy to misfortunes, and also to grace the more exalted sphere of
prosperity with that natural ease attributed to gentlemen with bloated
bank accounts.
Fertile in ingenuity and resources, Beau was rarely at his wit’s end for
that nest egg of the gambler, a stake. His providence, when in luck, was
such as to keep him continually on the _qui vive_ for a nucleus to build
upon.
Beau, having exhausted the pockets and liberality of his contemporaries
in Charleston, S.C., was constrained to “pitch his tent” in fresh
pastures. He therefore selected Abbeville, whither he was immediately
expedited by the agency of a “free pass.”
Snugly ensconced in his hotel, Beau ruminated over the means to raise the
“plate.” The bar-keeper was assailed, but he was discovered to have
scruples (anomalous barkeeper!) The landlord was a “grum wretch,” with
no soul for speculation. The cornered “sport” was finally reduced to the
alternative of “confidence of operation.” Having arranged his scheme, he
rented him a precious negro boy, and borrowed an old theodolite. Thus
equipped, Beau betook himself to the abode of a neighbouring planter,
notorious for his wealth, obstinacy, and ignorance. Operations were
commenced by sending the nigger into the planter’s barn-yard with a
flagpole. Beau got himself up into a charming tableau, directly in front
of the house. He now roared at the top of his voice,
“72,000,000—51—8—11.”
After which he went to driving small stakes, in a very promiscuous
manner, about the premises.
The planter hearing the shouting, and curious to ascertain the cause, put
his head out of the window.
“Now,” said Beau, again assuming his civil engineering _pose_, “go to the
right a little further—there, that’ll do. 47,000—92—5.”
“What the d---l are you doing in my barn-yard?” roared the planter.
Beau would not consent to answer this interrogation, but pursuing his
business, hallooed out to his “nigger”—
“Now go to the house, place your pole against the kitchen door,
higher—stop at that. 86—45—6.”
“I say there,” again vociferated the planter, “get out of my yard.”
“I’m afraid we will have to go right through the house,” soliloquized
Beau.
“I’m d--d if you do,” exclaimed the planter.
Beau now looked up for the first time, accosting the planter with a
courteous—
“Good day, sir.”
“Good d---l, sir; you are committing a trespass.”
“My dear friend,” replied Beau, “public duty, imperative—no
trespass—surveying railroad—State job—your house in the way. Must take
off one corner, sir,—the kitchen part—least value—leave the
parlour—delightful room to see the cars rush by twelve times a day—make
you accessible to market.”