The shooting of the grocery man at Appleton, by the man to whom he
presented a bill, reminds us of the only grocery man we ever maimed for
presenting a bill. His name was Smith, and he lived at La Crosse. We
presume there have been meaner men built than this man Smith was at that
time, though how it could be possible we cannot see. We had run up quite
a bill at his grocery, and were willing to keep trading right along, but
somehow he got wormy, and said that this thing had to stop.
We told him we never traded with him because we wanted his goods, but
just to give him the benefit of our society, and we pointed out to him
the injury it would be to his business to have us quit trading at his
store. We told him that people would think that he had cheated us, and
they would not come there any more. He said he knew it would be pretty
tough, but he would try and struggle along under it.
Well, there was no use arguing, and finally by helping him do his chores
we got the bill all paid but a dollar and a half, and then he began his
persecutions. He called us a baldheaded old catamaran. He would follow
us into a saloon, when some one treated, and take our glass of beer,
and say he would give us credit on account. He would catch our dog and
propose to cut a piece of his tail off, and give us credit at so much an
inch.
He would meet us coming out of church, and right before folks he would
ask us to go down to the brewery and play pedro. He would say he would
come up to our house for dinner some time, and everything wicked. One
day we stopped at his store to enjoy his society, and eat crackers and
cheese--for be it known we never took offence at him, in fact we sort of
liked the old cuss--when he told us to take a seat and talk it over.
We sat down on a cracker box that had bees wax on it, and after a heated
discussion on finances, found that we had melted about two pounds of wax
on our trousers, and Smith insisted on charging it up to us. This was
the last hair, and when he called us a diabolical, hot-headed guthoogen
our warm southern blood began to boil. We seized a codfish that had been
hanging in front of the store until it had become as hard and sharp as a
cleaver, and we struck him.
The sharp edge of the codfish struck him on the second joint of the
forefinger, and cut the finger off as clean as it could have been done
with a razor.
He said that settled it, and he gave us a receipt in full, and ever
afterwards we were firm friends.
One thing he insists on, even now, and that is in telling people who
ask him how he lost his finger, that he wore it off rubbing out seven-up
marks on a table while playing pedro.
He is now trying to lead a different life, being city clerk of La
Crosse, but this article will remind him of old times, and he can
remember with what an air of injured innocence we wiped the blood off
that codfish and hung it up for a sign, and how Smith sold it the next
day to Frank Hatch for a liver pad. No, thank you, we don't drink.