sent to watch them, that spoke. So I paid the money, but as I went out
I heard the auctioneer say that the sale was closed for the day. I
afterwards learned that if I had allowed them to put the watch in a box,
they would have exchanged it for another that was only plated.”
“Do you know anybody in the city?” asked Paul.
“I've got some relations, but I don't know where they live.”
“What is the name?” asked Paul, “we can look into the directory.”
“The name is Dawkins,” answered the pedler.
“Dawkins!” repeated Paul, in surprise.
“Yes, do you happen to know anybody of the name?”
“Yes, but I believe it is a rich family.”
“Well, so are my relations,” said Jehoshaphat. “You didn't think
Jehoshaphat Stubbs had any rich relations, did you? These, as I've heard
tell, hold their heads as high as anybody.”
“Perhaps I may be mistaken,” said Paul.
“What is the name--the Christian name, I mean--of your relation?”
“George.”
“It must be he, then. There is a boy of about my own age of that name.
He works in the same office.”
“You don't say so! Well, that is curious, I declare. To think that I
should have happened to hit upon you so by accident too.”
“How are you related to them?” inquired Paul.
“Why, you see, I'm own cousin to Mr. Dawkins. His father and my mother
were brother and sister.”
“What was his father's business?” asked Paul.
“I don't know what his regular business was, but he was a sexton in some
church.”
This tallied with the account Paul had received from Mr. Cameron, and
he could no longer doubt that, strange as it seemed, the wealthy Mr.
Dawkins was own cousin to the pedler.
“Didn't you say the boy was in the same office with you, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I've a great mind to go and see him, and find out where his
father lives. Perhaps I may get an invite to his house.”
“How shocked Dawkins will be!” thought Paul, not, it must be confessed,
without a feeling of amusement. He felt no compunction in being the
instrument of mortifying the false pride of his fellow clerk, and
he accordingly signified to Mr. Stubbs that he was on his way to the
counting-room.
“Are you, though? Well, I guess I'll go along with you. Is it far off?”
“Only in the next street.”
The pedler, it must be acknowledged, had a thoroughly countrified
appearance. He was a genuine specimen of the Yankee,--a long, gaunt
figure, somewhat stooping, and with a long aquiline nose. His dress has
already been described.
As Dawkins beheld him entering with Paul, he turned up his nose in
disgust at what he considered Paul's friend.
What was his consternation when the visitor, approaching him with
a benignant smile, extended his brown hand, and said, “How d'ye do,
George? How are ye all to hum?”
Dawkins drew back haughtily.
“What do you mean?” he said, pale with passion.
“Mr. Dawkins,” said Paul, with suppressed merriment, “allow me to
introduce your cousin, Mr. Stubbs.”
“Jehoshaphat Stubbs,” explained that individual. “Didn't your father
never mention my name to you?”
“Sir,” said Dawkins, darting a furious glance at Paul, “you are entirely
mistaken if you suppose that any relationship exists between me and
that--person.”
“No, it's you that are mistaken,” said Mr. Stubbs, persevering, “My
mother was Roxana Jane Dawkins. She was own sister to your grandfather.
That makes me and your father cousins Don't you see?”
“I see that you are intending to insult me,” said Dawkins, the more
furiously, because he began to fear there might be some truth in the
man's claims. “Mr. Prescott, I leave you to entertain your company
yourself.”
And he threw on his hat and dashed out of the counting-room.
“Well,” said the pedler, drawing a long breath, “that's cool,--denyin'
his own flesh and blood. Rather stuck up, ain't he?”
“He is, somewhat,” said Paul; “if I were you, I shouldn't be disposed to
own him as a relation.”
“Darned ef I will!” said Jehoshaphat sturdily; “I have some pride, ef I
am a pedler. Guess I'm as good as he, any day.”
XXVII.
MR. MUDGE'S FRIGHT.
Squire Newcome sat in a high-backed chair before the fire with his heels
on the fender. He was engaged in solemnly perusing the leading editorial
in the evening paper, when all at once the table at his side gave a
sudden lurch, the lamp slid into his lap, setting the paper on fire,
and, before the Squire realized his situation, the flames singed his
whiskers, and made his face unpleasantly warm.
“Cre-a-tion!” he exclaimed, jumping briskly to his feet.
The lamp had gone out, so that the cause of the accident remained
involved in mystery. The Squire had little trouble in conjecturing,
however, that Ben was at the bottom of it.
Opening the door hastily, he saw, by the light in the next room, that
young gentleman rising from his knees in the immediate vicinity of the
table.
“Ben-ja-min,” said the Squire, sternly,
“What have you been a-doing?”
Ben looked sheepish, but said nothing.
“I repeat, Benjamin, what have you been a-doing?”
“I didn't mean to,” said Ben.
“That does not answer my interrogatory. What have you been a-doing?”
“I was chasing the cat,” said Ben, “and she got under the table. I
went after her, and somehow it upset. Guess my head might have knocked
against the legs.”
“How old are you, Benjamin?”
“Fifteen.”
“A boy of fifteen is too old to play with cats. You may retire to your
dormitory.”
“It's only seven o'clock, father,” said Ben, in dismay.
“Boys that play with cats are young enough to retire at seven,” remarked
the Squire, sagaciously.
There was nothing for Ben but to obey.
Accordingly with reluctant steps he went up to his chamber and went
to bed. His active mind, together with the early hour, prevented his
sleeping. Instead, his fertile imagination was employed in devising
some new scheme, in which, of course, fun was to be the object attained.
While he was thinking, one scheme flashed upon him which he at once
pronounced “bully.”
“I wish I could do it to-night,” he sighed.
“Why can't I?” he thought, after a moment's reflection.
The more he thought of it, the more feasible it seemed, and at length he
decided to attempt it.
Rising from his bed he quickly dressed himself, and then carefully took
the sheet, and folding it up in small compass put it under his arm.
Next, opening the window, he stepped out upon the sloping roof of the
ell part, and slid down to the end where he jumped off, the height not
being more than four feet from the ground. By some accident, a tub of
suds was standing under the eaves, and Ben, much to his disgust, jumped
into it.
“Whew!” exclaimed he, “I've jumped into that plaguy tub. What possessed
Hannah to put it in a fellow's way?”
At this moment the back door opened, and Hannah called out, in a shrill
voice, “Who's there?” Ben hastily hid himself, and thought it best not
to answer.
“I guess 'twas the cat,” said Hannah, as she closed the door.
“A two-legged cat,” thought Ben, to himself; “thunder, what sopping wet
feet I've got. Well, it can't be helped.”
With the sheet still under his arm, Ben climbed a fence and running
across the fields reached the fork of the road. Here he concealed
himself under a hedge, and waited silently till the opportunity for
playing his practical joke arrived.
I regret to say that Mr. Mudge, with whom we have already had
considerable to do, was not a member of the temperance society.
Latterly, influenced perhaps by Mrs. Mudge's tongue, which made his home
far from a happy one, he had got into the habit of spending his
evenings at the tavern in the village, where he occasionally indulged
in potations that were not good for him. Generally, he kept within the
bounds of moderation, but occasionally he exceeded these, as he had done
on the present occasion.
Some fifteen minutes after Ben had taken his station, he saw, in the
moonlight, Mr. Mudge coming up the road, on his way home. Judging from
his zigzag course, he was not quite himself.
Ben waited till Mr. Mudge was close at hand, when all at once he started
from his place of concealment completely enveloped in the sheet with
which he was provided. He stood motionless before the astounded Mudge.
“Who are you?” exclaimed Mudge, his knees knocking together in terror,
clinging to an overhanging branch for support.
There was no answer.
“Who are you?” he again asked in affright.
“Sally Baker,” returned Ben, in as sepulchral a voice as he could
command.
Sally Baker was an old pauper, who had recently died. The name occurred
to Ben on the spur of the moment. It was with some difficulty that he
succeeded in getting out the name, such was his amusement at Mr. Mudge's
evident terror.
“What do you want of me?” inquired Mudge, nervously.
“You half starved me when I was alive,” returned Ben, in a hollow voice,
“I must be revenged.”
So saying he took one step forward, spreading out his arms. This was too
much for Mr. Mudge. With a cry he started and ran towards home at the
top of his speed, with Ben in pursuit.
“I believe I shall die of laughing,” exclaimed Ben, pausing out of
breath, and sitting down on a stone, “what a donkey he is, to be sure,
to think there are such things as ghosts. I'd like to be by when he
tells Mrs. Mudge.”
After a moment's thought, Ben wrapped up the sheet, took it under his
arm, and once more ran in pursuit of Mr. Mudge.
Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge was sitting in the kitchen of the Poorhouse,
mending stockings. She was not in the pleasantest humor, for one of the
paupers had managed to break a plate at tea-table (if that can be called
tea where no tea is provided), and trifles were sufficient to ruffle
Mrs. Mudge's temper.
“Where's Mudge, I wonder?” she said, sharply; “over to the tavern, I
s'pose, as usual. There never was such a shiftless, good-for-nothing
man. I'd better have stayed unmarried all the days of my life than have
married him. If he don't get in by ten, I'll lock the door, and it shall
stay locked. 'Twill serve him right to stay out doors all night.”
Minutes slipped away, and the decisive hour approached.
“I'll go to the door and look out,” thought Mrs. Mudge, “if he ain't
anywhere in sight I'll fasten the door.”
She laid down her work and went to the door.
She had not quite reached it when it was flung open violently, and Mr.
Mudge, with a wild, disordered look, rushed in, nearly overturning his
wife, who gazed at him with mingled anger and astonishment.
“What do you mean by this foolery, Mudge?” she demanded, sternly.
“What do I mean?” repeated her husband, vaguely.
“I needn't ask you,” said his wife, contemptuously. “I see how it is,
well enough. You're drunk!”
“Drunk!”
“Yes, drunk; as drunk as a beast.”
“Well, Mrs. Mudge,” hiccoughed her husband, in what he endeavored to
make a dignified tone, “you'd be drunk too if you'd seen what I've
seen.”
“And what have you seen, I should like to know?” said Mrs. Mudge.
Mudge rose with some difficulty, steadied himself on his feet, and
approaching his wife, whispered in a tragic tone, “Mrs. Mudge, I've seen
a sperrit.”
“It's plain enough that you've seen spirit,” retorted his wife. “'Tisn't
many nights that you don't, for that matter. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself, Mudge.”
“It isn't that,” said her husband, shaking his hand, “it's a sperrit,--a
ghost, that I've seen.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically, “perhaps you can tell whose it
is.”
“It was the sperrit of Sally Baker,” said Mudge, solemnly.
“What did she say?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, a little curiously.
“She said that I--that we, half starved her, and then she started to run
after me--and--oh, Lordy, there she is now!”
Mudge jumped trembling to his feet. Following the direction of his
outstretched finger, Mrs. Mudge caught a glimpse of a white figure
just before the window. I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had just
arrived upon the scene.
Mrs. Mudge was at first stupefied by what she saw, but being a woman
of courage she speedily recovered herself, and seizing the broom
from behind the door, darted out in search of the “spirit.” But Ben,
perceiving that he was discovered, had disappeared, and there was
nothing to be seen.
“Didn't I tell you so?” muttered Mudge, as his wife re-entered, baffled
in her attempt, “you'll believe it's a sperrit, now.”
“Go to bed, you fool!” retorted his wife.
This was all that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Mudge on the subject. Mr.
Mudge firmly believes, to this day, that the figure which appeared to
him was the spirit of Sally Baker.
XXVIII.
HOW BEN GOT HOME.
Delighted with the complete success of his practical joke, Ben took his
way homeward with the sheet under his arm. By the time he reached his
father's house it was ten o'clock. The question for Ben to consider now
was, how to get in. If his father had not fastened the front door he
might steal in, and slip up stairs on tiptoe without being heard.
This would be the easiest way of overcoming the difficulty, and Ben,
perceiving that the light was still burning in the sitting-room, had
some hopes that he would be able to adopt it. But while he was only
a couple of rods distant he saw the lamp taken up by his father, who
appeared to be moving from the room.
“He's going to lock the front door,” thought Ben, in disappointment; “if
I had only got along five minutes sooner.”
From his post outside he heard the key turn in the lock.
The 'Squire little dreamed that the son whom he imagined fast asleep in
his room was just outside the door he was locking.
“I guess I'll go round to the back part of the house,” thought Ben,
“perhaps I can get in the same way I came out.”
Accordingly he went round and managed to clamber upon the roof, which
was only four feet from the ground. But a brief trial served to convince
our young adventurer that it is a good deal easier sliding down a roof
than it is climbing up. The shingles being old were slippery, and though
the ascent was not steep, Ben found the progress he made was very much
like that of a man at the bottom of a well, who is reported as falling
back two feet for every three that he ascended. What increased the
difficulty of his attempt was that the soles of his shoes were well
worn, and slippery as well as the shingles.
“I never can get up this way,” Ben concluded, after several fruitless
attempts; “I know what I'll do,” he decided, after a moment's
perplexity; “I'll pull off my shoes and stockings, and then I guess I
can get along better.”
Ben accordingly got down from the roof, and pulled off his shoes and
stockings. As he wanted to carry these with him, he was at first
a little puzzled by this new difficulty. He finally tied the shoes
together by the strings and hung them round his neck. He disposed of the
stockings by stuffing one in each pocket.
“Now,” thought Ben, “I guess I can get along better. I don't know what
to do with the plaguy sheet, though.”
But necessity is the mother of invention, and Ben found that he could
throw the sheet over his shoulders, as a lady does with her shawl. Thus
accoutered he recommenced the ascent with considerable confidence.
He found that his bare feet clung to the roof more tenaciously than
the shoes had done, and success was already within his grasp, when an
unforeseen mishap frustrated his plans. He had accomplished about three
quarters of the ascent when all at once the string which united the
shoes which he had hung round his neck gave way, and both fell with a
great thump on the roof. Ben made a clutch for them in which he lost his
own hold, and made a hurried descent in their company, alighting with
his bare feet on some flinty gravel stones, which he found by no means
agreeable.
“Ow!” ejaculated Ben, limping painfully, “them plaguy gravel stones
hurt like thunder. I'll move 'em away the first thing to-morrow. If that
confounded shoe-string hadn't broken I'd have been in bed by this time.”
Meanwhile Hannah had been sitting over the kitchen fire enjoying a
social chat with a “cousin” of hers from Ireland, a young man whom
she had never seen or heard of three months before. In what way he had
succeeded in convincing her of the relationship I have never been able
to learn, but he had managed to place himself on familiar visiting terms
with the inmate of 'Squire Newcome's kitchen.
“It's only me cousin, sir,” Hannah explained to the 'Squire, when he
had questioned her on the subject; “he's just from Ireland, sir, and it
seems like home to see him.”
On the present occasion Tim Flaherty had outstayed his usual time, and
was still in the kitchen when Ben reached home. They did not at first
hear him, but when he made his last abortive attempt, and the shoes came
clattering down, they could not help hearing.
“What's that?” asked Hannah, listening attentively.
She went to the door to look out, her cousin following.
There was nothing to be seen.
“Perhaps you was dramin' Hannah,” said Tim, “more by token, it's time we
was both doin' that same, so I'll bid you good-night.”
“Come again soon, Tim,” said Hannah, preparing to close the door.
A new plan of entrance flashed upon Ben.
He quickly put on his shoes and stockings, unfolded the sheet and
prepared to enact the part of a ghost once more,--this time for the
special benefit of Hannah.
After fully attiring himself he came to the back door which Hannah had
already locked, and tapped three times.
Hannah was engaged in raking out the kitchen fire.
“Sure it's Tim come back,” thought she, as she went to the door.
“Perhaps he's forgotten something.”
She opened the door unsuspiciously, fully expecting to see her Irish
cousin standing before her.
What was her terror on beholding a white-robed figure, with extended
arms.
“Howly virgin, defend me!” she exclaimed, in paralyzing terror, which
was increased by a guttural sound which proceeded from the throat of
the ghost, who at the same time waved his arms aloft, and made a step
towards Hannah.
Hannah, with a wild howl dropped the lamp and fed towards the
sitting-room, where 'Squire Newcome was still sitting.
Ben sped upstairs at the top of his speed, dashed into his own chamber,
spread the sheet on the bed, and undressed so rapidly that he seemed
only to shake his clothes off, and jumped into bed. He closed his eyes
and appeared to be in a profound slumber.
Hannah's sudden appearance in the sitting-room in such a state naturally
astonished the 'Squire.
“What's the matter?” he demanded of the affrighted servant.
“Oh, sir,” she gasped, “I'm almost kilt entirely.”
“Are you?” said the 'Squire, “you appear to be more frightened than
hurt.”
“Yes, sir, shure I am frightened, which indeed I couldn't help it, sir,
for I never saw a ghost before in all my life.”
“A ghost! What nonsense are you talking, Hannah?”
“Shure it's not nonsense, for it's just now that the ghost came to the
door, sir, and knocked, and I went to the door thinking it might be me
cousin, who's been passing the evening with me, when I saw a great white
ghost, ten foot tall, standing forninst me.”
“Ten feet tall?”
“Yes, sir, and he spread out his arms and spoke in a terrible voice, and
was going to carry me off wid him, but I dropped the lamp, and O sir,
I'm kilt entirely.”
“This is a strange story,” said 'Squire Newcome, rather suspiciously; “I
hope you have not been drinking.”
Hannah protested vehemently that not a drop of liquor had passed her
lips, which was true.
“I'll go out and hunt for the ghost,” said the 'Squire.
“Oh, don't sir. He'll carry you off,” said Hannah, terrified.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the 'Squire. “Follow me, or you may stay here if
you are frightened.”
This Hannah would by no means do, since the 'Squire had taken the lamp
and she would be left in the dark.
Accordingly she followed him with a trembling step, as he penetrated
through the kitchen into the back room, ready to run at the least alarm.
The back-door was wide open, but nothing was to be seen of the ghost.
“Perhaps the ghost's up-stairs,” said Hannah, “I can't sleep up there
this night, shure.”
But something had attracted Squire Newcome's attention. It was quite
muddy out of doors, and Ben had tracked in considerable mud with him.
The footprints were very perceptible on the painted floor.
“The ghost seems to have had muddy shoes,” said the 'Squire dryly; “I
guess I can find him.”
He followed the tracks which witnessed so strongly against Ben, to whose
chamber they led.
Ben, though still awake, appeared to be in a profound slumber.
“Ben-ja-min!” said his father, stooping over the bed.
There was no answer.
“Ben-ja-min!” repeated his father, giving him a shake, “what does all
this mean?”
“What?” inquired Ben, opening his eyes, and looking very innocent.
“Where have you been, to-night?”
“You sent me to bed,” said Ben, “and I came.”
But the 'Squire was not to be deceived. He was already in possession
of too much information to be put off. So Ben, who with all his love
of mischief was a boy of truth, finally owned up everything. His father
said very little, but told him the next morning that he had made up his
mind to send him to a military boarding-school, where the discipline was
very strict. Ben hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry, but finally,
as boys like change and variety, came to look upon his new prospects
with considerable cheerfulness.
XXIX.
DAWKINS IN DIFFICULTIES.
George Dawkins was standing at his desk one morning, when a man entered
the office, and stepping up to him, unceremoniously tapped him on the
shoulder.
Dawkins turned. He looked extremely annoyed on perceiving his visitor,
whose outward appearance was certainly far from prepossessing. His face
exhibited unmistakable marks of dissipation, nor did the huge breast
pin and other cheap finery which he wore conceal the fact of his intense
vulgarity. His eyes were black and twinkling, his complexion very dark,
and his air that of a foreigner. He was, in fact, a Frenchman, though
his language would hardly have betrayed him, unless, as sometimes, he
chose to interlard his discourse with French phrases.
“How are you this morning, my friend?” said the newcomer.
“What are you here for?” asked Dawkins, roughly.
“That does not seem to me a very polite way of receiving your friends.”
“Friends!” retorted Dawkins, scornfully, “who authorized you to call
yourself my friend?”
“Creditor, then, if it will suit you better, mon ami.”
“Hush,” said Dawkins, in an alarmed whisper, “he will hear,” here he
indicated Paul with his finger.
“And why should I care? I have no secrets from the young man.”
“Stop, Duval,” exclaimed Dawkins, in an angry whisper, “Leave the office
at once. Your appearing here will injure me.”
“But I am not your friend; why should I care?” sneered Duval.
“Listen to reason. Leave me now, and I will meet you when and where you
will.”
“Come, that sounds better.”
“Now go. I'm afraid Mr. Danforth will be in.”
“If he comes, introduce me.”
Dawkins would like to have knocked the fellow over.
“Name your place and time, and be quick about it,” said he impatiently.
“Eight o'clock this evening, you know where,” was the answer.
“Very well. Good-morning.”
“Mind you bring some money.”
“Good-morning,” returned Dawkins, angrily.
At length, much to his relief, Duval left the office. Dawkins stole a
side glance at Paul, to see what impression the interview had made upon
him, but our hero, who had overheard some portions of the dialogue,
perceiving that Dawkins wished it to be private, took as little notice
of the visitor as possible. He could not help thinking, however, that
Duval was a man whose acquaintance was likely to be of little benefit to
his fellow clerk.
Throughout the day Dawkins appeared unusually nervous, and made several
blunders which annoyed Mr. Danforth. Evidently he had something on his
mind. Not to keep the reader in suspense, George had fallen among bad
companions, where he had learned both to drink and to gamble. In this
way he had made the acquaintance of Duval, an unscrupulous sharper, who
had contrived to get away all his ready money, and persuading him to
play longer in the hope of making up his losses had run him into debt
one hundred and fifty dollars. Dawkins gave him an acknowledgment of
indebtedness to that amount. This of course placed him in Duval's power,
since he knew of no means of raising such a sum. He therefore kept out
of the Frenchman's way, avoiding the old haunts where he would have been
likely to meet him. Dawkins supposed Duval ignorant of the whereabouts
of his employer's counting-room. So he had been, but he made it his
business to ascertain where it was. He had no idea of losing sight of so
valuable a prize.