FRESH START.
“Gone?” cried Euphemia, who, with myself, had been listening most
intently to Pomona's story.
“Yes,” continued Pomona, “she was gone. I give one jump out of bed
and felt the gases, but they was all right. But she was gone, an' her
clothes was gone. I dressed, as pale as death, I do expect, an' hurried
to Jone's room, an' he an' me an' the big man was all ready in no time
to go an' look for her. General Tom Thumb didn't seem very anxious, but
we made him hurry up an' come along with us. We couldn't afford to leave
him nowheres. The clerk down-stairs--a different one from the chap who
was there the night before--said that a middle-aged, elderly lady came
down about an hour before an' asked him to tell her the way to the
United States Bank, an' when he told her he didn't know of any such
bank, she jus' stared at him, an' wanted to know what he was put there
for. So he didn't have no more to say to her, an' she went out, an' he
didn't take no notice which way she went. We had the same opinion about
him that Mrs. Jackson had, but we didn't stop to tell him so. We hunted
up an' down the streets for an hour or more; we asked every policeman we
met if he'd seen her; we went to a police station; we did everything we
could think of, but no Mrs. Jackson turned up. Then we was so tired an'
hungry that we went into some place or other an' got our breakfast. When
we started out ag'in, we kep' on up one street an' down another, an'
askin' everybody who looked as if they had two grains of sense,--which
most of 'em didn't look as if they had mor'n one, an' that was in use
to get 'em to where they was goin.' At last, a little ways down a small
street, we seed a crowd, an' the minute we see it Jone an' me both
said in our inside hearts: 'There she is!' An' sure enough, when we got
there, who should we see, with a ring of street-loafers an' boys around
her, but Mrs. Andrew Jackson, with her little straw hat an' her green
carpet-slippers, a-dancin' some kind of a skippin' fandango, an'
a-holdin' out her skirts with the tips of her fingers. I was jus' agoin'
to rush in an' grab her when a man walks quick into the ring and touches
her on the shoulder. The minute I seed him I knowed him. It was our old
boarder!”
“It was?” exclaimed Euphemia.
“Yes it was truly him, an' I didn't want him to see me there in such
company, an' he most likely knowin' I was on my bridal-trip, an' so I
made a dive at my bonnet to see if I had a vail on; an' findin' one, I
hauled it down.
“'Madam,' says the boarder, very respectful, to Mrs. Jackson, 'where
do you live? Can't I take you home?' 'No, sir,' says she, 'at least not
now. If you have a carriage, you may come for me after a while. I am
waiting for the Bank of the United States to open, an' until which time
I must support myself on the light fantastic toe,' an' then she tuk
up her skirts, an' begun to dance ag'in. But she didn't make mor'n two
skips before I rushed in, an' takin' her by the arm hauled her out o'
the ring. An' then up comes the big man with his face as red as fire.
'Look' here!' says he to her, as if he was ready to eat her up. 'Did you
draw every cent of that money?' 'Not yet, not yet,' says she. 'You did,
you purse-proud cantalope,' says he. 'You know very well you did, an'
now I'd like to know where my ox-money is to come from.' But Jone an'
me didn't intend to wait for no sich talk as this, an' he tuk the man
by the arm, and I tuk the old woman, an' we jus' walked 'em off. The
boarder he told the loafers to get out an' go home, an' none of 'em
follered us, for they know'd if they did he'd a batted 'em over the
head. But he comes up alongside o' me, as I was a' walkin' behind with
Mrs. Jackson, an' says he: 'How d'ye do, Pomona?' I must say I felt as
if I could slip in between two flagstones, but as I couldn't get away, I
said I was pretty well. 'I heared you was on your bridal trip,' says he
ag'in; 'is this it?' It was jus' like him to know that, an' as there was
no help for it, I said it was. 'Is that your husband?' says he, pointin'
to Jone. 'Yes,' says I. 'It was very good in him to come along,' says
he. 'Is these two your groomsman and bridesmaid?' 'No sir,' says I.
'They're crazy.' 'No wonder,' says he. 'It's enough to drive 'em so, to
see you two,' an' then he went ahead an' shook hands with Jone, an' told
him he'd know'd me a long time; but he didn't say nuthin' about havin'
histed me out of a winder, for which I was obliged to him. An' then he
come back to me an' says he, 'Good-mornin', I must go to the office. I
hope you'll have a good time for the rest of your trip. If you happen
to run short o' lunertics, jus' let me know, and I'll furnish you with
another pair.' 'All right,' says I; 'but you mustn't bring your little
girl along.'
“He kinder laughed at this, as we walked away, an' then he turned
around an' come back, and says he, 'Have you been to any the-ay-ters, or
anything, since you've been in town?' 'No,' says I, 'not one.' 'Well,'
says he, 'you ought to go. Which do you like best, the the-ay-ter, the
cir-cus, or wild-beasts?' I did really like the the-ay-ter best, havin'
thought of bein' a play-actor, as you know, but I considered I'd better
let that kind o' thing slide jus' now, as bein' a little too romantic,
right after the 'sylum, an' so I says, 'I've been once to a circus, an'
once to a wild-beast garden, an' I like 'em both. I hardly know which I
like best--the roarin' beasts, a-prancin' about in their cages, with the
smell of blood an' hay, an' the towerin' elephants; or the horses, an'
the music, an' the gauzy figgers at the circus, an' the splendid knights
in armor an' flashin' pennants, all on fiery steeds, a-plungin' ag'in
the sides of the ring, with their flags a-flyin' in the grand entry,'
says I, real excited with what I remembered about these shows.
“'Well,' says he, 'I don't wonder at your feelin's. An' now, here's two
tickets for to-night, which you an' your husband can have, if you
like, for I can't go. They're to a meetin' of the Hudson County
Enter-mo-logical Society, over to Hoboken, at eight o'clock.'
“'Over to Hoboken!' says I; 'that's a long way.'
“'Oh no, it isn't,' says he. 'An' it wont cost you a cent, but the
ferry. They couldn't have them shows in the city, for, if the creatures
was to get loose, there's no knowin' what might happen. So take 'em, an'
have as much fun as you can for the rest of your trip. Good-bye!' An'
off he went.
“Well, we kep' straight on to the doctor's, an' glad we was when we got
there, an' mad he was when we lef' Mrs. Jackson an' the General on his
hands, for we wouldn't have no more to do with 'em, an' he couldn't help
undertaking' to see that they got back to the asylum. I thought at first
he wouldn't lift a finger to get us our trunk; but he cooled down after
a bit, an' said he hoped we'd try some different kind of institution for
the rest of our trip, which we said we thought we would.
“That afternoon we gawked around, a-lookin' at all the outside shows,
for Jone said he'd have to be pretty careful of his money now, an' he
was glad when I told him I had two free tickets in my pocket for a show
in the evenin.'
“As we was a-walkin' down to the ferry, after supper, says he:
“'Suppose you let me have a look at them tickets.'
“So I hands 'em to him. He reads one of 'em, and then he reads the
other, which he needn't 'a' done, for they was both alike, an' then he
turns to me, an' says he:
“'What kind of a man is your boarder-as-was?'
“It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to say jus' what he was, but I
give Jone the idea, in a general sort of way, that he was pretty lively.
“'So I should think,' says he. 'He's been tryin' a trick on us, and
sendin' us to the wrong place. It's rather late in the season for a show
of the kind, but the place we ought to go to is a potato-field.'
“'What on earth are you talkin' about?' says I, dumbfoundered.
“'Well,' says he, 'it's a trick he's been playin'. He thought a bridal
trip like ours ought to have some sort of a outlandish wind-up, an' so
he sent us to this place, which is a meetin' of chaps who are agoin'
to talk about insec's,--principally potato-bugs, I expec'--an' anything
stupider than that, I s'pose your boarder-as-was couldn't think of,
without havin' a good deal o' time to consider.'
“'It's jus' like him,' says I. 'Let's turn round and go back,' which we
did, prompt.
“We gave the tickets to a little boy who was sellin' papers, but I don't
believe he went.
“'Now then,' says Jone, after he'd been thinkin' awhile, 'there'll be no
more foolin' on this trip. I've blocked out the whole of the rest of it,
an' we'll wind up a sight better than that boarder-as-was has any idea
of. To-morrow we'll go to father's an' if the old gentleman has got any
money on the crops, which I expec' he has, by this time, I'll take up
a part o' my share, an' we'll have a trip to Washington, an' see the
President, an' Congress, an' the White House, an' the lamp always
a-burnin' before the Supreme Court, an'--'
“'Don't say no more, says I, 'it's splendid!'
“So, early the nex' day, we goes off jus' as fast as trains would take
us to his father's, an' we hadn't been there mor'n ten minutes, before
Jone found out he had been summoned on a jury.
“'When must you go?' says I, when he come, lookin' a kind o' pale, to
tell me this.
“'Right off,' says he. 'The court meets this mornin'. If I don't hurry
up, I'll have some of 'em after me. But I wouldn't cry about it. I don't
believe the case'll last more'n a day.'
“The old man harnessed up an' took Jone to the court-house, an' I went
too, for I might as well keep up the idea of a bridal-trip as not. I
went up into the gallery, and Jone, he was set among the other men in
the jury-box.
“The case was about a man named Brown, who married the half-sister of a
man named Adams, who afterward married Brown's mother, and sold Brown
a house he had got from Brown's grandfather, in trade for half a
grist-mill, which the other half of was owned by Adams's half-sister's
first husband, who left all his property to a soup society, in trust,
till his son should come of age, which he never did, but left a will
which give his half of the mill to Brown, and the suit was between Brown
and Adams and Brown again, and Adams's half-sister, who was divorced
from Brown, and a man named Ramsey, who had put up a new over-shot wheel
to the grist-mill.”
“Oh my!” exclaimed Euphemia. “How could you remember all that?”
“I heard it so often, I couldn't help remembering it,” replied Pomona.
And she went on with her narrative.
“That case wasn't a easy one to understand, as you may see for
yourselves, and it didn't get finished that day. They argyed over it a
full week. When there wasn't no more witnesses to carve up, one lawyer
made a speech, an' he set that crooked case so straight, that you
could see through it from the over-shot wheel clean back to Brown's
grandfather. Then another feller made a speech, and he set the whole
thing up another way. It was jus' as clear, to look through, but it was
another case altogether, no more like the other one than a apple-pie is
like a mug o' cider. An' then they both took it up, an' they swung it
around between them, till it was all twisted an' knotted an' wound up,
an' tangled, worse than a skein o' yarn in a nest o' kittens, an' then
they give it to the jury.
“Well, when them jurymen went out, there wasn't none of 'em, as Jone
tole me afterward, as knew whether is was Brown or Adams as was dead,
or whether the mill was to grind soup, or to be run by soup-power. Of
course they couldn't agree; three of 'em wanted to give a verdict for
the boy that died, two of 'em was for Brown's grandfather, an' the rest
was scattered, some goin' in for damages to the witnesses, who ought to
get somethin' for havin' their char-ac-ters ruined. Jone he jus' held
back, ready to jine the other eleven as soon as they'd agree. But they
couldn't do it, an' they was locked up three days and four nights. You'd
better believe I got pretty wild about it, but I come to court every day
an' waited an' waited, bringin' somethin' to eat in a baskit.
“One day, at dinner-time, I seed the judge astandin' at the court-room
door, a-wipin' his forrid with a handkerchief, an' I went up to him an'
said, 'Do you think, sir, they'll get through this thing soon?'
“'I can't say, indeed,' said he. 'Are you interested in the case?'
“'I should think I was,' said I, an' then I told him about Jone's bein'
a juryman, an' how we was on our bridal-trip.
“'You've got my sympathy, madam,' says he, 'but it's a difficult case to
decide, an' I don't wonder it takes a good while.'
“'Nor I nuther,' says I, 'an' my opinion about these things is, that if
you'd jus' have them lawyers shut up in another room, an' make 'em do
their talkin' to theirselves, the jury could keep their minds clear, and
settle the cases in no time.'
“'There's some sense in that, madam,' says he, an' then he went into
court ag'in.
“Jone never had no chance to jine in with the other fellers, for they
couldn't agree, an' they were all discharged, at last. So the whole
thing went for nuthin.
“When Jone come out, he looked like he'd been drawn through a pump-log,
an' he says to me, tired-like,
“'Has there been a frost?'
“'Yes,' says I, 'two of 'em.'
“'All right, then,' says he. 'I've had enough of bridal-trips, with
their dry falls, their lunatic asylums, and their jury-boxes. Let's
go home and settle down. We needn't be afraid, now that there's been a
frost.'”
“Oh, why will you live in such a dreadful place?” cried Euphemia. “You
ought to go somewhere where you needn't be afraid of chills.”
“That's jus' what I thought, ma'am,” returned Pomona. “But Jone an' me
got a disease-map of this country an' we looked all over it careful, an'
wherever there wasn't chills there was somethin' that seemed a good deal
wuss to us. An' says Jone, 'If I'm to have anything the matter with me,
give me somethin' I'm used to. It don't do for a man o' my time o' life
to go changin' his diseases.'”
“So home we went. An' there we is now. An' as this is the end of the
bridal-trip story, I'll go an' take a look at the cow an' the chickens
an' the horse, if you don't mind.”
Which we didn't,--and we gladly went with her over the estate.