DIAMOND CUT--PASTE.
Elihu Joslin belonged to that class of knaves who are cowardly as well
as unscrupulous. He never hesitated to cheat where he had an
opportunity, trusting to his powers of blustering and browbeating to
sustain him. When these failed, that is, when he encountered persons who
were not imposed on nor intimidated by his swaggering, bullying mien, he
showed his craven nature by an abject submission. From being an errand
boy in an old-established paper house in the city, he had himself become
the proprietor of a large business in the same line. He had but a single
idea--to make money. And he did make it. His reputation among the trade
was very bad. But this did not, as it ought to have done, put him out of
the pale of business negotiations. Every merchant knows that there are
many rich men in business, whose acts of dishonesty and whose tricks
form a subject of conversation and anecdote with their associates in
trade, yet who are not only tolerated, but are by some actually courted.
Joslin, when quite a young man, had been the assignee of his employer,
who hoped to find in him a pliant tool. He soon found his mistake. He
had put himself completely in the power of his clerk, and the latter
took full advantage of it. The result was, his principal was beggared,
and Joslin rose on his ruins.
It was a favorite practice with Joslin to discover men who were short of
money, lend them what they wanted, and thus, after a while, get control
of all they possessed. When Joslin first met Mr. Burns, he hoped to
entangle him as he had his friend. But the former was too good a
merchant and in too sound a position to be brought in this way into his
toils. He was therefore obliged to have recourse to sheer knavery to
compass his object. The fact of Mr. Burns living so far from the city,
the great expense which would be entailed on him by a litigation, and
the natural repugnance he thought Mr. Burns would have to a lawsuit,
emboldened him to employ the most high-handed measures to cheat him. The
fact was, Mr. Burns's paper had become well known in the market, and
commanded a ready sale. The manufacture was even--the texture firm and
hard. There was a continually increasing demand for it. Joslin
determined on--even for him--some audacious strokes. He sent a lot of
the paper to an obscure auctioneer, one of his tools, and had it bid off
in the name of a young man in his store. He thereupon reported the
entire consignment to be unsalable, and credited Mr. Burns with the
whole lot at the auction prices, less expenses. In this way he claimed
to have no funds when Mr. Burns's drafts became due, and called on the
latter for the ready money. The previous consignment he pretended to
have sold in the city, at a time when paper was much lower than usual,
but he had returned for this the then market price. Really he had not
sold the paper at all. Knowing it was about to rise, he simply reported
a sale, and kept the paper on hand to take advantage of the market, and
he was now selling it at an advance of ten per cent, on the previous
rates.
Mr. Burns had never before encountered so desperate a knave. As we have
said, the affair troubled him greatly. True, he was determined to
investigate it thoroughly, but he could not well afford the time to go
himself to New York. His chief man at the paper mill had failed to
accomplish anything; so it was a great relief when Hiram volunteered his
services. Mr. Burns could not tell why, but he had a singular confidence
that Hiram would bring the matter out right. He was up to see his
confidential clerk off in the stage, which passed through Burnsville
before daylight, and which was to call at the office for its passenger.
From that office a light could be seen glimmering as early as three
o'clock. Hiram, after an hour or two in bed, where he did not close his
eyes, had risen, and taking his valise in his hand, had gone to the
office, and was again deep in the accounts. He would make memorandums
from time to time, and at last wrote a brief note to Mr. Burns, asking
him to send forward by the first mail a full power of attorney. At
length the stage horn was heard. Hiram rose, opened his valise, and
placed his papers within it. The stage wheeled rapidly round the corner,
and drew up at the office door; Hiram extinguished the light, seized his
valise, stepped quietly out, and was in the act of turning the key--he
had a duplicate--when Mr. Burns arrived.
'I thought,' he said, 'I would see you off. You will have a fine day,
and reach New Haven in ample time for the boat.'
'I have left a brief note on your table,' responded Hiram, 'to ask for a
power of attorney. I think it may be important.'
'You shall have it. Good luck to you. Write me how you get along.
Good-by.'
He shook Hiram's hand with an enthusiasm which belonged to his nature.
The latter extended his cold, dry palm to his employer, and said, 'Good
morning, sir,' and got inside. He did not in the least enter into Mr.
Burns's cheerful, sympathizing spirit. If the truth must be told, he had
not the slightest sympathy for him; neither did any desire to extricate
him from this awkward business induce the present adventure. He cared no
more for Mr. Burns than he did for Mr. Joslin. But he did enjoy the idea
of meeting that knave and circumventing him. It was the pleasantest
'duty' he ever had undertaken. On it his whole thoughts were centred.
What did he care whether the day was fair or foul--whether the roads
were good or bad? He longed to get to work at Joslin.
The stage door closed, and the vehicle rolled swiftly away. Mr. Burns
stood a moment looking after it. He had felt the entire absence of
responsive sympathy in his clerk, and his old feeling returned, as it
invariably did at times. He walked slowly toward his house.
'Why is it that I so often wish I was rid of that fellow, when he serves
me so effectually?'
Mr. Burns turned before entering, and cast his eyes over the horizon.
Daylight was just streaking the sky from the east. Joel Burns paused,
and directed his glance over the town--the town he had founded and made
to flourish. Tears stood in his eyes. Wherefore? He was thinking of the
time when, after Mr. Bellows's death, he had, step by step, carefully
travelled over this locality, while laying plans for his future career.
Here--just here--he had marked four trees to indicate the site for his
house, and here he had built it.
'Oh, Sarah, why had you to leave me?'
The words, uttered audibly, recalled him to himself. He opened and
passed through the gate, and stepped on the piazza.
'Is that you, father?' It was his daughter's voice. He looked up and saw
her at the window. 'I heard you go out, and I have been watching for you
ever since. Did Mr. Meeker get off?'
'Yes.'
'Wait, father, and I will come down and take a walk with you. Wouldn't
you like it?'
'Yes, dear, very much.'
They walked on together in silence. Presently Sarah perceived they were
going in the direction of the burying ground. Mr. Burns entered it with
his daughter, and soon stood by his wife's grave.
'She left us early, my child. You do not forget her?'
'Oh no, father!'
'Do you remember all about her--_all_?'
'Yes, everything.'
'I know it--I know you do. Why is it, Sarah, that lately I feel more
solitary than usual?'
'Do you, father?'
'Yes, since--' He paused, unwilling, it would seem, to finish the
sentence.
'You know, father, I have not been quite so much with you since Mr.
Meeker came. You are more in the office.'
'So I am. I wish--' He hesitated again. Evidently something oppressed
him.
Just then the first slanting rays of the morning sun gleamed over the
place--pleasant rays, which seemed to change the current of Mr. Burns's
thoughts, lighting up his soul as they were lighting the universe.
He spoke cheerfully: "Let us run home, now. And, Sarah, won't you see
that we have a very nice breakfast? Early rising has given me an
appetite."