"Is this your doings?"
Job looked, "Yes," but spoke not.
"Bleeding!" repeated the doctor, fiercely; "I call it capital carving."
Then turning to the wagoner, he said, "And you found Sir Scipio lying in
the road?"
"Ay, sir; rolled up like a hedge pig," replied the wagoner.
Job wiped his razor, and slipped silently away.
* * * * *
_Scene 2._--Job, half starved and half dead from the fatigues of his long
walk, finds his way into an old woman's hut, which unfortunately is the
rendezvous of three highwaymen.
"Moll, the stool," said one of the men.
The stool ordered was thrown towards Job, who sank resignedly upon it.
"What's o'clock?" asked Bats, one of the robbers.
[Illustration: A BORROWED WATCH.]
Job leaped from the stool in amazement, clapped his hand to his waistcoat
pocket, and drew forth a splendid gold watch, the late property of Sir
Scipio. Job had merely borrowed it to time the pulse of the apoplectic
knight, and forgot to return it. The eyes of the highwayman were fixed
leeringly upon the chronometer. They gave no heed to the embarrassment of
the possessor.
"I say, friend, time must be worth something to you to score it by such a
watch."
"It isn't mine," cried Job, the perspiration starting from every pore of
his body.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the three at this unnecessary information.
"A mistake; I got it in the oddest way."
"Ha, ha, ha!" again roared his hearers in chorus.
"O Lord! I shall be hanged for this," cried Job.
"In course you will," said Mortlake, comfortingly.
Job now hastily felt in his other pockets to see if he unwittingly
possessed any other property not his own, when he pulled out a large
handkerchief well saturated with Sir Scipio's blood.
Mortlake gave an expressive cluck. Bats uttered a low, accusing whistle.
"What! he was game--was he? Well, it is all over now; tell us how it
happened, and what you did with the body," said the third.
In vain Job persisted in the truth. He was only laughed at....
"Moll, the gin." Such a gamy highwayman as Job presented evidence of being
deserves to be treated! Let us see in the next scene _how_ he was treated.
* * * * *
_Scene 3._--Job was drank dead drunk. Stripped of not only Sir Manikin's
watch and chain, but of everything save one brief garment, and under cover
of night deposited in an adjoining meadow.
"Job Pippins slept."
"Job Pippins awoke."
An insect ticked its little note in Job's ear.
"The watch!" cried the bewildered Job, springing to his feet and gaspingly
applying his hands to his flesh.
Who can depict his utter amazement when he had become convinced of his own
identity, and found himself standing out in the broad world, reduced to
the brief wardrobe, which is summed up in the one single word--"SHIRT"?
Hatless, shoeless, hoseless, he stood upon the grass, the bold zephyrs
playing with his garment--a bloody, tattered flag of terrible distress.
Job looked timidly about. He resolved, and he re-resolved. Should he turn
back to the house from whence he had been so ruthlessly ejected? Should he
hide behind the hedge and solicit the help of some male passer? Who would
put faith in a man with no recommendation, and possessing such a small
wardrobe? O, indecision! how many better men have gone to ruin because of
thee!
[Illustration: JOB'S DECISION.]
Decision came to Job's help--at least help out of that field. At this very
moment of need for some one to help him decide what course to pursue, a
ferocious bull, feeding in the next meadow, annoyed or scandalized by the
appearance of Job, scaled the low fence, and with one bellow, ran full
tilt after Job, who hesitated no longer, but leaped the rail fence just as
the animal made a lunge at him. Job reached the highway in safety of
person, though the bull retreated with a full square yard of the false
flag of truce upon his horns.
Job's destitution seemed perfect without this last affliction. The sound
of carriage wheels startled him, but to where should he flee? He was at
the zero of his fortunes. He was naked, hungry, penniless. Where should he
find one friend.
"Ah! the river!" That would hide him forever from the uncharitable
world!...
Job crawled across the field, and was already near the stream.
What! Had some pitying angel, softened by Job's utter destitution and
despair, alighted amongst the bushes! Or was it a temptation of the devil?
Reader, "put yourself in"--No! But imagine Job reduced to the moiety of a
shirt, about to take the fatal plunge, when lo! he discovers just before
him, lying,--a golden waif,--a very handsome suit of clothes,--hat,
breeches, hose, shoes, gloves, cane, cravat! and no visible second person
near.
Job's perplexity was brief. He seated himself on the grass. He changed his
equivocal shirt for the ample piece of ruffled "aired-snow" in the
twinkling of an eye; donned the stockings and breeches,--"just a
fit,"--waistcoat, and coat, seized the hat, gloves, cravat, and cane, and
in three minutes he was back on the main road. The swimmer must have been
just Job's size, so admirably did the whole wardrobe fit and become him.
Again Job passed the five-barred gate, where stood the bull, with glaring
eyes, waving in vain the flag of truce upon his horns.
Job journeyed onward, waving his cane, and smiling in supreme contempt at
the bit of rag which so recently proclaimed his crime and wretchedness. He
put his hand into _his_ pocket, and pulled out a _purse_! It contained
eight guineas! This was too much. Job fell upon his knees in the
highway, overcome with gratitude, and holding up the purse in his left
hand, placing the other over his stomach, he "blessed his lucky stars" for
his propitious change of fortunes.
Here we bid adieu to the barber-bleeders. Those who wish to know how the
swimmer came out, must consult "Men of Character," by Jerrold.