Skinflint and old Jack Ringbolt had a dispute on Long Wharf, a few days
since, upon a religious _pint_. Jack argued the matter upon a _specie_
basis, and Skinflint took to "moral suasion." Jack went in for equal
division of labor and money--all over the world.
"Suppose, now, John," says Skinflint, "we rich men _should_ share equal
with the poor--their imprudence would soon throw all the wealth into our
hands again!"
"Wall," says Jack, "s'pose it did! You'd only have to--_share all around
again!_"
Borrowed finery; or, Killed off by a Ballet Girl.
Shakspeare has written--"let him that's robbed--not wanting what is
stolen, not know it, _and he's not robbed at all!_" Now this fact often
becomes very apparent, especially so in the case of Mrs. Pompaliner,--a
lady of whom we have had occasion to speak before, the same who sent
Mrs. Brown, the washerwomen, sundry boxes of perfume to mix in her
_suds_, while washing the pyramids of dimity and things of Mrs. P. There
never was a lady--no member of the sex, that ever suffered more, from
dread of contagion, fear of dirt, and the contamination of other people,
than Mrs. Pompaliner.
"Olivia," said she, one morning, to one of her waiting maids, for Mrs.
Pompaliner kept three, alternating them upon the principle of varying
her handkerchiefs, gloves and linen, as they--in her double-distilled
refined idea of things, became soiled by use, from time to time.
"Olivia, come here--Jessamine, you can leave:" she was so intent upon
odor and nature's purest loveliness, that she either sought
sweet-scented cognomened waiting-maids, or nick-named them up to the
fanciful standard of her own.
"Olivia, here, take this handkerchief away, take the horrid thing away.
I believe my soul somebody has touched it after it was ironed. Do take
it away," and the poor victim of concentrated, double extract of human
extravagance, almost fainted and fell back upon her lounge, in a fit of
abhorrence at the idea of her _mouchoir_ being touched, tossed, or
opened, after it entered her camphorated drawers in her highly-perfumed
_boudoir_.
"Olivia!"
"Yes'm," was the response of the fine, ruddy, and wholesome looking
maid.
"Olivia, put on your gloves."
"Yes'm."
"Go down to Mrs. Brown's," she faintly says--"tell her to come here this
very day."
"Yes'm."
"Olivia!"
"Yes'm," replied the fine-eyed, real woman.
"Got your gloves on?"
"Yes'm."
"Well, take this key, go to my boudoir, in the fifth drawer of my
_papier mache_ black bureau, you will find a case of handkerchiefs."
"Yes'm."
"Take out three, yes, four, close the case, lock the drawer, close the
boudoir door, and bring down the handkerchiefs upon my rosewood tray. Do
you comprehend, Olivia?"
"Yes'm," said the girl.
"But come here; let me see your hands. O, horror! such gloves! touch my
handkerchiefs or bureau drawers with those horrid gloves! Poison me!"
cries the terrified woman.
"Olivia," she again ejaculates, after a moment's pause, from overtasked
nature!
"Yes'm," the blushing, tickled _blonde_ replies.
"Go call Vanilla, you are quite soiled now. I want a fresh servant,
retire."
"Ah, Vanilla, girl, have you got your gloves on?"
"Yes'm," the yellow girl modestly answers.
"Then do go and bring me six handkerchiefs from my boudoir, in the fifth
drawer of my black _papier mache_ bureau. Let me see your gloves, dear.
"Ah, Vanilla, you are to be depended upon; your gloves are clean--now
run along, dear, for I'm suffering for a fresh, new, and untouched
handkerchief.
"Ah, that's well. Now, Vanilla, go to Mrs. Brown's, my laundress--say
that I wish her to come here, immediately."
"Yes'm," says the bright quadroon, and away she spins for the domicil of
democratic Mrs. Brown, the laundress.
"Now what's up, I'd like to know?" quoth the old woman.
"Dunno, missus wants to see you--guess you better come," says Vanilla.
"Deuce take sich fussy people," says Mrs. Brown; "I wouldn't railly put
up with all her dern'd nonsense, ef she wa'n't so poorly, so weak in her
mind and body, and so good about paying for her work. No, I declare I
wouldn't," said the strong-minded woman.
"Bring the creature up," said Mrs. Pompaliner, as one of her fresh
attendants announced the washerwoman.
"Ah, you are here?"
"Yes," said the fat, hardy, and independent, if awkward, Mrs. Brown, as
she stood in the august presence of Mrs. Pompaliner, and the gorgeous
trappings of her own private drawing-room.
"Yes, I believe I am, ma'am!" says the she-democrat.
"Vanilla, tell Olivia to bring Jessamine here."
"Yes'm."
"Now Mrs. a--what is your name?"
"Brown, Dorcas Brown; my husband and I--"
"Never mind, that's sufficient, Mrs. a--Brown," said the reclining Mrs.
Pompaliner. "I wish to know if anybody is permitted to touch or handle
any of my wardrobe, my linen, handkerchiefs, hose, gloves, laces, etc.,
in your house?"
"Tetch 'em!" echoes the rotund laundress; "why of course we've got to
tetch 'em, or how'd we get 'em ironed and put in your baskets, ma'am?"
"Do you pretend to say, Mrs. a--Brown--O dear! dear! I am afraid you
have ruined all my clothes!"
"Ruined 'em?" quoth Mrs. Brown, coloring up, like a fresh and lively
lobster immersed in a pot of highly caloric water.
"I want to know if the things ain't been done this week as well as I
ever did 'em, could do 'em, or anybody could do 'em on this mighty yeath
(earth), ma'am!"
"Come, come, don't get me flustered, woman," cries the poor, faint Mrs.
Pompaliner. "Don't come here to worry me; answer me and go."
"So I can go, ma'am!" said Mrs. Brown, with a vigorous toss of her
bullet head.
"Stop, will you understand me, Mrs.--a--"
"Brown, ma'am, Brown's my name. I ain't afeard to let anybody know it!"
responded the spunky laundress.
The arrival of Olivia, who ushered in Jessamine, turned the current of
affairs.
"Jessamine, your gloves on, dear?"
"Yes'm."
"Then go to my _boudoir_, open the rose-wood clothes case, bring down
the skirts, a dozen or two of the _mouchoirs_, the laces and hose."
The girl departed, and soon returned with a ponderous paper box, laden
with the articles required.
"Now," said Mrs. Pompaliner, "now, Brown, look at those articles; don't
you see that they have been touched?"
"Tetched! lord-a-massy, ma'am, how'd you get 'em ironed, folded and
brought home, ma'am, without tetching 'em?"
"Olivia, Vanilla, where are you? Jessamine, dear, bring me a fresh
handkerchief, ignite a _pastile_, there's such an odor in the room. Do
you _smell_, Mrs. a--Brown, that horrid lavender or rose, or, or,--do
you smell it, Brown?"
"Lord-a-massy, ma'am," said the old woman of suds, "I ollers smell a
dreadful smell here; them parfumeries o' yourn, I often tell my Augusty,
I wonder them stinkin'--"
"O! O! dear!" cries Mrs. Pompaliner, going off "into a spell;"
recovering a little, Mrs. Pompaliner proceeds to state that for some
time past, she had been troubled with _a presentiment_, that her fine
clothes had been tampered with after leaving the smoothing iron, and how
fatal to her would be the fact of any mortal daring to use, in the
remotest manner, any fresh garment or personal apparel of hers!
Suspicion had been aroused, the articles before the parties were now
diligently examined, when, lo! a spot, not unlike a slight smear of
vermilion, was discovered upon a splendid handkerchief--it gave Mrs. P.
an electric shock; but, O horror! the next thing turned up was a
_spangle_, big as a half dime, upon one of Mrs. P.'s most superb skirts!
This awful revelation, connected with the smell of vile lavender and
worse patchouly, upon another piece of woman gear, threw Mrs. Pompaliner
into spasms, between the motions of which she gasped:
"You have a daughter, Mrs. Brown?"
"Yes, I have."
"How old is she?"
"About seventeen, ma'am."
"And she a--?"
"Dances in the theatre, ma'am!"
The whole thing was out: the sacred garments of Mrs. P. had not only
been _touched_ by sacrilegious hands, but had had an airing, and smelt
the lamps of the play-house! Mrs. Pompaliner was so shocked, that four
first-class physicians tended her for a whole season.
Mrs. Brown lost a profitable customer, and well walloped her
ballet-nymph daughter Augusty, for attiring herself in the finery of her
most possibly particular and sensitive customer! It was awful!
Legal Advice.
Old Ben. Franklin said it was his opinion that, between imprisonment and
being at large in debt to your neighbor, there was no _difference_
worthy the name of it. Some people have a monstrous sight of courage in
debt, more than they have out of it, while we have known some, who,
though not afraid to stand fire or water, shook in their very
boots--wilted right down, before the frown of a creditor! A man that can
_dun_ to death, or stand a deadly _dun_, possesses talents no Christian
need envy; for, next to Lucifer, we look upon the confirmed "diddler"
and professional _dun_, for every ignoble trait in the character of
mankind. A friend at our elbow has just possessed us of some facts so
mirth-provoking, (to us, not to him,) that we jot them down for the
amusement and information of suffering mankind and the rest of creation,
who now and then get into a scrimmage with rogues, lawyers and law. And
perhaps it may be as well to let the _indefatigable_ tell his own story:
"You see, Cutaway dealt with me, and though he knew I was dead set
against _crediting_ anybody, he would insist, and did--get into my
books. I let it run along until the amount reached sixty dollars, and
Cutaway, instead of stopping off and paying me up, went in deeper!
Getting in debt seemed to make him desperate, reckless! One day he came
in when I was out; he and his wife look around, and, by George! they
select a handsome tea-set, worth twenty dollars, and my fool clerk sends
it home.
"'Tell him to _charge it!_' says Cutaway, to the boy who took the china
home; and I did charge it.
"The upshot of the business was, I found out that Cutaway was a
confirmed _diddler_; he got all he wanted, when and where he could, upon
the 'charge it' principle, and had become so callous to duns, that his
moral compunctions were as tough as sole leather--bullet-proof.
"I was vexed, I was _mad_, I determined to break one of my 'fixed
principles,' and _go to law_; have my money, goods, or a row! I goes to
a lawyer, states my case, gave him a fee and told him to go to work.
"Cutaway, of course, received a polite invitation to step up to Van
Nickem's office and learn something to his advantage; and he attended. A
few days afterwards I dropped in.
"'Your man's been here,' says Van Nickem, smilingly.
"'Has, eh? Well, what's he done?' said I.
"'O, he acknowledges the _debt_, says he thinks you are rather hurrying
up the biscuits, and thinks you might have sent the bill to him instead
of giving it to me for collection,' says the lawyer.
"'Send it to him!' says I. 'Why I sent it fifty times;--sent my clerk
until he got ashamed of going, and my boy went so often that his boots
got into such a way of _going_ to Cutaway's shop, that he had to change
them with his brother, _when he was going anywhere else!_'
"'He appears to be a clever sort of a fellow,' said Van.
"'He _is_,' said I, 'the cleverest, most perfectly-at-home _diddler_ in
town.'
"'Well,' said Van Nickem, 'Cutaway acknowledges the debt, says he's
rather straightened just now, but if you'll give him a little more
_time_, he'll fork up every cent; so if I were you, I'd wait a little
and see.'
"Well, I did wait. I didn't want to appear more eager for law than a
lawyer, so I waited--three months. At the end of that time, early one
Saturday morning, in came Cutaway. 'Aha!' says I, 'you are going to
_fork_ now, at last; it's well you come, for I'd been _down_ on you on
Monday, bright and early!'"
"You didn't say that to him, did you?" we observed.
"O, bless you, _no_. I said _that_ to _myself_, but I met _him_ with a
smile, and with a 'how d'ye do, Cutaway?' and in my excitement at the
prospect of receiving the $80, which I then wanted the worst kind, I
shook hands with him, asked how his family was, and got as familiar and
jocular with him as though he was the most cherished friend I had in the
world! Well, now what do you suppose was the result of that interview
with Cutaway?"
"Paid you a portion, or all of your bill against him, we suppose," was
our response.
"Not by a long shot; with the coolness of a pirate he asked me to credit
him for a handsome wine-tray, a dozen cut goblets and glasses, and a
pair of decanters; he expected some friends from New York that evening,
was going to give them a 'set out' at his house, and one of the guests,
in consideration of former favors rendered by him, was pledged--being a
man of wealth--to loan him enough funds to pay his debts, and take up a
mortgage on his residence."
"You laughed at his impudence, and kicked him out into the street?" said
we.
"I hope I may be hung if I didn't let him have the goods, and he took
them home with him, swearing by all that was good and bad, he would
settle with me early the following Monday morning. I saw no more of
_him_ for two weeks! I went to Van Nickem's, he laughed at me. The bill
was now $100. I was raging. I told Van Nickem I'd have my money out of
Cutaway, or I'd advertise him for a villain, swindler, and scoundrel."
"'He'd sue you for libel, and obtain damages,' said Van.
"'Then I'll horsewhip him, sir, within an inch of his life, in the open
street!' said I, in a heat.
"'You might _rue_ that,' said Van. 'He'd sue you for an assault, and
give you trouble and expense.'
"'Then I suppose I can do nothing, eh?--the _law_ being _made_ for the
benefit of such villains!'
"'We will arrest him,' said Van.
"'Well, then what?' said I.
"'We will haul him up to the bull ring, we will have the money, attach
his property, goods or chattels, or clap him in jail, sir!' said Van
Nickem, with an air of determination.
"I felt relieved; the hope of putting the rascal in jail, I confess, was
dearer to me than the $100. I told Van to go it, give the rascal jessy,
and Van did; but after three weeks' vexatious litigation, Cutaway went
to jail, swore out, and, to my mortification, I learned that he had been
through that sort of process so often that, like the old woman's skinned
eels, he was used to it, and rather liked the sensation than otherwise!
Well, saddled with the costs, foiled, gouged, swindled, and laughed at,
you may fancy my feelinks, as Yellow Plush remarks."
"So you lost the $100--got whipped, eh?" we remarked.
"No, _sir_," said our litigious friend. "I cornered him, I got old
Cutaway in a tight place at last, and that's the pith of the
transaction. Cutaway, having swindled and shaved about half the
community with whom he _had_ any transactions,--got his affairs all
fixed smooth and quiet, and with his family was off for California. I
got wind of it,--Van Nickem and I had a conference.
"'We'll have him,' says Van. 'Find out what time he sails, where the
vessel is, &c.; lay back until a few hours before the vessel is to cut
loose, then go down, get the fellow ashore if you can, talk to him, soft
soap him, ask him if he won't pay if he has luck in California, &c., and
so on, and when you've got him a hundred yards from the vessel, knock
him down, pummel him well; I'll have an officer ready to arrest both of
you for breach of the peace; when you are brought up, I'll have a
_charge_ made out against Cutaway for something or other, and if he
don't fork out and clear, I'm mistaken,' said Van. I followed his advice
to the letter; I pummelled Cutaway well; we were taken up and fined, and
Cutaway was in a great hurry to say but little and get off. But Van and
the _writ_ appeared. Cutaway looked streaked--he was alarmed. In two
hours' time he disgorged not only my bill, but a bill of forty dollars
costs! He then cut for the ship, the meanest looking white man you ever
saw!"
If Mr. Cutaway don't take the _force_ of that moral, _salt_ won't save
him.
Wonders of the Day.
The "firm" who save a hogshead of ink, annually, by not allowing their
clerks and book-keepers to dot their i's or cross their t's, are now
bargaining (with the old school gentlemen who split a knife that cost a
fourpence, in skinning a flea for his hide and tallow!) for a
two-pronged pen, which cuts short business letters and printed
bill-heads, by enabling a clerk to write on both sides of the paper, two
lines at a time. Great improvement on the old method, ain't it?
"Don't Know You, Sir!"
We shall never forget, and always feel proud of the fact, that we _knew_
so great an every-day _Plato_ as Davy Crockett. Had the old Colonel
never uttered a better idea than that everlasting good motto--"Be sure
you're right, then go ahead!" his wisdom would stand a pretty good
wrestle with tide and time, before his standing, as a man of genius,
would pass to oblivion--be washed out in Lethe's waters. We remember
hearing Col. Crockett relate, during a "speech," a short time before he
lost his life at the _Alamo_, in Texas--a little incident, of his being
taken up in New Orleans, one night, by a _gen d'arme_--lugged to the
calaboose, and kept there as an out-and-out "hard case," not being able
to find any body, hardly, that knew him, and being totally unable to
reconcile the chief of police to the fact that he _was_ the identical
Davy Crockett, or any body else, above par! "If you want to find out
your 'level,'--_ad valorem_, wake up some morning, noon or night--_where
nobody knows you!_" said the Colonel, "and if you ever feel so
essentially chawed up, _raw_, as I did in the calaboose, the Lord pity
you!"
There was a "modern instance" of Colonel Crockett's "wise saw," in the
case of a certain Philadelphia millionaire, who was in the habit of
_carting_ himself out, in a very ancient and excessively shabby gig;
which, in consequence of its utter ignorance of the stable-boy's brush,
sponge or broom, and the hospitalities the old concern nightly offered
the hens--was not exactly the kind of _equipage_ calculated to win
attention or marked respect, for the owner and driver. The old
millionaire, one day in early October, took it into his head to ride
out and see the country. Taking an early start, the old gentleman, and
his old bob-tailed, frost-bitten-looking horse, with that same old
shabby gig, about dusk, found themselves under the swinging sign of a
Pennsylvania Dutch tavern, in the neighborhood of Reading. As nobody
bestirred themselves to see to the traveller, he put his very
old-fashioned face and wig outside of the vehicle, and called--
"Hel-lo! hos-e-lair? Landlord?"
Leisurely stalking down the steps, the Dutch hostler advanced towards
the queer and questionable travelling equipage.
"Vel, vot you vont, ah?"
"Vat sal I vant? I sal vant to put oup my hoss, vis-ze stab'l, viz two
pecks of oats and plenty of hay, hos-e-lair."
"Yaw," was the laconic grunt of the hostler, as he proceeded to unhitch
old bald-face from his rigging.
"Stop one little," said the traveller. "I see 'tis very mosh like to
rain, to-night; put up my gig in ze stab'l, too."
"Boosh, tonner and blitzen, der rain not hurt yer ole gig!"
"I pay you for vat you sal do for me, mind vat I sal say, sair, if you
pleaze."
The hostler, very surlily, led the traveller's weary old brute to the
stable; but, prior to carrying out the orders of the traveller, he
sought the landlord, to know if it would _pay_ to put up the shabby
concern, and treat the old horse to a real feed of hay and oats, without
making some inquiries into the financial situation of the old Frenchman.
The landlord, with a country lawyer and a neighboring farmer, were at
the _Bar_, one of those old-fashioned _slatted_ coops, in a corner,
peculiar to Pennsylvania, discussing the merits of a law suit, seizure
of the property, &c., of a deceased tiller of the soil, in the vicinity.
Busily chatting, and quaffing their _toddy_, the entrance of the poor
old traveller was scarcely noticed, until he had divested himself of
his old, many-caped cloak, and demurely taken a seat in the room. The
hostler having reappeared, and talked a little Dutch to the host, that
worthy turned to the traveller--
"Good even'ns, thravel'r!"
"Yes, sair;" pleasantly responded the Frenchman, "a little."
"You got a hoss, eh?" continued the landlord.
"Yes, sair, I vish ze hostlair to give mine hoss plenty to eat--plenty
hay, plenty oats, plenty watair, sair."
"Yaw," responded the landlord, "den, Jacob, give'm der oats, and der
hay, and der water;" and, with this brief direction to his subordinate,
the landlord turned away from the way-worn traveller to resume his
conversation with his more, apparently, influential friends. The old
Frenchman very patiently waited until the discussion should cease, and
the landlord's ear be disengaged, that he might be apprized of the fact
that travellers had stomachs, and that of the old French gentleman was
highly _incensed_ by long delay, and more particularly by the odorous
fumes of roast fowls, ham and eggs, &c., issuing from the inner portion
of the tavern.
"Landlord, I vil take suppair, if you please," said he.
"Yaw; after dese gentlemans shall eat der suppers, den somesing will be
prepared for you."
"Sair!" said the old Frenchman, firing up; "I vill not vait for ze
shentilmen; I vant my suppair now, directly--right away; I not vait for
nobody, sair!"
"If you no like 'em, den you go off, out mine house," answered the old
sour krout, "you old barber!"
"Bar-bair!" gasped the old Frenchman, in suppressed rage. "Sair, I vill
go no where, I vill stay here so long, by gar, as--as--as I please,
sair!"
"Are you aware, sir," interposed the legal gentleman, "that you are
rendering gross and offensive, malicious and libellous, scandalous and
burglarious language to this gentleman, in his own domicile, with malice
prepense and aforethought, and a ----"
"Pooh! pooh! _pooh!_ for you, sair!" testily replied the Frenchman.
"Pooh? To me, sir? _Me, sir?_" bullyingly echoed Blackstone.
"Yes, sair--pooh--_pooh!_ von geese, sair!"
It were vain to try to depict the rage of wounded pride, the insolence
of a travelling _barber_ had stirred up in the very face of the man of
law, logic, and legal lore. He swelled up, blowed and strutted about
like a _miffed_ gobbler in a barn yard! He tried to cork down his rage,
but it bursted forth--
"You--you--you infernal old frog-eating, soap and lather, you--you--you
smoke-dried, one-eyed,* poor old wretch, you, if it wasn't for pity's
sake, I'd have you taken up and put in the county jail, for vagrancy, I
would, you poverty-stricken old rascal!"
[*] Girard, it will be remembered, had but one eye. With that,
however, he saw as much as many do with a full pair of eyes.
"Jacob!" bawled the landlord, to his sub., "bring out der ole hoss
again, pefore he die mit de crows, in mine stable; now, you ole fool,
you shall go vay pout your bishenish mit nossin to eat, mit yer hoss
too!" said the landlord, with an evident rush of blood and beer to his
head!
"Oh, veri well," patiently answered the old Frenchman, "veri well, sair,
I sal go--but,"--shaking his finger very significantly at the landlord
and lawyer, "I com' back to-morrow morning, I buy dis prop-er-tee; you,
sir, sal make de deed in my name--I kick you out, sair, (to the
landlord,) and to you (the lawyer), I sal like de goose. Booh!"
With this, the poor old Frenchman started for his gig, amid the "Haw!
haw! haw! and ha! ha! he! he!" of the landlord and lawyer. "That for
you," said the Frenchman, as he gave the surly Dutchman-hostler a real
half-dollar, took the dirty "ribbons" and drove off. Now, the farmer,
one of the three spectators present, had quietly watched the
proceedings, and being _gifted_ with enough insight into human nature to
see something more than "an old French barber" in the person and manner
of the traveller; and, moreover, being interested in the Tavern
property, followed the Frenchman; overtaking him, he at once offered him
the hospitalities of his domicile, not far distant, where the traveller
passed a most comfortable night, and where his host found out that he
was entertaining no less a pecuniary miracle of his time--_than Stephen
Girard_.
Early next morning, old Stephy, in his old and _shady_ gig, accompanied
by his entertainer, rode over to the two owners of the Tavern property,
and with them sought the _lawyer_, the deeds were made out, the old
Frenchman _drew_ on his own Bank for the $13,000, gave the farmer a ten
years' _lease_ upon the place, paid the lawyer for his trouble, and as
that worthy accompanied the millionaire to the door, and was very
obsequiously bowing him out, old Stephy turned around on the steps, and
looking sharp--with his one eye upon the lawyer, says he--
"Sair! Pooh! pooh!--_Booh!_" off he rode for the Tavern, where he and
the landlord had a _haze_, the landlord was notified to _leave_, short
metre; and being fully revenged for the insult paid his millions, old
Stephen Girard, the great Philadelphia financier, rode back to where he
was better used for his money, and evidently better satisfied than ever,
that money is mighty when brought to bear upon an object!
A Circumlocutory Egg Pedler.
We have been, frequently, much amused with the man[oe]uvring of some
folks in trade. It's not your cute folks, who screw, twist and twirl
over a smooth fourpence, or skin a flea for its hide and tallow, and
spoil a knife that cost a shilling,--that come out first best in the
long run. Some folks have a weakness for beating down shop-keepers, or
anybody else they deal with, and so far have we seen this _infirmity_
carried, that we candidly believe we've known persons that would not
stop short of cheapening the passage to kingdom come, if they thought a
dollar and two cents might be saved in the fare! Now the _rationale_ of
the matter is this:--as soon as persons establish a reputation for
meanness--beating down folks, they fall victims to all sorts of shaves
and short commons, and have the fine Saxony drawn over their eyes--from
the nose to the occiput; they get the meanest "bargains," offals, &c.,
that others would hardly have, even at a heavy discount. Then some folks
are so wonderful sharp, too, that we wonder their very shadow does not
often cut somebody. A friend of ours went to buy his wife a pair of
gaiters; he brought them home; she found all manner of fault with them;
among other drawbacks, she declared that for the price her better half
had given for the gaiters, _she_ could have got the best article in
Waxend's entire shop! _He_ said _she_ had better take them back and try.
So she did, and poor Mr. Waxend had an hour of his precious time used up
by the lady's attempt to get a more expensive pair of gaiters at a less
price than those purchased by her husband. Waxend saw how matters stood,
so he consented to adopt the maxim of--when Greek meets Greek, then
comes the tug of war!
"Now, marm," said he, "here is a pair of gaiters I have made for Mrs.
Heavypurse; they are just your fit, most expensive material, the best
article in the shop; Mrs. Heavypurse will not expect them for a few
days, and rather than _you_ should be disappointed, I will let _you_
have them for the same price your husband paid for those common ones!"
Of course Mrs. ---- took them, went home in great glee, and told her
better half she'd never trust him to go shopping for her again--for they
always cheated him. When the husband came to scrutinize his wife's
bargain, lo! he detected the self-same gaiters--merely with a different
quality of lacings in them! He, like a philosopher, grinned and said
nothing. That illustrates one phase in the character of some people who
"go it blind" on "bargains" and now, for the pith of our story--the way
some folks have of going round "Robin Hood's barn" to come at a thing.
The other day we stopped into a friend's store to see how he was getting
along, and presently in came a rural-district-looking customer.
"How'd do?" says he, to the storekeeper, who was busy, keeping the stove
warm.
"Pretty well; how is it with you?"
"Well, so, so; how's all the folks?"
"Middling--middling, sir. How's all your folks?"
"Tolerable--yes, tolerable," says the rural gent. "How's trade?" he
ventured to inquire.
"Dull, ray-ther dull," responded the storekeeper. "Come take a seat by
the stove, Mr. Smallpotatoes."
"Thank you, I guess not," says the ruralite. "Your folks are all
stirring, eh?" he added.
"Yes, stirring around a little, sir. How's your mother got?" the
storekeeper inquired, for it appeared he knew the man.
"Poorly, dreadful poorly, yet," was the reply. "Cold weather, you see,
sort o' sets the old lady back."
"I suppose so," responded our friend; and here, think's we, if there is
anything important or business like on the man's mind, he must be near
to its focus. But he started again--
"Ain't goin' to Californy, then, are you?" says Mr. Smallpotatoes.
"Guess not," said our friend. "You talked of going, I believe?"
"Well, ye-e-e-s, I did think of it," said the rural gent; "I did think
of it last fall, but I kind o' gin it up."
Here another _hiatus_ occurred; the rural gent walked around, viewed the
goods and chattels for some minutes; then says he--
"Guess I'll be movin'," and of course that called forth from our friend
the venerated expression--
"What's your hurry?"
"Well, nothing 'special. Plaguy cold winter we've got!"
"That's a fact," answered the storekeeper. "How's sleighing out your
way--good?"
"First rate; I guess the folks have had enough of it, this winter, by
jolly. I hev, any how," says the rural gent. "Trade's dull, eh?"
"Very--very _slack_."
"Dullest time of the year, I reckon, ain't it?"
"Pretty much so, indeed," says the storekeeper.
"I don't see's Californy goold gets much plentier, or business much
better, nowhere."