THE YANKEE PEDDLER.
The warm, balmy April day was drawing to a close, and the rays of the
setting sun shone like burnished gold on the western windows of Redstone
Hall. It was very pleasant there now, for the early spring flowers were
all in blossom, the grass was growing fresh and green upon the lawn, and
the creeping vines were clinging lovingly to the time-worn pillars, or
climbing up the massive walls of dark red stone, which gave the place
its name. The old negroes had returned from their labors, and were
lounging about their cabins, while the younger portion looked wistfully
in at the kitchen door, where Dinah and Hetty were busy in preparing
supper. On the back piazza several dogs were lying, and as their quick
ears caught the sound of a gate in the distance, the whole pack started
up and went tearing down the avenue, followed by the furious yell of
Bruno, who tried in vain to escape from his confinement.
“Thar’s somebody comin’,” said Dinah, shading her eyes with her hand,
and looking toward the highway; “somebody with somethin’ on his back.
You, Josh, go after them dogs, afore they skeer him to death.”
Stuttering out some unintelligible speech, Josh started in the direction
the dogs had gone, and soon came up to a tall six-footer, who, with
short pantaloons, a swallow-tailed coat, stove-pipe hat, sharp-pointed
collar, red necktie, and two huge boxes on his back, presented a rather
ludicrous appearance to the boy, and a rather displeasing one to the
dogs, who growled angrily, as if they would pounce upon him at once. The
club, however, with which he had armed himself kept them at bay, until
Josh succeeded in quieting them down.
“Ra-ally, now,” began our friend Ben, who vainly imagined it necessary
to _put on_ a little, by way of proving himself a genuine
Yankee—“ra-ally, now boot-black, what’s the use of keepin’ sich a
’tarnal lot o’ dogs to worry a decent chap like me.”
It was Josh’s misfortune to stammer much more when at all excited, and
to this interrogatory he began, “Caw-caw-caw-cause ma-ma-mars
wa-wa-want——”
“Great Heaven!” interrupted the Yankee, setting down his pack and eyeing
the stuttering negro as if he had been the last curiosity from
Barnum’s—“_will_ you tell a fellow what kind of language you speak.”
“Spe-pe-pe-pects sa-sa-same ye-e-e you do,” returned the negro, failing
wholly to enlighten Ben, who rejoined indignantly, “You go to grass with
your lingo;” and, gathering up his boxes, he started for the house,
accompanied by Josh and the dogs, the first of which made several
ineffectual attempts at conversation.
“Some nateral born fool,” muttered Ben, thinking to himself that he
would like to examine the boy’s mouth and see what ailed it.
After a few minutes they entered the yard, and came up to the other
blacks, who were curiously watching the new comer. Seating himself upon
the steps and crossing one leg over the other, Ben swung his cowhide
boot forward and back, and greeted them with, “wall, uncles, and _ants_,
and cousins, how do you dew, and how do you find yourselves this
afternoon?”
“Jest tolerable, thanky,” answered uncle Phil, and Ben continued, “wall,
health is a great blessing to them that hain’t got it. Do you calkerlate
that I could stay here to-night? I’ve got lots o’ gewgaws,” pointing to
his boxes—“hankerchers, pins, ear-rings and a red and yeller gownd
that’ll jest suit you, old gall,” nodding to Dinah, who muttered
gruffly, “if he calls me _old_ what’ll he say to Hetty?”
Ben saw he had made a mistake, for black women no more care to be old
than their fairer sisters, and he tried to make amends by complimenting
the indignant lady until she was somewhat mollified, when he asked again
if he could stay all night?
“You, Josh,” said Uncle Phil, “go and tell yer master to come here.”
“Whew-ew,” whistled Ben, “if you’re goin’ to send that stutterin’
critter, I may as well be joggin’, for no human can make out his
rigmarole.”
But Ben was mistaken. Josh’s dialect was well understood by Frederic,
who came as requested, and, standing in the door, gazed inquisitively at
the singular looking object seated upon his steps, and apparently
oblivious to everything save the _sliver_ he was trying to extract from
his thumb with a large pin, ejaculating occasionally, “gaul darn the
pesky thing.”
Nothing, however, escaped the keen grey eyes which from time to time
peered out from beneath the stove-pipe hat. Already Ben had seen that
Redstone Hall was a most beautiful spot, and he did not blame Frederic
for disliking to give it up. He had selected Dinah and Phil from the
other blacks, and had said that the baby, who, with a small white dog,
was disputing its right to a piece of fat bacon and a chicken bone, was
Victoria Eugenia. _Josh_ he identified by his name, and he was wondering
at Marian’s taste in caring to hear from _him_, when Frederic appeared,
and all else was forgotten in his eagerness to inspect the man “who
could make a gal bite her tongue in two and yank her hair out by the
roots, all for the love of him.”
Frederic seemed in no hurry to commence a conversation, and during the
minute that he stood there without speaking, Ben had ample time to take
him in from his brown hair and graceful mustache down to his polished
boots.
“Got up in considerable kind of good style,” was Ben’s mental comment,
as he watched the young man carelessly scraping his finger nail with a
pen-knife.
“Did you wish to see me?” Frederic said at last, and with another thrust
at the sliver, Ben stuck his pin upon his coat sleeve, and reversing the
position of his legs, replied, “wall, if you’re the boss, I guess I dew;
I’m Ben Butterworth from down East, and I’ve got belated, and bein’
there ain’t no taverns near I want to stay all night, and pay in money
or notions. Got a lot on ’em, besides some tip-top muslin collars for
your wife, Mrs., what do you call her?” and the gray eyes glistened
themselves upon the face, which for a single instant was white as
marble—then the hot blood came rushing back, and Frederic replied,
“there is no wife here, sir, but you can stay all night if you please.
Will you walk in?” and he led the way to the sitting-room, followed by
Ben, who had obtained what to him was the most important information of
all.
The night was chilly, and in the grate a cheerful coal fire was burning,
casting its ruddy light upon the face of a little girl, who, seated upon
a stool, with her hair combed back from her sweet face, her waxen hands
folded together and her strange brown eyes fixed upon the coals as if
she were looking at something far beyond them, seemed to Ben what he had
fancied angels in heaven to be. It was not needful for Mr. Raymond to
say, “Alice, here is a peddler come to stay all night,” for Ben knew it
was the blind girl, and his heart gave a great throb when he saw her
sitting there so beautiful, so helpless, and so lonely, too, for he
almost knew that she was thinking of Marian, and he longed to take her
in his arms and tell her of the lost one.
Motioning him to a chair, Frederic went out, leaving them together. For
some minutes there was perfect silence, while Ben sat looking at her and
trying hard to keep from crying. It seemed terrible to him that one so
young should be blind, and he wanted to tell her so, but he dared not,
and he sat so still that Alice began to think she was alone, and,
resuming her former thoughts, whispered softly to herself, “oh, I wish
she would come back.”
“Blessed baby,” Ben had almost ejaculated, but he checked himself in
time, and said instead, “little gal.”
Alice started, and turning her ear, seemed waiting for him to speak
again, which he did soon.
“Little gal, will you come and sit in my lap?”
His voice was gentle and kind, but Alice did not care to be thus free
with a stranger, so she replied, “I reckon I won’t do that, but I’ll sit
nearer to you,” and she moved her stool so close by him that her head
almost rested on his lap.
“You must ’scuse me,” she said, “if I don’t act like other children
do—I’m blind.”
Very tenderly he smoothed her silken hair, and as he did so, she felt
something drop upon her forehead. It was a tear, and wiping it away, she
said:
“Man, be you hungry and tired, or what makes you cry?”
“I’m cryin’ for you, poor, unfortunate lamb;” and the tender-hearted Ben
sobbed out aloud.
“Oh, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t,” said the distressed child—“I’m used to it.
I don’t mind it now.”
The ice was fairly broken, and a bond of sympathy established between
the two.
“He must be a good man,” Alice thought; and when he began to question
her of her home and friends, she replied to him readily.
“You haven’t no mother, nor sister, nor a’nt, nor nothin’, but Mr.
Raymond and Dinah,” said Ben, after they had talked awhile. “Ain’t there
no white women in the house but you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Huntington and Isabel. She’s my governess,” answered Alice;
and, conscious of a pang, Ben continued:
“Mr. Raymond sent for ’em, I s’pose?”
“No,” returned Alice. “They came without sending for—came to visit, and
he hired them to stay. Mrs. Huntington keeps house.”
At this point in the conversation there was a rustling of garments in
the hall, and a splendid, queenly creature swept into the room, bringing
with her such an air of superiority that Ben involuntarily hitched
nearer to the wall, as if to get out of sight.
“Je-ru-sa-lem! ain’t she a dasher?” was his mental exclamation; and, in
spite of himself, he followed her movements with an admiring glance.
Taking a chair, she drew it to the fire, and, without deigning to notice
the stranger, she said, rather reprovingly,
“Alice, come here.”
The child obeyed, and Ben, determined not to be ignored entirely, said:
“Pretty well this evenin’, miss?”
“How, sir?” and the black eyes flashed haughtily upon him.
Nothing abashed, he continued: “As’t you if you’re pretty well, but no
matter, I know you to be by your looks. I’ve got a lot of finery that I
know you want.” And on opening his boxes, he spread out upon the carpet
the collars and under-sleeves, which had been bought with a view to this
very night. Very disdainfully Isabel turned away, saying she never
traded with peddlers.
“I wonder if you don’t,” returned Ben, with imperturbable gravity.
“Wall, now, seein’ it’s me, buy somethin’, dew. Here’s a bracelet that
can’t be beat,” and he held up to view Marian’s soft hair, which, in the
bright firelight, looked singularly beautiful.
Isabel did unbend a little now. There was no sham about that, she knew,
and, taking it in her hand, she tried to clasp it on her round, white
arm; but it would not come together. It was not made for her!
“It isn’t large enough,” said she; “it must have been intended for some
child.”
“Shouldn’t wonder if you’d hit the nail right on the head,” returned
Ben, and taking the bracelet he continued, “Mebby ’twas meant for this
wee one—who knows?” and he fastened it on Alice’s slender wrist. “Fits
to a T,” said he, “and you have it, too. Them clasps is little hearts,
do you see?”
Frederic now entered the room, and holding up her arm, Alice said,
“Look, is it pretty?”
“Yes, very,” he replied, bending down to examine it, while Ben watched
him narrowly, wondering how he would feel if he knew from whose tresses
that braid was made.
“Harnsome color, ain’t it, Square?” he said, holding Alice’s hand a
little more to the light, and continuing, “Now there’s them that don’t
like red hair, but I swan I’ve seen some that wan’t so bad. Now when it
curls kinder—wall, like a gimblet, you know. I’ve got a gal to hum I
call my sister, and her hair’s as nigh this color as two peas, or it was
afore ’twas shaved. She’s been awful sick with the heart disorder, and
fever, and I tell you, Square, if you’d o’ seen her pitchin’ and divin’,
and rollin’ from one end of the bed to t’other, bitin’ her tongue and
yankin’ out her hair by han’fuls, I rather guess you’d felt kinder
streaked. It made a calf of me, though I didn’t feel so bad then as when
she got weaker, and lay so still that we held a feather to her lips to
see if she breathed.”
“Oh, did she die?” asked Alice, who had been an attentive listener.
“No,” answered Ben, “she didn’t, and the thankfullest prayer I ever
prayed was the one I made in the buttery, behind the door, when the
doctor said she would get well.”
Supper was announced, and putting up his muslins, Ben followed his host
to the dining room. Alice, too, was at the table, the bracelet still
upon her wrist, for she liked the feeling of it. “And she did so wish it
was hers.”
“I shall have to buy it for you, I reckon,” said Frederic, and he
inquired its price.
“Wall, now,” returned Ben, “if ’twas any body but the little gal, I
should say five dollars, but bein’ it’s hers, I’d kinder like to give it
to her.”
This, however, Frederic would not suffer. Alice would not keep it, he
said, unless he paid for it, and he put a half eagle into the hand of
the child, who offered it to Ben. For a moment, the latter hesitated,
then thinking to himself, “Darnt it all, what’s the use. If Marian goes
to school, as I mean she shall, she’ll need a lot of money, and what I
get out o’ him is clear gain,” he pocketed the piece, and the bracelet
belonged to Alice.
After supper, Ben sat down by the fire in the dining room, hoping the
family would leave him with Alice, and this they did ere long, Isabel
going to the piano, and Frederic to the library to answer letters, while
Mrs. Huntington gave some directions for breakfast. These directions
were merely nominal, however, for Dinah, to all intents and purposes,
was mistress of the household, and she came in to see to the supper
dishes, which were soon cleared away, and Ben, as he wished, was alone
with Alice. The bracelet seemed to be a connecting link between them,
for Alice was not in the least shy of him now, and when he asked her
again to sit in his lap, she did so readily.
“That Miss Isabel is a dreadful han’some gal,” he began; “I should
s’pose Mr. Raymond would fall in love with her.”
No answer from Alice, whose sightless eyes looked steadily into the
fire.
“Mebby he _is_ in love with her.”
No answer yet, and mentally chiding himself for his stupidity in not
striking the right vein, Ben continued:
“I wonder he hain’t married afore this. He must be as much as
twenty-five or six years old, and so han’ some too!”
“He _has_ been married,” and the little face of the speaker did not move
a muscle.
“Now you don’t say it,” returned Ben. “A widower, hey? How long sence he
was married?”
“A few months,” and the long eye-lashes quivered in the firelight just a
little.
“I want to know—died so soon—poor critter. Tell me about her, dew. You
didn’t know her long, so I s’pose you couldn’t love her a great sight?”
The brown eyes flashed up into Ben’s face, and the blood rushed to
Alice’s cheek, as she replied “Me not love Marian! Oh, I loved her so
much!”
The right chord was touched at last, and in her own way Alice told the
sad story—how Marian had left them on her bridal night, and though they
searched for her everywhere, both in the river and through the country,
no trace of her could be found, and the conviction was forced upon them
that she was dead.
“Je-ru-sa-lem! I never thought of that!” was Ben’s involuntary
exclamation; but it conveyed no meaning to Alice, and when he asked if
they still believed her dead, she answered:
“I don’t quite believe Frederic does. I don’t, any way. I used to,
though, but now it seems just like she would come back,” and turning her
face more fully toward him, Alice told how she had loved the lost one,
and how each day she prayed that she might come home to them again.
“I don’t know as she was pretty,” she said, “but she was so sweet, so
good, and I’m so lonesome without her,” and down Alice’s cheeks the big
tears rolled, while Ben’s kept company with them and fell upon her
hands.
“Man, don’t you cry a heap?” she asked, shaking the round drops off and
wondering why a perfect stranger should care so much for Marian.
“I’m so plaguy tender-hearted that I can’t help it,” was Ben’s apology,
as he blew his nose vigorously upon his blue cotton handkerchief.
For a time longer he talked with her, treasuring up blessed words of
comfort for the distant Marian, and learning also that Alice was sure
Frederic would never marry again until certain of Marian’s death. He
might like Isabel, she admitted, but he would not dare make her his wife
till he knew for true what had become of Marian.
“And he does know it, the scented up puppy,” thought Ben. “He jest writ
her that last insultin’ thing to kill her out and out; but he didn’t
come it, and till he knows he did, he dassent do nothin’.”
This reasoning was very satisfactory to Ben, who, having learned from
Alice all that he could, began to think it was time to cultivate the
negroes, and putting the child from his knee, he said “he guessed he’d
go out and see the slaves—mebby they’d like to trade a little, and he
must be off in the mornin’.”
Accordingly he started for the kitchen, where his character had been
pretty thoroughly dissected. A negro from a neighboring plantation had
dropped in on a gossiping visit, and as was very natural, the
conversation had turned upon the peddler, whose peculiar appearance had
attracted much attention at the different places where he had stopped.
Particularly was this the case at the house the black man Henry lived.
“He done ask a heap of questions about us colored folks,” said Henry;
“how many was there of us, how old was we, and what was we worth, and
when marster axed him did he want to buy,” he said “no, but way off whar
he lived he allus spoke in meetin’, and them folks was mighty tickled to
hear suffin’ ’bout niggers.’ Ole Miss say how’t she done b’lieve he’s an
abolution come to run some on us off, case he look like one o’ them
chaps down in the penitentiary.”
“Oh, Lord,” ejaculated Dinah, involuntarily hitching her chair nearer to
Victoria Eugenia, who lay in her cradle.
Old Hetty, too, took alarm at once, and glancing nervously at her own
grandchild Dudley, a little boy two years of age, who was stretched upon
the floor, “she hoped to goodness he wouldn’t carry off Dud.”
“Jest the ones he’ll pick for. He could hide a dozen on ’em in them big
boxes,” said Henry, and feeling pleased at the interest he had awakened
in the two old ladies he proceeded to relate the stories he had heard
“’bout them fetch-ed Yankees meddlin’ with what didn’t consarn ’em,” and
he advised Dinah and Hetty both not to let the peddler get sight of the
children for fear of what might happen.
At this point Ben came out of the house with his huge boxes. He was
first discovered by Josh, who, delighted with the fun, pointed
mysteriously toward him and stuttered, “Da-da-da ’e co-co-comes.”
“The Lord help us,” said Dinah and quick as thought she seized the
sleeping Victoria Eugenia and thrust her into the churn as the nearest
place of concealment.
The awakened baby gave a screech but Dinah stopped its mouth with a
piece of the licorice she always carried in her pocket with her tobacco
box and pipe. Meantime Hetty, determined not to be outdone, caught up
Dud, and, opening the meal chest, tumbled him in, telling him in fierce
whispers “not to stir nor wink, for thar was a man comin’ to cotch him.”
Snatching a newspaper which lay on the floor, she rolled it together and
placed it under the lid, so as to allow the youngster a breathing place.
This done, she resumed her seat just as Ben appeared, who, throwing down
his pack, accosted her with—
“Wall, a’nt, got your chores done? ’Cause if you have I want to trade a
little. I won’t be hard on you,” he continued, as he saw the forbidding
expression of her face. “I’ll dicker cheap and take most any kind o’ dud
for pay.”
Dicker and chores were Greek to old Hetty, but she fully comprehended
the word Dud. He meant her DUD—the one in the meal chest—and she grasped
the handle of the frying pan, so as to be ready for what might follow
next.
“Let me show you some breastpins,” said Ben, looking round for a chair.
They were all occupied, and as the mischievous Josh pointed to the
chest, Ben crossed over, and ere Hetty was aware of his intention,
seated himself quite as a matter of course. But not long, for Hetty’s
dusky fist flourished in the air, and, more than all, the smothered cry
of “Granny, granny, he done sot on me,” which came from beneath him,
landed him on the other side of the room, where he struck against the
churn; whereupon, Victoria Eugenia set up another yell, which sent him
back to the spot where Josh’s cowhides were performing various
evolutions by way of showing his delight.
“Thunder!” ejaculated Ben, looking first at the skirts of his
swallow-tail, then at the chest, from which Dud was emerging, covered
with meal, and then at the churn, over the top of which a pair of little
black hands and a piece of licorice were visible, “what’s the meaning of
all this?”
No explanation whatever was vouchsafed, and, to this day, Ben does not
know the reason why those negroes were stowed away in such novel hiding
places.
When the excitement had somewhat subsided, Ben returned to his first
intention, behaving so civilly that the fears of the negroes gave way,
and Dinah was so well pleased with purchasing a brass pin at half price
that Ben ventured, at last to say:
“That little gal, Alice, has been tellin’ me about Mr. Raymond’s
marriage. Unlucky, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t wonder though, if he had a kind
of hankerin’ after that black-eyed miss. She’s han’some as a picter.”
Dinah needed but this to loosen her tongue. She had long before made up
her mind that “Isabel was no kind o’ ’count;” and once the two had come
to open hostilities, Isabel accusing Dinah of being a “lazy, gossiping
nigger,” while Dinah, in return, had told her “she warn’t no better ’n
she should be stickin’ ’round after Mars. Frederic, when nobody knew
whether Miss Marian was dead, or not.”
This indignity was reported to Frederic, who reproved old Dinah,
sharply; whereupon, she turned toward him, and, to use her favorite
expression, “gin him a piece of her mind.”
After this it was generally understood that between Dinah and Isabel
here existed no very amicable state of feeling, and when Ben spoke of
the latter, the former exploded at once.
“’Twas a burnin’ shame,” she said, “and it mortified her een-a-most to
death to see the trollop a tryin’ to set to marster, when nobody know’d
for sartin if his fust wife was dead.”
“Marster’s jest as fast as she,” interposed Hetty, who seldom agreed
with Dinah.
A contemptuous sneer curled Dinah’s lip as she said to Ben, in a
whisper:
“Don’t b’lieve none o’ her trash. Them Higginses allus would lie. I
hain’t never seen Marster Frederic do a single thing out o’ the way,
’cept to look at her, jest as Phil used to look at me when he was
sparkin’. I don’t think that was very ’spectable in him, to be sure, but
looks don’t signify. He dassen’t marry her till he knows for sartin
t’other one is dead. He done told Alice so, and she told me;” and then
Dinah launched out into praises of the lost Marian, exalting her so
highly that Ben tossed into her lap a pair of ear-rings which she had
greatly admired.
“Take them,” said he, “for standin’ up for that poor runaway. I like to
hear one woman stick to another.”
Dinah cast an exulting glance at Hetty, who, nothing daunted, came
forward and said:
“Miss Marian was as likely a gal as thar was in Kentuck, and she, for
one, should be as glad to see her back as some o’ them that made sich a
fuss about it.”
“Playin’ ’possum,” whispered Dinah. “Them Higginses is up to that.”
Ben probably thought so too, for he paid no attention to Hetty, who,
highly indignant started for Isabel, and told her “how Dinah and that
fetch-ed peddler done spilt her character entirely.”
“Leave the room,” was Isabel’s haughty answer. “I am above what a poor
negro and an ignorant Yankee can say.”
“For the dear Lord’s sake,” muttered the discomfited Hetty; “wonder if
she ain’t a Yankee her own self. ’Spects how she done forgot whar she
was raised,” and Hetty returned to the kitchen a warmer adherent of
Marian than Dinah had ever been.
She, too, was very talkative now, and before nine o’clock Ben had
learned all that he expected to learn, and much more. He had ascertained
that no one had the slightest suspicion of the reason why Marian went
away; that both Frederic and Isabel seemed unhappy; that Dinah and
Hetty, too, believed “thar was somethin’ warin’ on thar minds;” that
Frederic was discontented, and talked seriously of leaving Redstone Hall
in care of an overseer, and moving, in the Autumn to his residence on
the Hudson; that Hetty hoped he would, and Dinah hoped he wouldn’t,
“’case if he did, it would be next to impossible to get a stroke o’ work
out o’ them lazy Higginses.”
“I’ve got all I come for, I b’lieve,” was Ben’s mental comment, as he
left the kitchen and returned to the dining room, where he found
Frederic alone. “I’ll poke his ribs a little,” he thought, and helping
himself to a chair, he began:
“Wall, Square, I’ve been out seein’ your niggers. Got a fine lot on ’em,
and I shouldn’t wonder if you was wo’th considerable. Willed to you by
your dad, or was it a kind of a dowry come by your wife? You’re a
widower, they say;” and the gray eyes looked out at their corners, as
Ben thought, “That’ll make him squirm, I guess.”
Frederic turned very white, but his voice was natural as he replied:
“My father was called the richest man in the county, and I was his only
child.”
“Ah, yes, come to you that way,” answered Ben, continuing after a
moment. “There’s a big house up on the Hudson—to Yonkers—that’s been
shet up and rented at odd spells for a good while, and somebody told me
it belonged to a Colonel Raymond, who lived South. Mabby that’s yourn?”
“It is,” returned Frederic, “and I expect now to go there in the Fall.”
“I want to know. I shouldn’t s’pose you could be hired to leave this
place.”
“I couldn’t be hired to stay. There are too many sad memories connected
with it,” was Frederic’s answer, and he paced the floor hurriedly, while
Ben continued: “Mabby you’ll be takin’ a new wife there?”
Frederic’s cheek flushed as he replied:
“If I ever marry again, it will not be in years. Would you like to go to
bed, sir?”
Ben took the hint and replying, “I don’t care if I dew,” followed the
negro, who came at Frederic’s call, up to his room, a pleasant,
comfortable chamber, overlooking the river and the surrounding country.
“Golly, this is grand!” said Ben, examining the different articles of
furniture, as if he had never seen anything like it before.
The negro, who was Lyd’s husband, made no reply, but, hurrying down
stairs to his mother-in-law, he told her, “Thar was somethin’ mighty
queer about that man, and if they all found themselves alive in the
mornin,’ he should be thankful.”
Unmindful of breast-pin and ear-rings, Dinah became again alarmed, and,
bidding Joe see that Victoria Eugenia was safe, she gathered up the
forks and spoons, and rolling them in a towel, tucked them inside her
straw tick, saying: “I reckon it’ll make him sweat some to hist me and
Phil on to the floor;” which was quite probable, considering that the
united weight of the worthy couple was somewhat over three hundred!
The morning dawned at last, and, with her fears abated, Dinah washed the
silver, made the coffee, broiled the steak and fried the corn meal
batter-cakes, which last were at first respectfully declined by Ben, who
admitted that they “might be fust-rate, but he didn’t b’lieve they’d set
well on his stomach.”
Hetty, who was waiting upon the table, quickly divined the reason, and
whispered to him: “Lord bless you, take some; I done sifted the meal!”
This argument was conclusive, and helping himself to the light, steaming
cakes, Ben thought, “I may as well eat ’em, for ’taint no wus, nor as
bad as them Irish gals does to hum, only I happened to see it!”
Breakfast being over, he offered to settle his bill, which he found was
nothing.
“Now, ra-ally, Square,” he said, as Frederic refused to take pay, “I
allus hearn that Kentuckians was mighty free-hearted, but I didn’t
’spect you to give me my livin’. I’m much obleeged to you, though, and I
shall have more left to eddicate that little sister I was tellin’ you
’bout. I mean to give her tip-top larnin’, and mebby sometime she’ll
come here to teach this wee one,” and he laid his hand on Alice’s hair.
The little girl smiled up in his face, and said, “Come again and peddle
here, won’t you?”
“Wouldn’t wonder if I turned up amongst you some day,” was his answer;
and bidding the family goodbye, he went out into Bruno’s kennel, for
until this minute he had forgotten that the dog was to be remembered.
“Keep away from dar,” called out Uncle Phil, while Bruno growled
savagely and bounded against the bars as if anxious to pounce upon the
intruder.
“I’ve seen enough of him,” thought Ben, and shaking hands with Uncle
Phil, he walked rapidly down the avenue and out into the highway.
Marian, he knew, was anxious to hear of his success, and not willing to
keep her waiting longer than was necessary, he determined to return at
once. Accordingly, while the unsuspecting inmates of Redstone Hall were
discussing his late visit and singular appearance, he was on his way to
the depot, where he took the first train for Frankfort, and was soon
sailing down the Kentucky toward home.