Paul Prescott's Charge

“Well, I’ve a great mind to go and see him, and find out where his father lives. Perhaps I may get an invite to his house.”

“How shocked Dawkins will be!” thought Paul, not, it must be confessed, without a feeling of amusement. He felt no compunction in being the instrument of mortifying the false pride of his fellow clerk, and he accordingly signified to Mr. Stubbs that he was on his way to the counting-room.

“Are you, though? Well, I guess I’ll go along with you. Is it far off?”

“Only in the next street.”

The pedler, it must be acknowledged, had a thoroughly countrified appearance. He was a genuine specimen of the Yankee,—a long, gaunt figure, somewhat stooping, and with a long aquiline nose. His dress has already been described.

As Dawkins beheld him entering with Paul, he turned up his nose in disgust at what he considered Paul’s friend.

What was his consternation when the visitor, approaching him with a benignant smile, extended his brown hand, and said, “How d’ye do, George? How are ye all to hum?”

Dawkins drew back haughtily.

“What do you mean?” he said, pale with passion.

“Mr. Dawkins,” said Paul, with suppressed merriment, “allow me to introduce your cousin, Mr. Stubbs.”

“Jehoshaphat Stubbs,” explained that individual. “Didn’t your father never mention my name to you?”

“Sir,” said Dawkins, darting a furious glance at Paul, “you are entirely mistaken if you suppose that any relationship exists between me and that—person.”

“No, it’s you that are mistaken,” said Mr. Stubbs, persevering, “My mother was Roxana Jane Dawkins. She was own sister to your grandfather. That makes me and your father cousins Don’t you see?”

“I see that you are intending to insult me,” said Dawkins, the more furiously, because he began to fear there might be some truth in the man’s claims. “Mr. Prescott, I leave you to entertain your company yourself.”

And he threw on his hat and dashed out of the counting-room.

“Well,” said the pedler, drawing a long breath, “that’s cool,—denyin’ his own flesh and blood. Rather stuck up, ain’t he?”

“He is, somewhat,” said Paul; “if I were you, I shouldn’t be disposed to own him as a relation.”

“Darned ef I will!” said Jehoshaphat sturdily; “I have some pride, ef I am a pedler. Guess I’m as good as he, any day.”

XXVII

MR. MUDGE’S FRIGHT

Squire Newcome sat in a high-backed chair before the fire with his heels on the fender. He was engaged in solemnly perusing the leading editorial in the evening paper, when all at once the table at his side gave a sudden lurch, the lamp slid into his lap, setting the paper on fire, and, before the Squire realized his situation, the flames singed his whiskers, and made his face unpleasantly warm.

“Cre-a-tion!” he exclaimed, jumping briskly to his feet.

The lamp had gone out, so that the cause of the accident remained involved in mystery. The Squire had little trouble in conjecturing, however, that Ben was at the bottom of it.

Opening the door hastily, he saw, by the light in the next room, that young gentleman rising from his knees in the immediate vicinity of the table.

“Ben-ja-min,” said the Squire, sternly,

“What have you been a-doing?”

Ben looked sheepish, but said nothing.

“I repeat, Benjamin, what have you been a-doing?”

“I didn’t mean to,” said Ben.

“That does not answer my interrogatory. What have you been a-doing?”

“I was chasing the cat,” said Ben, “and she got under the table. I went after her, and somehow it upset. Guess my head might have knocked against the legs.”

“How old are you, Benjamin?”

“Fifteen.”

“A boy of fifteen is too old to play with cats. You may retire to your dormitory.”

“It’s only seven o’clock, father,” said Ben, in dismay.

“Boys that play with cats are young enough to retire at seven,” remarked the Squire, sagaciously.

There was nothing for Ben but to obey.

Accordingly with reluctant steps he went up to his chamber and went to bed. His active mind, together with the early hour, prevented his sleeping. Instead, his fertile imagination was employed in devising some new scheme, in which, of course, fun was to be the object attained. While he was thinking, one scheme flashed upon him which he at once pronounced “bully.”

“I wish I could do it to-night,” he sighed.

“Why can’t I?” he thought, after a moment’s reflection.

The more he thought of it, the more feasible it seemed, and at length he decided to attempt it.

Rising from his bed he quickly dressed himself, and then carefully took the sheet, and folding it up in small compass put it under his arm.

Next, opening the window, he stepped out upon the sloping roof of the ell part, and slid down to the end where he jumped off, the height not being more than four feet from the ground. By some accident, a tub of suds was standing under the eaves, and Ben, much to his disgust, jumped into it.

“Whew!” exclaimed he, “I’ve jumped into that plaguy tub. What possessed Hannah to put it in a fellow’s way?”

At this moment the back door opened, and Hannah called out, in a shrill voice, “Who’s there?” Ben hastily hid himself, and thought it best not to answer.

“I guess ‘twas the cat,” said Hannah, as she closed the door.

“A two-legged cat,” thought Ben, to himself; “thunder, what sopping wet feet I’ve got. Well, it can’t be helped.”

With the sheet still under his arm, Ben climbed a fence and running across the fields reached the fork of the road. Here he concealed himself under a hedge, and waited silently till the opportunity for playing his practical joke arrived.

I regret to say that Mr. Mudge, with whom we have already had considerable to do, was not a member of the temperance society. Latterly, influenced perhaps by Mrs. Mudge’s tongue, which made his home far from a happy one, he had got into the habit of spending his evenings at the tavern in the village, where he occasionally indulged in potations that were not good for him. Generally, he kept within the bounds of moderation, but occasionally he exceeded these, as he had done on the present occasion.

Some fifteen minutes after Ben had taken his station, he saw, in the moonlight, Mr. Mudge coming up the road, on his way home. Judging from his zigzag course, he was not quite himself.