One Of Them

“Mayhap you’re a-thinkin’, Britisher, whether, if you could wile him away from me, you could n’t do a good stroke of work with him down South, – eh? wasn’t that it?”

“No, on my word; nothing of the kind. My desire was simply to know if I could n’t serve him where he was, and where he is probably to remain.”

“Where he is sartainly to remain, I ‘d say, sir, – sartainly to remain! I ‘d rayther give up the Temple, ay, and all the fixin’s, than I ‘d give up that man. There ain’t one spot in creation he ain’t fit for. Take him North, and he ‘ll beat all the Abolitionists ever talked; bring him down to the old South State, and hear him how he ‘ll make out that the Bible stands by slavery, and that Blacks are to Whites what children are to their elders, – a sort of folk to be fed, and nourished, and looked arter, and, maybe, cor-rected a little betimes. Fetch him up to Lowell, and he ‘ll teach the factory folk in their own mills; and as to the art of stump-raisin’, rotation of crops in a new soil, fattenin’ hogs, and curin’ salmon, jest show me one to compare with him!”

“How sad that such a man should be lost!” said Layton, half to himself.

But the other overheard him, and rejoined: “It’s always with some sentiment of that kind you Britishers work out something for your own benefit. You never conquer a new territory except to propagate trial by jury and habeas corpus. Now look out here, for I won’t stand you ‘re steppin’ in ‘tween me and old Poll.”

It was not enough for Layton to protest that he harbored no such intentions. Mr. Heron’s experiences of mankind had inspired very different lessons than those of trust and confidence, and he secretly determined that no opportunity should be given to carry out the treason he dreaded.

“When the lecturin’-room is a-clean swept out and dusted, the table placed, and the blackboard with a piece of chalk ahind it, and the bills a-posted, setting forth what you ‘re a-goin’ to stump out, there ain’t no need for more. If you ‘ve got the stuff in you to amuse our folk, you ‘ll see the quarter dollars a-rollin’ in, in no time! If they think, however, that you ‘re only come here to sell ‘em grit for buckwheat, darm me considerable, but there’s lads here would treat you to a cowhide!”

Layton did not hear this alternative with all the conscious security of success, not to say that it was a penalty on failure far more severe and practical than any his fears had ever anticipated. Coldness he was prepared for, disapprobation he might endure, but he was not ready to be treated as a cheat and impostor because he had not satisfied the expectancies of an audience.

“I half regret,” said he, “that I should not have learned something more of your public before making my appearance to them. It may not be, perhaps, too late.”

“Well, I suspect it is too late,” said the other, dryly. “They won’t stand folks a-postin’ up bills, and then sayin’ ‘There ain’t no performance.’ You ‘re not in the Haymarket, sir, where you can come out with a flam about sudden indisposition, and a lie signed by a ‘pottecary.”

“But if I leave the town?”

“I wouldn’t say you mightn’t, if you had a balloon,” said the other, laughing; “but as to any other way, I defy you!”

Layton was not altogether without the suspicion that Mr. Heron was trying to play upon his fears, and this was exactly the sort of outrage that a mind like his would least tolerate. It was, to be sure, a wild, out-of-the-world kind of place; the people were a rough, semi-civilized-looking set; public opinion in such a spot might take a rude form; what they deemed unequal to their expectations, they might construe as a fraud upon their pockets; and if so, and that their judgment should take the form he hinted at – Still, he was reluctant to accept this version of the case, and stood deeply pondering what line to adopt.

“You don’t like it, stranger; now that’s a fact,” said Heron, as he scanned his features. “You ‘ve been a-thinkin’, ‘Oh, any rubbish I like will be good enough for these bark-cutters. What should such fellows know, except about their corn crops and their saw-mills? I needn’t trouble my head about what I talk to ‘em.’ But now, you see, it ain’t so; you begin to perceive that Jonathan, with his sleeves rolled up for work, is a smart man, who keeps his brains oiled and his thoughts polished, like one of Platt’s engines, and it won’t do to ask him to make French rolls out of sawdust!”

Layton was still silent, partly employed in reviewing the difficulty of his position, but even more, perhaps, from chagrin at the tone of impertinence addressed to him.

“Yes, sir,” said Heron, continuing an imaginary dialogue with himself, – “yes, sir; that’s a mistake more than one of your countrymen has fallen into. As Mr. Clay said, it ‘s so hard for an Englishman not to think of us as colonists.”

“I ‘ve made up my mind,” said Layton, at last “I ‘ll not lecture.”

“Won’t you? Then all I can say is, Britisher, look out for a busy arternoon. I told you what our people was. I warned you that if they struck work an hour earlier to listen to a preacher, it would fare ill with him if he wanted the mill to turn without water.”

“I repeat, I ‘ll not lecture, come what may of it,” said Layton, firmly.

“Well, it ain’t so very hard to guess what will come of it,” replied the other.

“This is all nonsense and folly, sir,” said Layton, angrily. “I have taken no man’s money; I have deceived no one. Your people, when I shall have left this place, will be no worse than when I entered it.”

“If that ‘s your platform, stranger, come out and defend it; we ‘ll have a meetin’ called, and I promise you a fair hearin’.”

“I have no account to render to any. I am not responsible for my conduct to one of you!” said Layton, angrily.

“You’re a-beggin’ the whole question, stranger; so jest keep these arguments for the meetin’.”

“Meeting! I will attend no meeting! Whatever be your local ways and habits, you have no right to impose them upon a stranger. I am not one of you; I will not be one of you.”

“That’s more of the same sort of reasonin’; but you ‘ll be chastised, Britisher, see if you ain’t!”

“Let me have some sort of conveyance, or, if need be, a horse. I will leave this at once. Any expenses I have incurred I am ready to pay. You hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you, but that ain’t enough. You ‘re bound by them bills, as you ‘ll see stickin’ up all through the town, to appear this evening and deliver a lecture before the people of this city – ”

“One word for all, I ‘ll not do it.”

“And do you tell me, sir, that when our folk is a-gatherin’ about the assembly rooms, that they ‘re to be told to go home ag’in; that the Britisher has changed his mind, and feels someways as if he didn’t like it?”

“That may be as it can; my determination is fixed. You may lecture yourself; or you can, perhaps, induce your friend – I forget his name – to favor the company.”

“Well, sir, if old Poll’s strength was equal to it, the public would n’t have to regret you. It ain’t one of your stamp could replace him, that I tell you.”

A sudden thought here flashed across Layton’s mind, and he hastened to profit by it.

“Why not ask him to take my place? I am ready, most ready, to requite his services. Tell him, if you like, that I will pay all the expenses of the evening, and leave him the receipts. Or say, if he prefer, that I will give him thirty, forty, ay, fifty dollars, if he will relieve me from an engagement I have no mind for.”

“Well, that does sound a bit reasonable,” said the other, slowly; “though, mayhap, he ‘ll not think the terms so high. You would n’t say eighty, or a hundred, would you? He ‘s proud, old Poll, and it’s best not to offend him by a mean offer.”

Layton bit his lip impatiently, and walked up and down the room without speaking.

“Not to say,” resumed Heron, “that he’s jest out of a sick-bed; the exertion might give him a relapse. The contingencies is to be calc’lated, as they say on the railroads.”

“If it be only a question between fifty and eighty – ”

“That’s it, – well spoken. Well, call it a hundred, and I’m off to see if it can’t be done.” And without waiting for a reply, Heron hastened out of the room as he spoke.

Notwithstanding the irritation the incident caused him, Layton could not, as soon as he found himself alone, avoid laughing at the absurdity of his situation.

If he never went the full length of believing in the hazardous consequences Mr. Heron predicted, he at least saw that he must be prepared for any mark of public disfavor his disappointment might excite; and it was just possible such censure might assume a very unpleasant shape. The edicts of Judge Lynch are not always in accordance with the dignity of the accused, and though this consideration first forced him to laugh, his second thoughts were far graver. Nor were these thoughts unmixed with doubts as to what Quackinboss would say of the matter. Would he condemn the rashness of his first pledge, or the timidity of his retreat; or would he indignantly blame him for submission to a menace? In the midst of these considerations, Heron reentered the room.

“There, sir; it’s all signed and sealed. Old Poll’s to do the work, and you ‘re to be too ill to appear. That will require your stayin’ here till nightfall; but when the folks is at the hall, you can slip through the town and make for New Lebanon.”

“And I am to pay – how much did you say?”

“What you proposed yourself, sir. A hundred dollars.”

“At eight o’clock, then, let me have a wagon ready,” said Layton, too much irritated with his own conduct to be moved by anything in that of his host. He therefore paid little attention to Mr. Heron’s account of all the ingenuity and address it had cost him to induce old Poll to become his substitute, nor would he listen to one word of the conversation reported to have passed on that memorable occasion. What cared he to hear how old Poll looked ten years younger since the bargain? He was to be dressed like a gentleman; he was to be in full black; he was to resume all the dignity of the station he had once held; while he gave the public what he had hitherto resolutely refused, – some account of himself and his own life. Layton turned away impatiently at these details; they were all associated with too much that pained to interest or to please him.

“The matter is concluded now, and let me hear no more of it,” said he, peevishly. “I start at eight.” And with this he turned away, leaving no excuse to his host to remain, or resume an unpalatable subject.

“Your wagon shall be here at the hour, and a smart pair of horses to bowl you along, sir,” said Heron, too well satisfied on the whole to be annoyed by a passing coldness.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE LECTURER

Alfred Layton’s day dragged drearily along, watching and waiting for the hour of departure. Close prisoner as he was, the time hung heavily on his hands, without a book or any sort of companionship to beguile its weariness. He tried various ways to pass the hours; he pondered over a faintly colored and scarce traceable map on the walls. It represented America, with all the great western annexations, in that condition of vague obscurity in which geographers were wont to depict the Arctic regions. He essayed to journalize his experiences on the road; but he lost patience in recording the little incidents which composed them. He endeavored to take counsel with himself about his future; but he lost heart in the inquiry, as he bethought him how little direction he had ever given hitherto to his life, and how completely he had been the sport of accident.

He was vexed and angry with himself. It was the first time he had been called upon to act by his own guidance for months back, and he had made innumerable mistakes in the attempt. Had Quackinboss been with him, he well knew all these blunders had been avoided. This reflection pained him, just as it has pained many a gifted and accomplished man to think that life and the world are often more difficult than book-learning.