“Mrs. Edward Danforth,” repeated the sexton, on hearing the story of Paul's exploit.
“Why, she attends our church.”
“Do you know Mr. Danforth?” asked Paul, with interest.
“Only by sight. I know him by reputation, however.”
“I suppose he is very rich.”
“Yes, I should judge so. At any rate, he is doing an extensive business.”
“What is his business?”
“He is a merchant.”
“A merchant,” thought Paul; “that is just what I should like to be, but I don't see much prospect of it.”
“How do you like Mrs. Danforth?” inquired the sexton.
“Very much,” said Paul, warmly. “She was very kind, and made me feel quite at home in her company.”
“I hope she may be disposed to assist you. She can easily do so, in her position.”
The next day Paul did not as usual go out in search of a situation. His mind was occupied with thoughts of his coming interview with Mrs. Danforth, and he thought he would defer his business plans till the succeeding day.
At an early hour in the evening, he paused before an imposing residence on Fifth Avenue, which he had seen but not entered the day previous.
He mounted the steps and pulled the bell.
A smart-looking man-servant answered his ring.
“Is Mrs. Danforth at home?” asked Paul.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“I have called to see her.”
“Does she expect you?” asked the servant, looking surprised.
“Yes; I come at her appointment,” said Paul.
“Then I suppose it's all right,” said the man. “Will you come in?” he asked, a little doubtfully.
Paul followed him into the house, and was shown into the drawing-room, the magnificence of which somewhat dazzled his eyes; accustomed only to the plain sitting-room of Mr. Cameron.
The servant reappeared after a brief absence, and with rather more politeness than he had before shown, invited Paul to follow him to a private sitting-room upstairs, where he would see Mrs. Danforth.
Looking at Paul's plain, though neat clothes, the servant was a little puzzled to understand what had obtained for Paul the honor of being on visiting terms with Mrs. Danforth.
“Good evening, Paul,” said Mrs. Danforth, rising from her seat and welcoming our hero with extended hand. “So you did not forget your appointment.”
“There was no fear of that,” said Paul, with his usual frankness. “I have been looking forward to coming all day.”
“Have you, indeed?” said the lady with a pleasant smile.
“Then I must endeavor to make your visit agreeable to you. Do you recognize this desk?”
Upon a table close by, was the desk which had been purchased the day previous, at Appleton's.
“Yes,” said Paul, “it is the one you bought yesterday. I think it is very handsome.”
“I am glad you think so. I think I told you that I intended it for a present. I have had the new owner's name engraved upon it.”
Paul read the name upon the plate provided for the purpose. His face flushed with surprise and pleasure. That name was his own.
“Do you really mean it for me,” he asked.
“If you will accept it,” said Mrs. Danforth, smiling.
“I shall value it very much,” said Paul, gratefully. “And I feel very much indebted to your kindness.”
“We won't talk of indebtedness, for you remember mine is much the greater. If you will open the desk you will find that it is furnished with what will, I hope, prove of use to you.”
The desk being opened, proved to contain a liberal supply of stationery, sealing wax, postage stamps, and pens.
Paul was delighted with his new present, and Mrs. Danforth seemed to enjoy the evident gratification with which it inspired him.
“Now,” said she, “tell me a little about yourself. Have you always lived in New York?”
“Only about three years,” said Paul.
“And where did you live before?”
“At Wrenville, in Connecticut.”
“I have heard of the place. A small country town, is it not?”
Paul answered in the affirmative.
“How did you happen to leave Wrenville, and come to New York?”
Paul blushed, and hesitated a moment.
“I ran away,” he said at length, determined to keep nothing back.
“Ran away! Not from home, I hope.”
“I had no home,” said Paul, soberly. “I should never have left there, if my father had not died. Then I was thrown upon the world. I was sent to the Poorhouse. I did not want to go, for I thought I could support myself.”
“That is a very honorable feeling. I suppose you did not fare very well at the Poorhouse.”
In reply, Paul detailed some of the grievances to which he had been subjected. Mrs. Danforth listened with sympathizing attention.
“You were entirely justified in running away,” she said, as he concluded. “I can hardly imagine so great a lack of humanity as these people showed. You are now, I hope, pleasantly situated?”
“Yes,” said Paul, “Mr. and Mrs. Cameron treat me with as great kindness as if I were their own child.”
“Cameron! Is not that the name of the sexton of our church?” said Mrs. Danforth, meditatively.
“It is with him that I have a pleasant home.”
“Indeed, I am glad to hear it. You have been attending school, I suppose.”
“Yes, it is not more than two months since I left off school.”
“And now I suppose you are thinking of entering upon some business.”
“Yes; I have been trying to obtain a place in some merchant's counting-room.”
“You think, then, that you would like the career of a merchant?”
“There is nothing that would suit me better.”
“You have not succeeded in obtaining a place yet, I suppose?”
“No. They are very difficult to get, and I have no influential friends to assist me.”
“I have heard Mr. Danforth say that he experienced equal difficulty when he came to New York, a poor boy.”
Paul looked surprised.
“I see that you are surprised,” said Mrs. Danforth, smiling. “You think, perhaps, judging from what you see, that my husband was always rich. But he was the son of a poor farmer, and was obliged to make his own way in the world. By the blessing of God, he has been prospered in business and become rich. But he often speaks of his early discouragements and small beginnings. I am sorry he is not here this evening. By the way, he left word for you to call at his counting-room to-morrow, at eleven o'clock. I will give you his address.”
She handed Paul a card containing the specified number, and soon after he withdrew, bearing with him his handsome gift, and a cordial invitation to repeat his call.
He looked back at the elegant mansion which he had just left, and could not help feeling surprised that the owner of such a palace, should have started in life with no greater advantages than himself.
Paul slept late the next morning. He did not hear the breakfast-bell, and when the sexton came up to awaken him he rubbed his eyes with such an expression of bewilderment that Mr. Cameron could not forbear laughing.
“You must have had queer dreams, Paul,” said he.
“Yes, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, laughing, “I believe I have.”
“When you have collected your wits, which at present seem absent on a wool-gathering expedition, perhaps you will tell what you have been dreaming about.”
“So I will,” said Paul, “and perhaps you can interpret it for me. I dreamed that I was back again at Mr. Mudge's, and that he sent me out into the field to dig potatoes. I worked away at the first hill, but found no potatoes. In place of them were several gold pieces. I picked them up in great surprise, and instead of putting them into the basket, concluded to put them in my pocket. But as all the hills turned out in the same way I got my pockets full, and had to put the rest in the basket. I was just wondering what they would do for potatoes, when all at once a great dog came up and seized me by the arm——”
“And you opened your eyes and saw me,” said the sexton, finishing out his narrative.
“Upon my word, that's very complimentary to me. However, some of our potatoes have escaped transformation into gold pieces, but I am afraid you will find them rather cold if you don't get down to breakfast pretty quick.”
“All right, Uncle Hugh. I'll be down in a jiffy.”
About half-past ten Paul started on his way to Mr. Danforth's counting-room. It was located on Wall Street, as he learned from the card which had been given him by Mrs. Danforth. He felt a little awkward in making this call. It seemed as if he were going to receive thanks for the service which he had rendered, and he felt that he had already been abundantly repaid. However, he was bound in courtesy to call, since he did so at the request of Mrs. Danforth.
It was a large stone building, divided up into offices, to which Paul had been directed. Mr. Danforth's office he found after a little search, upon the second floor.
He opened the door with a little embarrassment, and looked about him.
In one corner was a small room, used as a more private office, the door of which was closed. In the larger room the only one whom he saw, was a boy, apparently about his own age, who was standing at a desk and writing.
This boy looked around as Paul entered, and he at once recognized in him an old acquaintance.
“George Dawkins!” he exclaimed in surprise.
The latter answered in a careless indifferent tone, not exhibiting any very decided pleasure at meeting his old schoolmate.
“Oh, it's you, Prescott, is it?”
“Yes,” said Paul, “I haven't met you since you left our school.”
“No, I believe we have not met,” said Dawkins, in the same tone as before.
“How long have you been in this office?” asked our hero.
“I really can't say,” said Dawkins, not looking up.
“You can't say!”
“No, I'm rather forgetful.”
Paul could not help feeling chilled at the indifferent manner in which his advances were met. He had been really glad to see Dawkins, and had addressed him with cordiality. He could not conceal from himself that Dawkins did not seem inclined to respond to it.
“Still,” thought Paul, extenuatingly, “perhaps that is his way.”
As the conversation began to flag, Paul was reminded of his errand by Dawkins saying, in a tone which was half a sneer, “Have you any business with Mr. Danforth this morning, or did you merely come in out of curiosity?”
“I have called to see Mr. Danforth,” said Paul.
“He is usually pretty busy in the morning,” said Dawkins.
“He directed me to call in the morning,” said Paul, sturdily.
“Oh, indeed!” said Dawkins, a little surprised. “I wonder,” he thought, “what business this fellow can have with Mr. Danforth. Can he be fishing for a place?”
“Mr. Danforth is engaged with a visitor just now,” he at length condescended to say; “if your time is not too valuable to wait, you can see him by-and-by.”
“Thank you,” said Paul, rather nettled, “you are very polite.”
To this Dawkins made no reply, but resumed his pen, and for the next ten minutes seemed entirely oblivious of Paul's presence.
Our hero took up the morning paper, and began, as he had so often done before, to look over the list of wants, thinking it possible he might find some opening for himself.
About ten minutes later the door of the inner office opened, and two gentlemen came out. One was a gentleman of fifty, a business friend of Mr. Danforth's, the other was Mr. Danforth himself.
The former remarked, on seeing Paul, “Is this your son, Danforth?”
“No,” said the merchant, nodding in a friendly manner to Paul.
“That's a good joke,” thought Dawkins, chuckling to himself; “Mr. Danforth must be immensely flattered at having a sexton's adopted son taken for his.”
After a final word or two on business matters, and arrangements for another interview, the visitor departed, and Mr. Danforth, now at leisure, turned to Paul.
“Now my lad,” he said kindly, “if you will follow me, we shall have a chance to talk a little.”
Paul followed the merchant into his office, the door of which was closed, much to the regret of Dawkins, who had a tolerably large share of curiosity, and was very anxious to find out what business Paul could possibly have with his employer.
“Take that seat, if you please;” said Mr. Danforth, motioning Paul to an arm-chair, and sitting down himself, “Mrs. Danforth told me from how great a peril you rescued her. You are a brave boy.”
“I don't know,” said Paul, modestly, “I didn't think of the danger. If I had, perhaps I should have hesitated.”
“If you had not been brave you would have thought of your own risk. My wife and myself are under very great obligations to you.”
“That more than repays me for all I did,” said Paul, in a tone of mingled modesty and manliness.
“I like the boy,” thought Mr. Danforth; “he is certainly quite superior to the common run.”
“Have you left school?” he inquired, after a pause.
“Yes, sir. Last term closed my school life.”
“Then you have never been in a situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Indeed! Before you left school?”
“No, sir, since.”
“You did not like it, then?”
“No, sir,” said Paul.
“And was that the reason of your leaving?”
“No, sir; my employer was not satisfied with me,” said Paul, frankly.
“Indeed! I am surprised to hear this! If you have no objection, will you tell me the circumstances?”
Paul related in a straightforward manner the difficulty he had had with Smith & Thompson.
“I hope you don't think I did wrong,” he concluded.
“By no means,” said Mr. Danforth, warmly. “Your conduct was entirely creditable. As for Smith, I know of him. He is a sharper. It would have done you no good to remain in his employ.”
Paul was pleased with this commendation. He had thought it possible that his dismissal from his former situation might operate against him with the merchant.
“What are your present plans and wishes?” asked Mr. Danforth, after a slight pause.
“I should like to enter a merchant's counting-room,” said Paul, “but as such places are hard to get, I think I shall try to get into a store.”
Mr. Danforth reflected a moment, then placing a piece of paper before our hero, he said, “Will you write your name and address on this piece of paper, that I may know where to find you, in case I hear of a place?”
Paul did as directed. He had an excellent handwriting, a point on which the merchant set a high value.
The latter surveyed the address with approval, and said, “I am glad you write so excellent a hand. It will be of material assistance to you in securing a place in a counting-room. Indeed, it has been already, for I have just thought of a place which I can obtain for you.”
“Can you, sir?” said Paul, eagerly.
“Where is it?”
“In my own counting-room,” said Mr. Danforth, smiling.
“I am very much obliged to you,” said Paul, hardly believing his ears.
“I was prepared to give it to you when you came in, in case I found you qualified. The superiority of your handwriting decides me. When can you come?”
“To-morrow, if you like, sir.”
“I like your promptness. As it is the middle of the week, however, you may take a vacation till Monday. Your salary will begin to-morrow.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I will give you five dollars per week at first, and more as your services become more valuable. Will that be satisfactory?”
“I shall feel rich, sir. Mr. Smith only gave me a dollar and a quarter.”
“I hope you will find other differences between me and Mr. Smith,” said the merchant, smiling.
These preliminaries over, Mr. Danforth opened the door, and glancing at Dawkins, said, “Dawkins, I wish you to become acquainted with your fellow clerk, Paul Prescott.”
Dawkins looked surprised, and anything but gratified as he responded stiffly, “I have the honor of being already acquainted with Mr. Prescott.”
“He is a little jealous of an interloper,” thought Mr. Danforth, noticing the repellent manner of young Dawkins. “Never mind, they will get acquainted after awhile.”
When George Dawkins went home to dinner, his father observed the dissatisfied look he wore.
“Is anything amiss, my son?” he inquired.
“I should think there was,” grumbled his son.
“What is it?”
“We've got a new clerk, and who do you think it is?”
“Who is it?”
“The adopted son of old Cameron, the sexton.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Dawkins. “I really wonder at Mr. Danforth's bad taste. There are many boys of genteel family, who would have been glad of the chance. This boy is a low fellow of course.”
“Certainly,” said her son, though he was quite aware that this was not true.
“What could have brought the boy to Danforth's notice?” asked Dawkins, senior.
“I don't know, I'm sure. The boy has managed to get round him in some way. He is very artful.”
“I really think, husband, that you ought to remonstrate with Mr. Danforth about taking such a low fellow into his counting-room with our George.”
“Pooh!” said Mr. Dawkins, who was a shade more sensible than his wife, “he'd think me a meddler.”
“At any rate, George,” pursued his mother, “there's one thing that is due to your family and bringing up,—not to associate with this low fellow any more than business requires.”
“I certainly shall not,” said George, promptly.
He was the worthy son of such a mother.
At the end of the first week, Paul received five dollars, the sum which the merchant had agreed to pay him for his services. With this he felt very rich. He hurried home, and displayed to the sexton the crisp bank note which had been given him.
“You will soon be a rich man, Paul,” said Mr. Cameron, with a benevolent smile, returning the bill.
“But I want you to keep it, Uncle Hugh.”
“Shall I put it in the Savings Bank, for you, Paul?”
“I didn't mean that. You have been supporting me—giving me board and clothes—for three years. It is only right that you should have what I earn.”
“The offer is an honorable one on your part, Paul,” said the sexton; “but I don't need it. If it will please you, I will take two dollars a week for your board, now, and out of the balance you may clothe yourself, and save what you can.”
This arrangement seemed to be a fair one. Mr. Cameron deposited the five dollar note in his pocket-book, and passed one of three dollars to Paul. This sum our hero deposited the next Monday morning, in a savings bank. He estimated that he could clothe himself comfortably for fifty dollars a year. This would leave him one hundred towards the payment of the debt due to Squire Conant.
“By-and-by my salary will be raised,” thought Paul. “Then I can save more.”
He looked forward with eager anticipation to the time when he should be able to redeem his father's name, and no one would be entitled to cast reproach upon his memory.
He endeavored to perform his duties faithfully in the office, and to learn as rapidly as he could the business upon which he had entered. He soon found that he must depend mainly upon himself. George Dawkins seemed disposed to afford him no assistance, but repelled scornfully the advances which Paul made towards cordiality. He was by no means as faithful as Paul, but whenever Mr. Danforth was absent from the office, spent his time in lounging at the window, or reading a cheap novel, with one of which he was usually provided.
When Paul became satisfied that Dawkins was not inclined to accept his overtures, he ceased to court his acquaintance, and confined himself to his own desk.
One day as he was returning from dinner, he was startled by an unceremonious slap upon the shoulder.
Looking up in some surprise, he found that this greeting had come from a man just behind him, whose good-humored face and small, twinkling eyes, he at once recognized.
“How do you do, Mr. Stubbs?” inquired Paul, his face lighting up with pleasure.
“I'm so's to be round. How be you?” returned the worthy pedler, seizing our hero's hand and shaking it heartily.
Mr. Stubbs was attired in all the glory of a blue coat with brass buttons and swallow tails.
“When did you come to New York?” asked Paul.
“Just arrived; that is, I got in this mornin'. But I say, how you've grown. I shouldn't hardly have known you.”
“Shouldn't you, though?” said Paul, gratified as most boys are, on being told that he had grown. “Have you come to the city on business?”
“Well, kinder on business, and kinder not. I thought I'd like to have a vacation. Besides, the old lady wanted a silk dress, and she was sot on havin' it bought in York. So I come to the city.”
“Where are you stopping, Mr. Stubbs?”
“Over to the Astor House. Pretty big hotel, ain't it?”
“Yes, I see you are traveling in style.”
“Yes, I suppose they charge considerable, but I guess I can stand it. I hain't been drivin' a tin-cart for nothin' the last ten years.
“How have you been enjoying yourself since you arrived?”
“Oh, pretty well. I've been round seeing the lions, and came pretty near seeing the elephant at one of them Peter Funk places.”
“You did! Tell me about it.”
“You see I was walkin' along when a fellow came out of one of them places, and asked me if I wouldn't go in. I didn't want to refuse such a polite invitation, and besides I had a curiosity to see what there was to be seen, so I went in. They put up a silver watch, I could see that it was a good one, and so I bid on it. It ran up to eight dollars and a quarter. I thought it was a pity it should go off so cheap, so I bid eight and a half.”
“'Eight and a half and sold,' said the man; 'shall I put it up for you?”
“'No, I thank you,' said I, 'I'll take it as it is.'
“'But I'll put it up in a nice box for you,' said he.
“I told him I didn't care for the box. He seemed very unwilling to let it go, but I took it out of his hand and he couldn't help himself. Well, when they made out the bill, what do you suppose they charged?”
“I don't know.”
“Why, eighteen and a half.”
“'Look here,' said I, 'I guess here's something of a mistake. You've got ten dollars too much.'
“'I think you must be mistaken,' said he, smiling a foxy smile.
“'You know I am not,' said I, rather cross.
“We can't let that watch go for any thing shorter,' said he, coolly.
“Just then a man that was present stepped up and said, 'the man is right; don't attempt to impose upon him.'
“With that he calmed right down. It seems it was a policeman who was sent to watch them, that spoke. So I paid the money, but as I went out I heard the auctioneer say that the sale was closed for the day. I afterwards learned that if I had allowed them to put the watch in a box, they would have exchanged it for another that was only plated.”
“Do you know anybody in the city?” asked Paul.
“I've got some relations, but I don't know where they live.”
“What is the name?” asked Paul, “we can look into the directory.”
“The name is Dawkins,” answered the pedler.
“Dawkins!” repeated Paul, in surprise.
“Yes, do you happen to know anybody of the name?”
“Yes, but I believe it is a rich family.”
“Well, so are my relations,” said Jehoshaphat. “You didn't think Jehoshaphat Stubbs had any rich relations, did you? These, as I've heard tell, hold their heads as high as anybody.”
“Perhaps I may be mistaken,” said Paul.
“What is the name—the Christian name, I mean—of your relation?”
“George.”
“It must be he, then. There is a boy of about my own age of that name. He works in the same office.”
“You don't say so! Well, that is curious, I declare. To think that I should have happened to hit upon you so by accident too.”
“How are you related to them?” inquired Paul.
“Why, you see, I'm own cousin to Mr. Dawkins. His father and my mother were brother and sister.”
“What was his father's business?” asked Paul.
“I don't know what his regular business was, but he was a sexton in some church.”
This tallied with the account Paul had received from Mr. Cameron, and he could no longer doubt that, strange as it seemed, the wealthy Mr. Dawkins was own cousin to the pedler.
“Didn't you say the boy was in the same office with you, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“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.”
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.
Ben waited till Mr. Mudge was close at hand, when all at once he started from his place of concealment completely enveloped in the sheet with which he was provided. He stood motionless before the astounded Mudge.
“Who are you?” exclaimed Mudge, his knees knocking together in terror, clinging to an overhanging branch for support.
There was no answer.
“Who are you?” he again asked in affright.
“Sally Baker,” returned Ben, in as sepulchral a voice as he could command.
Sally Baker was an old pauper, who had recently died. The name occurred to Ben on the spur of the moment. It was with some difficulty that he succeeded in getting out the name, such was his amusement at Mr. Mudge's evident terror.
“What do you want of me?” inquired Mudge, nervously.
“You half starved me when I was alive,” returned Ben, in a hollow voice, “I must be revenged.”
So saying he took one step forward, spreading out his arms. This was too much for Mr. Mudge. With a cry he started and ran towards home at the top of his speed, with Ben in pursuit.
“I believe I shall die of laughing,” exclaimed Ben, pausing out of breath, and sitting down on a stone, “what a donkey he is, to be sure, to think there are such things as ghosts. I'd like to be by when he tells Mrs. Mudge.”
After a moment's thought, Ben wrapped up the sheet, took it under his arm, and once more ran in pursuit of Mr. Mudge.
Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge was sitting in the kitchen of the Poorhouse, mending stockings. She was not in the pleasantest humor, for one of the paupers had managed to break a plate at tea-table (if that can be called tea where no tea is provided), and trifles were sufficient to ruffle Mrs. Mudge's temper.
“Where's Mudge, I wonder?” she said, sharply; “over to the tavern, I s'pose, as usual. There never was such a shiftless, good-for-nothing man. I'd better have stayed unmarried all the days of my life than have married him. If he don't get in by ten, I'll lock the door, and it shall stay locked. 'Twill serve him right to stay out doors all night.”
Minutes slipped away, and the decisive hour approached.
“I'll go to the door and look out,” thought Mrs. Mudge, “if he ain't anywhere in sight I'll fasten the door.”
She laid down her work and went to the door.
She had not quite reached it when it was flung open violently, and Mr. Mudge, with a wild, disordered look, rushed in, nearly overturning his wife, who gazed at him with mingled anger and astonishment.
“What do you mean by this foolery, Mudge?” she demanded, sternly.
“What do I mean?” repeated her husband, vaguely.
“I needn't ask you,” said his wife, contemptuously. “I see how it is, well enough. You're drunk!”
“Drunk!”
“Yes, drunk; as drunk as a beast.”
“Well, Mrs. Mudge,” hiccoughed her husband, in what he endeavored to make a dignified tone, “you'd be drunk too if you'd seen what I've seen.”
“And what have you seen, I should like to know?” said Mrs. Mudge.
Mudge rose with some difficulty, steadied himself on his feet, and approaching his wife, whispered in a tragic tone, “Mrs. Mudge, I've seen a sperrit.”
“It's plain enough that you've seen spirit,” retorted his wife. “'Tisn't many nights that you don't, for that matter. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mudge.”
“It isn't that,” said her husband, shaking his hand, “it's a sperrit,—a ghost, that I've seen.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically, “perhaps you can tell whose it is.”
“It was the sperrit of Sally Baker,” said Mudge, solemnly.
“What did she say?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, a little curiously.
“She said that I—that we, half starved her, and then she started to run after me—and—oh, Lordy, there she is now!”
Mudge jumped trembling to his feet. Following the direction of his outstretched finger, Mrs. Mudge caught a glimpse of a white figure just before the window. I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had just arrived upon the scene.
Mrs. Mudge was at first stupefied by what she saw, but being a woman of courage she speedily recovered herself, and seizing the broom from behind the door, darted out in search of the “spirit.” But Ben, perceiving that he was discovered, had disappeared, and there was nothing to be seen.
“Didn't I tell you so?” muttered Mudge, as his wife re-entered, baffled in her attempt, “you'll believe it's a sperrit, now.”
“Go to bed, you fool!” retorted his wife.
This was all that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Mudge on the subject. Mr. Mudge firmly believes, to this day, that the figure which appeared to him was the spirit of Sally Baker.