At last Nelson, groaning as he thought of meeting my father, and wondering whether eternity added to time would be long enough for him to earn the value of the horse, took the bridle from the “dead-head,” and unbuckling the girth, drew off the saddle, placed it on his own back, and trudged gloomily towards our village.
It was about sundown when my father espied his victim coming up the street with the saddle and bridle thrown across his shoulders, his face wearing a look of the most complete despair. My father was certain that old Bob had departed this life, and he chuckled inwardly and quietly, but instantly assumed a most serious countenance. Poor Beers approached more slowly and mournfully than if he was following a dear friend to the grave.
When he came within hailing distance my father called out, “Why, Beers, is it possible you have been so careless as to let that race-horse run away from you?”
“Oh, worse than that – worse than that, Uncle Phile,” groaned Nelson.
“Worse than that! then he has been stolen by some judge of valuable horses. Oh, what a fool I was to intrust him to anybody!” exclaimed my father with well-feigned sorrow.
“No, he ain’t stolen, Uncle Phile,” said Nelson.
“Not stolen! well, I am glad of that, for I shall recover him again; but where is he? I am afraid you have lamed him.”
“Worse than that,” drawled the unfortunate Nelson.
“Well, what is the matter? where is he? what ails him?” asked my father.
“Oh, I can’t tell you – I can’t tell you!” said Beers with a groan.
“But you must tell me,” returned my father.
“It will break your heart,” groaned Beers.
“To be sure it will if he is seriously injured,” replied my father; “but where is he?”
“He is DEAD!” said Beers, as he nerved himself up for the announcement, and then closing his eyes, sank into a chair completely overcome with fright.
My father groaned in a way that started Nelson to his feet again. All the sensations of horror, intense agony, and despair were depicted to the life on my father’s countenance.
“Oh, Uncle Phile, Uncle Phile, don’t be too hard with me; I wouldn’t have had it happen for all the world,” said Beers.
“You can never recompense me for that horse,” replied my father.
“I know it, I know it, Uncle Phile; I can only work for you as long as I live, but you shall have my services till you are satisfied after my apprenticeship is finished,” returned Beers.
After a short time my father became more calm, and although apparently not reconciled to his loss, he asked Nelson how much he supposed he ought to owe him.
“Oh, I don’t know – I am no judge of the value of blood horses, but I have been told they are worth fortunes sometimes,” replied Beers.
“And mine was one of the best in the world,” said my father, “and in such perfect condition for running – all bone and muscle.”
“O yes, I saw that,” said Beers, despondingly, but with a frankness that showed he did not wish to deny the great claims of the horse and his owner.
“Well,” said my father with a sigh, “as I have no desire to go to law on the subject, we had better try to agree upon the value of the horse. You may mark on a slip of paper what sum you think you ought to owe me for him, and I will do the same; we can then compare notes and see how far we differ.”
“I will mark,” said Beers, “but, Uncle Phile, don’t be too hard with me.”
“I will be as easy as I can, and endeavor to make some allowance for your situation,” said my father; “but, Nelson, when I think how valuable that horse was, of course I must mark something in the neighborhood of the amount of cash I could have received for him. I believe, however, Nelson, that you are an honest young man, and are willing to do what you think is about right. I therefore wish to caution you not to mark down one cent more than you really think, under the circumstances, you ought to pay me when you are able, and for which you are now willing to give me your note of hand. You will recollect that I told you when you applied for the horse that I did not wish to let him go.”
Nelson gave my father a grateful look, and assented to all he said. At least a dozen of our joke-loving neighbors were witnessing the scene with great apparent solemnity. Two slips of paper were prepared; my father marked on one, and after much hesitation Beers wrote on the other.
“Well, let us see what you have marked,” said my father.
“I suppose you will think it is too low,” replied Beers, handing my father the slip of paper.
“Only three hundred and seventy-five dollars!” exclaimed my father, reading the paper; “well, there is a pretty specimen of gratitude for you.”
Nelson was humbled, and could not muster sufficient courage to ask my father what he had marked. Finally one of our neighbors asked my father to show his paper – he did so. He had marked “Six and a quarter cents.” Our neighbor read it aloud, and a shock of mirth ensued which fairly lifted Beers to his feet. It was some time before he could comprehend the joke, and when he became fully aware that no harm was done, he was the happiest fellow I have ever seen.
“By thunder!” said he, “I’ve got a dollar and thirty-seven and a half cents, and darned if I don’t treat that out as free as air. I was never scared so bad before in my life.”
Nelson stood treat for the company, and yet having half his money left on hand, he trudged home a happier if not a wiser man.
Money-making – Lotteries – An attractive Scheme – No Blanks – Small Prizes – Predecessors In Humbug – Cutting up Bacon – Out of Breath – An off Ox – White-faced Rum – A Pillar in the Church – A Fish Story – The Tables turned – Taking the Census – Quick Work – Hieroglyphics – A Strange Name – Taking an Oath – Button Moulds – The Tin Peddler – Trading in Whetstones – The Difference – Materials for my Book – The Wood Chopper – Excitement increases – The wonderful Bean – A Joke foreclosed – Death of my Father – A Trade in Bottles – My Lottery – Bottles and Skimmers – Lots of Tin – Doggerel – Mysterious Stockings – Curious Coincidence – An Act of “Charity” – Queer Symptoms – Tit for Tat – Trade in Russia – Comedy of Errors – The Fur flies – The Explanation – Filling Rum Bottles – The Old Pensioners – The Duel – A Dead Shot.
AMONG the various ways which I had for making money on my own account, from the age of twelve to fifteen years, was that of lotteries. One of our neighbors, a pillar in the church, permitted his son to indulge in that line, the prizes consisting of cakes, oranges, molasses candy, etc.; and the morality of the thing being thus established, I became a lottery manager and proprietor. The highest prize was generally five dollars – sometimes less, and sometimes as high as ten dollars. All the prizes in the lottery amounted to from twelve to twenty-five dollars. The cost of the entire tickets was twenty or twenty-five per cent. more than the prizes. I found no difficulty in disposing of my tickets to the workmen in the hat and comb manufactories, etc.
I had Gen. Hubbard as a predecessor in that business. He was a half-witted old fellow, who wandered about the town living upon the charities of its inhabitants. He was eccentric. One day he called in at Major Hickock’s and