XXVI
A VULGAR RELATION
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.”
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.
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.
XXVIII
HOW BEN GOT HOME
Delighted with the complete success of his practical joke, Ben took his way homeward with the sheet under his arm. By the time he reached his father’s house it was ten o’clock. The question for Ben to consider now was, how to get in. If his father had not fastened the front door he might steal in, and slip up stairs on tiptoe without being heard. This would be the easiest way of overcoming the difficulty, and Ben, perceiving that the light was still burning in the sitting-room, had some hopes that he would be able to adopt it. But while he was only a couple of rods distant he saw the lamp taken up by his father, who appeared to be moving from the room.
“He’s going to lock the front door,” thought Ben, in disappointment; “if I had only got along five minutes sooner.”
From his post outside he heard the key turn in the lock.
The ‘Squire little dreamed that the son whom he imagined fast asleep in his room was just outside the door he was locking.
“I guess I’ll go round to the back part of the house,” thought Ben, “perhaps I can get in the same way I came out.”
Accordingly he went round and managed to clamber upon the roof, which was only four feet from the ground. But a brief trial served to convince our young adventurer that it is a good deal easier sliding down a roof than it is climbing up. The shingles being old were slippery, and though the ascent was not steep, Ben found the progress he made was very much like that of a man at the bottom of a well, who is reported as falling back two feet for every three that he ascended. What increased the difficulty of his attempt was that the soles of his shoes were well worn, and slippery as well as the shingles.
“I never can get up this way,” Ben concluded, after several fruitless attempts; “I know what I’ll do,” he decided, after a moment’s perplexity; “I’ll pull off my shoes and stockings, and then I guess I can get along better.”
Ben accordingly got down from the roof, and pulled off his shoes and stockings. As he wanted to carry these with him, he was at first a little puzzled by this new difficulty. He finally tied the shoes together by the strings and hung them round his neck. He disposed of the stockings by stuffing one in each pocket.
“Now,” thought Ben, “I guess I can get along better. I don’t know what to do with the plaguy sheet, though.”
But necessity is the mother of invention, and Ben found that he could throw the sheet over his shoulders, as a lady does with her shawl. Thus accoutered he recommenced the ascent with considerable confidence.
He found that his bare feet clung to the roof more tenaciously than the shoes had done, and success was already within his grasp, when an unforeseen mishap frustrated his plans. He had accomplished about three quarters of the ascent when all at once the string which united the shoes which he had hung round his neck gave way, and both fell with a great thump on the roof. Ben made a clutch for them in which he lost his own hold, and made a hurried descent in their company, alighting with his bare feet on some flinty gravel stones, which he found by no means agreeable.
“Ow!” ejaculated Ben, limping painfully, “them plaguy gravel stones hurt like thunder. I’ll move ‘em away the first thing to-morrow. If that confounded shoe-string hadn’t broken I’d have been in bed by this time.”
Meanwhile Hannah had been sitting over the kitchen fire enjoying a social chat with a “cousin” of hers from Ireland, a young man whom she had never seen or heard of three months before. In what way he had succeeded in convincing her of the relationship I have never been able to learn, but he had managed to place himself on familiar visiting terms with the inmate of ‘Squire Newcome’s kitchen.
“It’s only me cousin, sir,” Hannah explained to the ‘Squire, when he had questioned her on the subject; “he’s just from Ireland, sir, and it seems like home to see him.”
On the present occasion Tim Flaherty had outstayed his usual time, and was still in the kitchen when Ben reached home. They did not at first hear him, but when he made his last abortive attempt, and the shoes came clattering down, they could not help hearing.
“What’s that?” asked Hannah, listening attentively.
She went to the door to look out, her cousin following.
There was nothing to be seen.
“Perhaps you was dramin’ Hannah,” said Tim, “more by token, it’s time we was both doin’ that same, so I’ll bid you good-night.”
“Come again soon, Tim,” said Hannah, preparing to close the door.
A new plan of entrance flashed upon Ben.
He quickly put on his shoes and stockings, unfolded the sheet and prepared to enact the part of a ghost once more,—this time for the special benefit of Hannah.
After fully attiring himself he came to the back door which Hannah had already locked, and tapped three times.
Hannah was engaged in raking out the kitchen fire.
“Sure it’s Tim come back,” thought she, as she went to the door. “Perhaps he’s forgotten something.”
She opened the door unsuspiciously, fully expecting to see her Irish cousin standing before her.
What was her terror on beholding a white-robed figure, with extended arms.
“Howly virgin, defend me!” she exclaimed, in paralyzing terror, which was increased by a guttural sound which proceeded from the throat of the ghost, who at the same time waved his arms aloft, and made a step towards Hannah.
Hannah, with a wild howl dropped the lamp and fed towards the sitting-room, where ‘Squire Newcome was still sitting.
Ben sped upstairs at the top of his speed, dashed into his own chamber, spread the sheet on the bed, and undressed so rapidly that he seemed only to shake his clothes off, and jumped into bed. He closed his eyes and appeared to be in a profound slumber.
Hannah’s sudden appearance in the sitting-room in such a state naturally astonished the ‘Squire.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded of the affrighted servant.
“Oh, sir,” she gasped, “I’m almost kilt entirely.”
“Are you?” said the ‘Squire, “you appear to be more frightened than hurt.”
“Yes, sir, shure I am frightened, which indeed I couldn’t help it, sir, for I never saw a ghost before in all my life.”
“A ghost! What nonsense are you talking, Hannah?”
“Shure it’s not nonsense, for it’s just now that the ghost came to the door, sir, and knocked, and I went to the door thinking it might be me cousin, who’s been passing the evening with me, when I saw a great white ghost, ten foot tall, standing forninst me.”
“Ten feet tall?”
“Yes, sir, and he spread out his arms and spoke in a terrible voice, and was going to carry me off wid him, but I dropped the lamp, and O sir, I’m kilt entirely.”
“This is a strange story,” said ‘Squire Newcome, rather suspiciously; “I hope you have not been drinking.”
Hannah protested vehemently that not a drop of liquor had passed her lips, which was true.
“I’ll go out and hunt for the ghost,” said the ‘Squire.
“Oh, don’t sir. He’ll carry you off,” said Hannah, terrified.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the ‘Squire. “Follow me, or you may stay here if you are frightened.”
This Hannah would by no means do, since the ‘Squire had taken the lamp and she would be left in the dark.
Accordingly she followed him with a trembling step, as he penetrated through the kitchen into the back room, ready to run at the least alarm.
The back-door was wide open, but nothing was to be seen of the ghost.
“Perhaps the ghost’s up-stairs,” said Hannah, “I can’t sleep up there this night, shure.”
But something had attracted Squire Newcome’s attention. It was quite muddy out of doors, and Ben had tracked in considerable mud with him. The footprints were very perceptible on the painted floor.
“The ghost seems to have had muddy shoes,” said the ‘Squire dryly; “I guess I can find him.”
He followed the tracks which witnessed so strongly against Ben, to whose chamber they led.
Ben, though still awake, appeared to be in a profound slumber.
“Ben-ja-min!” said his father, stooping over the bed.
There was no answer.
“Ben-ja-min!” repeated his father, giving him a shake, “what does all this mean?”
“What?” inquired Ben, opening his eyes, and looking very innocent.
“Where have you been, to-night?”
“You sent me to bed,” said Ben, “and I came.”
But the ‘Squire was not to be deceived. He was already in possession of too much in