TOM TOOTHACHE’S GHOST STORY
“WHAT is it about that old house in Sherbourne?” said Aunt Nabby to Sam Lawson, as he sat drooping over the coals of a great fire one October evening.
Aunt Lois was gone to Boston on a visit; and, the smart spice of her scepticism being absent, we felt the more freedom to start our story-teller on one of his legends.
Aunt Nabby sat trotting her knitting-needles on a blue-mixed yarn stocking. Grandmamma was knitting in unison at the other side of the fire. Grandfather sat studying “The Boston Courier.” The wind outside was sighing in fitful wails, creaking the pantry-doors, occasionally puffing in a vicious gust down the broad throat of the chimney. It was a drizzly, sleety evening; and the wet lilac-bushes now and then rattled and splashed against the window as the wind moaned and whispered through them.
We boys had made preparation for a comfortable evening. We had enticed Sam to the chimney-corner, and drawn him a mug of cider. We had set down a row of apples to roast on the hearth, which even now were giving faint sighs and sputters as their plump sides burst in the genial heat. The big oak back-log simmered and bubbled, and distilled large drops down amid the ashes; and the great hickory forestick had just burned out into solid bright coals, faintly skimmed over with white ashes. The whole area of the big chimney was full of a sleepy warmth and brightness just calculated to call forth fancies and visions. It only wanted somebody now to set Sam off; and Aunt Nabby broached the ever-interesting subject of haunted houses.
“Wal, now, Miss Badger,” said Sam, “I ben over there, and walked round that are house consid’able; and I talked with Granny Hokum and Aunt Polly, and they’ve putty much come to the conclusion that they ‘ll hev to move out on’t. Ye see these ‘ere noises, they keep ‘em awake nights; and Aunt Polly, she gets ‘stericky; and Hannah Jane, she says, ef they stay in the house, she can’t live with ‘em no longer. And what can them lone women do without Hannah Jane? Why, Hannah Jane, she says these two months past she’s seen a woman, regular, walking up and down the front hall between twelve and one o’clock at night; and it’s jist the image and body of old Ma’am Tillotson, Parson Hokum’s mother, that everybody know’d was a thunderin’ kind o’ woman, that kep’ every thing in a muss while she was alive. What the old crittur’s up to now there ain’t no knowin’. Some folks seems to think it’s a sign Granny Hokum’s time’s comin’. But Lordy massy! says she to me, says she, ‘Why, Sam, I don’t know nothin’ what I’ve done, that Ma’am Tillotson should be set loose on me.’ Anyway they’ve all got so narvy, that Jed Hokum has ben up from Needham, and is goin’ to cart ‘em all over to live with him. Jed, he’s for hushin’ on’t up, ‘cause he says it brings a bad name on the property.
“Wal, I talked with Jed about it; and says I to Jed, says I, ‘Now, ef you ‘ll take my advice, jist you give that are old house a regular overhaulin’, and paint it over with tew coats o’ paint, and that are ‘ll clear ‘em out, if any thing will. Ghosts is like bedbugs, – they can’t stan’ fresh paint,’ says I. ‘They allers clear out. I’ve seen it tried on a ship that got haunted.’”
“Why, Sam, do ships get haunted?”
“To be sure they do! – haunted the wust kind. Why, I could tell ye a story’d make your har rise on e’end, only I’m ‘fraid of frightening boys when they’re jist going to bed.”
“Oh! you can’t frighten Horace,” said my grandmother. “He will go and sit out there in the graveyard till nine o’clock nights, spite of all I tell him.”
“Do tell, Sam!” we urged. “What was it about the ship?”
Sam lifted his mug of cider, deliberately turned it round and round in his hands, eyed it affectionately, took a long drink, and set it down in front of him on the hearth, and began: —
“Ye ‘member I telled you how I went to sea down East, when I was a boy, ‘long with Tom Toothacre. Wal, Tom, he reeled off a yarn one night that was ‘bout the toughest I ever hed the pullin’ on. And it come all straight, too, from Tom. ‘Twa’n’t none o’ yer hearsay: ‘twas what he seen with his own eyes. Now, there wa’n’t no nonsense ‘bout Tom, not a bit on’t; and he wa’n’t afeard o’ the divil himse’f; and he ginally saw through things about as straight as things could be seen through. This ‘ere happened when Tom was mate o’ ‘The Albatross,’ and they was a-runnin’ up to the Banks for a fare o’ fish. ‘The Albatross’ was as handsome a craft as ever ye see; and Cap’n Sim Witherspoon, he was skipper – a rail nice likely man he was. I heard Tom tell this ‘ere one night to the boys on ‘The Brilliant,’ when they was all a-settin’ round the stove in the cabin one foggy night that we was to anchor in Frenchman’s Bay, and all kind o’ lavin’ off loose.
“Tom, he said they was having a famous run up to the Banks. There was a spankin’ southerly, that blew ‘em along like all natur’; and they was hevin’ the best kind of a time, when this ‘ere southerly brought a pesky fog down on ‘em, and it grew thicker than hasty-puddin’. Ye see, that are’s the pester o’ these ‘ere southerlies: they’s the biggest fog-breeders there is goin’. And so, putty soon, you couldn’t see half ship’s length afore you.
“Wal, they all was down to supper, except Dan Sawyer at the wheel, when there come sich a crash as if heaven and earth was a-splittin’, and then a scrapin’ and thump bumpin’ under the ship, and gin ‘em sich a h’ist that the pot o’ beans went rollin’, and brought up jam ag’in the bulk-head; and the fellers was keeled over, – men and pork and beans kinder permiscus.
“‘The divil!’ says Tom Toothacre, ‘we’ve run down somebody. Look out, up there!’
“Dan, he shoved the helm hard down, and put her up to the wind, and sung out, ‘Lordy massy! we’ve struck her right amidships!’
“‘Struck what?’ they all yelled, and tumbled up on deck.
“‘Why, a little schooner,’ says Dan. ‘Didn’t see her till we was right on her. She’s gone down tack and sheet. Look! there’s part o’ the wreck a-floating off: don’t ye see?’
“Wal, they didn’t see, ‘cause it was so thick you couldn’t hardly see your hand afore your face. But they put about, and sent out a boat, and kind o’ sarched round; but, Lordy massy! ye might as well looked for a drop of water in the Atlantic Ocean. Whoever they was, it was all done gone and over with ‘em for this life, poor critturs!
“Tom says they felt confoundedly about it; but what could they do? Lordy massy! what can any on us do? There’s places where folks jest lets go ‘cause they hes to. Things ain’t as they want ‘em, and they can’t alter ‘em. Sailors ain’t so rough as they look: they’z feelin’ critturs, come to put things right to ‘em. And there wasn’t one on ‘em who wouldn’t ‘a’ worked all night for a chance o’ saving some o’ them poor fellows. But there ‘twas, and ‘twa’n’t no use trying.
“Wal, so they sailed on; and by’m by the wind kind o’ chopped round no’theast, and then come round east, and sot in for one of them regular east blows and drizzles that takes the starch out o’ fellers more’n a regular storm. So they concluded they might as well put into a little bay there, and come to anchor.
“So they sot an anchor-watch, and all turned in.
“Wal, now comes the particular curus part o’ Tom’s story: and it more curus ‘cause Tom was one that wouldn’t ‘a’ believed no other man that had told it. Tom was one o’ your sort of philosophers. He was fer lookin’ into things, and wa’n’t in no hurry ‘bout believin’; so that this ‘un was more ‘markablfe on account of it’s bein’ Tom that seen it than ef it had ben others.
“Tom says that night he hed a pesky toothache that sort o’ kep’ grumblin’ and jumpin’ so he couldn’t go to sleep; and he lay in his bunk, a-turnin’ this way and that, till long past twelve o clock.
“Tom had a’thwart-ship bunk where he could see into every bunk on board, except Bob Coffin’s; and Bob was on the anchor-watch. Wal, he lay there, tryin’ to go to sleep, hearin’ the men snorin’ like bull-frogs in a swamp, and watchin’ the lantern a-swingin’ back and forward; and the sou’westers and pea-jackets were kinder throwin’ their long shadders up and down as the vessel sort o’ rolled and pitched, – for there was a heavy swell on, – and then he’d hear Bob Coffin tramp, tramp, trampin’ overhead, – for Bob had a pretty heavy foot of his own, – and all sort o’ mixed up together with Tom’s toothache, so he couldn’t get to sleep. Finally, Tom, he bit off a great chaw o’ ‘baccy, and got it well sot in his cheek, and kind o’ turned over to lie on’t, and ease the pain. Wal, he says he laid a spell, and dropped off in a sort o’ doze, when he woke in sich a chill his teeth chattered, and the pain come on like a ‘knife, and he bounced over, thinking the fire had gone out in the stove.
“Wal, sure enough, he see a man a-crouchin’ over the stove, with his back to him, a-stretchin’ out his hands to warm ‘em. He had on a sou’wester and a pea-jacket, with a red tippet round his neck; and his clothes was drippin’ as if he’d just come in from a rain.
“‘What the divil!’ says Tom. And he riz right up, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Bill Bridges,’ says he, ‘what shine be you up to now?’ For Bill was a master oneasy crittur, and allers a-gettin’ up and walkin’ nights; and Tom, he thought it was Bill. But in a minute he looked over, and there, sure enough, was Bill, fast asleep in his bunk, mouth wide open, snoring like a Jericho ram’s-horn. Tom looked round, and counted every man in his bunk, and then says he, ‘Who the devil is this? for there’s Bob Coffin on deck, and the rest is all here.’
“Wal, Tom wa’n’t a man to be put under too easy. He hed his thoughts about him allers; and the fust he thought in every pinch was what to do. So he sot considerin’ a minute, sort o’ winkin’ his eyes to be sure he saw straight, when, sure enough, there come another man backin’ down the companion-way.
“‘Wal, there’s Bob Coffin, anyhow,’ says Tom to himself. But no, the other man, he turned: Tom see his face; and, sure as you live, it was the face of a dead corpse. Its eyes was sot, and it jest came as still across the cabin, and sot down by the stove, and kind o’ shivered, and put out its hands as if it was gettin’ warm.
“Tom said that there was a cold air round in the cabin, as if an iceberg was comin’ near, and he felt cold chills running down his back; but he jumped out of his bunk, and took a step forward. ‘Speak!’ says he. ‘Who be you? and what do you want?’
“They never spoke, nor looked up, but kept kind o’ shivering and crouching over the stove.
“‘Wal,’ says Tom, ‘I ‘ll see who you be, anyhow.’ And he walked right up to the last man that come in, and reached out to catch hold of his coat-collar; but his hand jest went through him like moonshine, and in a minute he all faded away; and when he turned round the other one was gone too. Tom stood there, looking this way and that; but there warn’t nothing but the old stove, and the lantern swingin’, and the men all snorin’ round in their bunks. Tom, he sung out to Bob Coffin. ‘Hullo, up there!’ says he. But Bob never answered, and Tom, he went up, and found Bob down on his knees, his teeth a-chatterin’ like a bag o’ nails, trying to say his prayers; and all he could think of was, ‘Now I lay me,’ and he kep’ going that over and over. Ye see, boys, Bob was a drefful wicked, swearin’ crittur, and hadn’t said no prayers since he was tew years old, and it didn’t come natural to him. Tom give a grip on his collar, and shook him. ‘Hold yer yawp,’ said he. ‘What you howlin’ about? What’s up?’
“‘Oh, Lordy massy!’ says Bob, ‘we’re sent for, – all on us, – there’s been two on ‘em: both on ‘em went right by me!’
“Wal, Tom, he hed his own thoughts; but he was bound to get to the bottom of things, anyway. Ef ‘twas the devil, well and good – he wanted to know it. Tom jest wanted to hev the matter settled one way or t’other: so he got Bob sort o’ stroked down, and made him tell what he saw.
“Bob, he stood to it that he was a-standin’ right for’ard, a-leanin’ on the windlass, and kind o’ hummin’ a tune, when he looked down, and see a sort o’ queer light in the fog; and he went and took a look over the bows, when up came a man’s head in a sort of sou’wester, and then a pair of hands, and catched at the bob-stay; and then the hull figger of a man riz right out o’ the water, and clim up on the martingale till he could reach the jib-stay with his hands, and then he swung himself right up onto the bowsprit, and stepped aboard, and went past Bob, right aft, and down into the cabin. And he hadn’t more’n got down, afore he turned round, and there was another comin’ in over the bowsprit, and he went by him, and down below: so there was two on ‘em, jest as Tom had seen in the cabin.
“Tom he studied on it a spell, and finally says he, ‘Bob, let you and me keep this ‘ere to ourselves, and see ef it ‘ll come again. Ef it don’t, well and good: ef it does – why, we ‘ll see about it.’
“But Tom he told Cap’n Witherspoon, and the Cap’n he agreed to keep an eye out the next night. But there warn’t nothing said to the rest o’ the men.
“Wal, the next night they put Bill Bridges on the watch. The fog had lifted, and they had a fair wind, and was going on steady. The men all turned in, and went fast asleep, except Cap’n Witherspoon, Tom, and Bob Coffin. Wal, sure enough, ’twixt twelve and one o’clock, the same thing came over, only there war four men ‘stead o’ two. They come in jes’ so over the bowsprit, and they looked neither to right nor left, but dim down stairs, and sot down, and crouched and shivered over the stove jist like the others. Wal, Bill Bridges, he came tearin’ down like a wild-cat, frightened half out o’ his wits, screechin’ ‘Lord, have mercy! we’re all goin’ to the devil!’ And then they all vanished.
“‘Now, Cap’n, what’s to be done?’ says Tom. ‘Ef these ‘ere fellows is to take passage, we can’t do nothin’ with the boys: that’s clear.’
“Wal, so it turned out; for, come next night, there was six on ‘em come in, and the story got round, and the boys was all on eend. There wa’n’t no doin’ nothin’ with ‘em. Ye see, it’s allers jest so. Not but what dead folks is jest as ‘spectable as they was afore they’s dead. These might ‘a’ been as good fellers as any aboard; but it’s human natur’. The minute a feller’s dead, why, you sort o’ don’t know ‘bout him; and it’s kind o’ skeery hevin’ on him round; and so ‘twan’t no wonder the boys didn’t feel as if they could go on with the vy’ge, ef these ‘ere fellers was all to take passage. Come to look, too, there war consid’able of a leak stove in the vessel; and the boys, they all stood to it, ef they went farther, that they’d all go to the bottom. For, ye see, once the story got a-goin’, every one on ‘em saw a new thing every night. One on ‘em saw the bait-mill a-grindin’, without no hands to grind it; and another saw fellers up aloft, workin’ in the sails. Wal, the fact war, they jest had to put about, – run back to Castine.
“Wal, the owners, they hushed up things the best they could; and they put the vessel on the stocks, and worked her over, and put a new coat o’ paint on her, and called her ‘The Betsey Ann;’ and she went a good vy’ge to the Banks, and brought home the biggest fare o’ fish that had been for a long time; and she’s made good vy’ges ever since; and that jest proves what I’ve been a-saying, – that there’s nothin’ to drive out ghosts like fresh paint.”
THE PARSON’S HORSE-RACE
WAL, now, this ‘ere does beat all! I wouldn’t ‘a’ thought it o’ the deacon.
So spoke Sam Lawson, drooping in a discouraged, contemplative attitude in front of an equally discouraged looking horse, that had just been brought to him by the Widow Simpkins for medical treatment. Among Sam’s many accomplishments he was reckoned in the neighborhood an oracle in all matters of this kind, especially by women, whose helplessness in meeting such emergencies found unfailing solace under his compassionate willingness to attend to any business that did not strictly belong to him, and from which no pecuniary return was to be expected.
The Widow Simpkins had bought this horse of Deacon Atkins, apparently a fairly well-appointed brute, and capable as he was good-looking. A short, easy drive, when the deacon held the reins, had shown off his points to advantage; and the widow’s small stock of ready savings had come forth freely in payment for what she thought was a bargain. When, soon after coming into possession, she discovered that her horse, if driven with any haste, panted in a fearful manner, and that he appeared to be growing lame, she waxed wroth, and went to the deacon in anger, to be met only with the smooth reminder that the animal was all right when she took him; that she had seen him tried herself. The widow was of a nature somewhat spicy, and expressed herself warmly: “It’s a cheat and a shame, and I ‘ll take the law on ye!”
“What law will you take?” said the unmoved deacon. “Wasn’t it a fair bargain?”
“I ‘ll take the law of God,” said the widow with impotent indignation; and she departed to pour her cares and trials into the ever ready ear of Sam. Having assumed the care of the animal, he now sat contemplating it in a sort of trance of melancholy reflection.
“Why, boys!” he broke out, “why didn’t she come to me afore she bought this crittur? Why, I knew all about him! That ‘are crittur was jest ruined a year ago last summer, when Tom, the deacon’s boy there, come home from college. Tom driv him over to Sherburn and back that ‘are hot Fourth of July. ‘Member it, ‘cause I saw the crittur when he come home. I sot up with Tom takin’ care of him all night. That ‘are crittur had the thumps all night, and he hain’t never been good for nothin’ since. I telled the deacon he was a gone hoss then, and wouldn’t never be good for nothin’. The deacon, he took off his shoes, and let him run to pastur’ all summer, and he’s ben a-feedin’ and nussin’ on him up; and now he’s put him off on the widder. I wouldn’t ‘a’ thought it o’ the deacon! Why, this hoss ‘ll never be no good to her! That ‘are’s a used-up crittur, any fool may see! He ‘ll mabbe do for about a quarter of an hour on a smooth road; but come to drive him as a body wants to drive, why, he blows like my bellowsis; and the deacon knew it – must ‘a’ known it!”
“Why, Sam!” we exclaimed, “ain’t the deacon a good man?”
“Wal, now, there’s where the shoe pinches! In a gin’al way the deacon is a good man – he’s con-sid’able more than middlin’ good: gin’ally he adorns his perfession. On most p’ints I don’t hev nothin’ agin the deacon; and this ‘ere ain’t a bit like him. But there ‘tis! Come to hosses, there’s where the unsanctified natur’ comes out. Folks will cheat about hosses when they won’t about ‘most nothin’ else.” And Sam leaned back on his cold forge, now empty of coal, and seemed to deliver himself to a mournful train of general reflection. “Yes, hosses does seem to be sort o’ unregenerate critturs,” he broke out: “there’s suthin’ about hosses that deceives the very elect. The best o’ folks gets tripped up when they come to deal in hosses.”
“Why, Sam, is there any thing bad in horses?” we interjected timidly.
“‘Tain’t the hosses, boys,” said Sam with solemnity. “Lordy massy! the hosses is all right enough! Hosses is scriptural animals. Elijah went up to heaven in a chari’t with hosses; and then all them lots o’ hosses in the Ravelations, – black and white and red, and all sorts o’ colors. That ‘are shows hosses goes to heaven; but it’s more’n the folks that hev ‘em is likely to, ef they don’t look out.
“Ministers, now,” continued Sam in a soliloquizing vein – “folks allers thinks it’s suthin’ sort o’ shaky in a minister to hev much to do with hosses, – sure to get ‘em into trouble. There was old Parson Williams of North Billriky got into a drefful mess about a hoss. Lordy massy! he warn’t to blame, neither; but he got into the dreffulest scrape you ever heard on – come nigh to unsettlin’ him.”
“O Sam! tell us all about it,” we boys shouted, delighted with the prospect of a story.
“Wal, wait now till I get off this crittur’s shoes, and we ‘ll take him up to pastur’, and then we can kind o’ set by the river, and fish. Hepsy wanted a mess o’ fish for supper, and I was cal’latin’ to git some for her. You boys go and be digging bait, and git yer lines.”
And so, as we were sitting tranquilly beside the Charles River, watching our lines, Sam’s narrative began: —
“Ye see, boys, Parson Williams – he’s dead now, but when I was a boy he was one of the gret men round here. He writ books. He writ a tract agin the Armenians, and put ‘em down; and he writ a big book on the millennium (I’ve got that ‘are book now); and he was a smart preacher. Folks said he had invitations to settle in Boston, and there ain’t no doubt he might ‘a’ hed a Boston parish ef he’d ‘a’ ben a mind ter take it; but he’d got a good settlement and a handsome farm in North Billriky, and didn’t care to move: thought, I s’pose, that ‘twas better to be number one in a little place than number two in a big un. Anyway, he carried all before him where he was.
“Parson Williams was a tall, straight, personable man; come of good family – father and grand’ther before him all ministers. He was putty up and down, and commandin’ in his ways, and things had to go putty much as he said. He was a good deal sot by, Parson Williams was, and his wife was a Derby, – one o’ them rich Salem Derbys, – and brought him a lot o’ money; and so they lived putty easy and comfortable so fur as this world’s goods goes. Well, now, the parson wan’t reely what you call worldly-minded; but then he was one o’ them folks that knows what’s good in temporals as well as sperituals, and allers liked to hev the best that there was goin’; and he allers had an eye to a good boss.
“Now, there was Parson Adams and Parson Scranton, and most of the other ministers: they didn’t know and didn’t care what hoss they hed; jest jogged round with these ‘ere poundin’, potbellied, sleepy critturs that ministers mostly hes, – good enough to crawl round to funerals and ministers’ meetin’s and associations and sich; but Parson Williams, he allers would hev a hoss as was a hoss. He looked out for blood; and, when these ‘ere Vermont fellers would come down with a drove, the parson, he hed his eyes open, and knew what was what. Couldn’t none of ‘em cheat him on hoss flesh. And so one time when Zach Buel was down with a drove, the doctor, he bought the best hoss in the lot. Zach said he never see a parson afore that he couldn’t cheat; but he said the doctor reely knew as much as he did, and got the very one he’d meant to ‘a’ kept for himself.
“This ‘ere hoss was a peeler, I ‘ll tell you! They’d called him Tamerlane, from some heathen feller or other: the boys called him Tam, for short. Tam was a gret character. All the fellers for miles round knew the doctor’s Tam, and used to come clear over from the other parishes to see him.
“Wal, this ‘ere sot up Cuff’s back high, I tell you! Cuff was the doctor’s nigger man, and he was nat ‘lly a drefful proud crittur. The way he would swell and strut and brag about the doctor and his folks and his things! The doctor used to give Cuff his cast-off clothes; and Cuff would prance round in ‘em, and seem to think he was a doctor of divinity himself, and had the charge of all natur’.
“Well, Cuff he reely made an idol o’ that ‘are hoss, – a reg’lar graven image, and bowed down and worshipped him. He didn’t think nothin’ was too good for him. He washed and brushed and curried him, and rubbed him down till he shone like a lady’s satin dress; and he took pride in ridin’ and drivin’ him, ‘cause it was what the doctor wouldn’t let nobody else do but himself. You see, Tam warn’t no lady’s hoss. Miss Williams was ‘fraid as death of him; and the parson, he hed to git her a sort o’ low-sperited crittur that she could drive herself. But he liked to drive Tam; and he liked to go round the country on his back, and a fine figure of a man he was on him too. He didn’t let nobody else back him, or handle the reins, but Cuff; and Cuff was drefful set up about it, and he swelled and bragged about that ar boss all round the country. Nobody couldn’t put in a word ‘bout any other hoss, without Cuff’s feathers would be all up, stiff as a tom-turkey’s tail; and that’s how Cuff got the doctor into trouble.
“Ye see, there nat ‘lly was others that thought they’d got horses, and didn’t want to be crowed over. There was Bill Atkins out to the west parish, and Ike Sanders, that kep’ a stable up to Pequot Holler: they was down a-lookin’ at the parson’s hoss, and a-bettin’ on their’n, and a-darin’ Cuff to race with ‘em.
“Wal, Cuff, he couldn’t stan’ it, and, when the doctor’s back was turned, he’d be off on the sly, and they’d hev their race; and Tam, he beat ‘em all. Tam, ye see, boys, was a hoss that couldn’t and wouldn’t hev a hoss ahead of him – he jest wouldn’t! Ef he dropped down dead in his tracks the next minit, he would be ahead; and he allers got ahead. And so his name got up, and fellers kep’ comin’ to try their horses; and Cuff’d take Tam out to race with fust one and then another till this ‘ere got to be a reg’lar thing, and begun to be talked about.
“Folks sort o’ wondered if the doctor knew; but Cuff was sly as a weasel, and allers had a story ready for every turn. Cuff was one of them fellers that could talk a bird off a bush, – master hand he was to slick things over!
“There was folks as said they believed the doctor was knowin’ to it, and that he felt a sort o’ carnal pride sech as a minister oughtn’t fer to hev, and so shet his eyes to what was a-goin’ on. Aunt Sally Nickerson said she was sure on’t.‘Twas all talked over down to old Miss Bummiger’s funeral, and Aunt Sally, she said the church ought to look into’t. But everybody knew Aunt Sally: she was allers watchin’ for folks’ haltin’s, and settin’ on herself up to jedge her neighbors.
“Wal, I never believed nothin’ agin Parson Williams: it was all Cuff’s contrivances. But the fact was, the fellers all got their blood up, and there was hoss-racin’ in all the parishes; and it got so they’d even race hosses a Sunday.
“Wal, of course they never got the doctor’s hoss out a Sunday. Cuff wouldn’t ‘a’, durst to do that, Lordy massy, no! He was allers there in church, settin’ up in the doctor’s clothes, rollin’ up his eyes, and lookin’ as pious as ef he never thought o’ racin’ hosses. He was an awful solemn-lookin’ nigger in church, Cuff was.
“But there was a lot o’ them fellers up to Pequot Holler – Bill Atkins, and Ike Sanders, and Tom Peters, and them Hokum boys – used to go out arter meetin’ Sunday arternoon, and race hosses. Ye see, it was jest close to the State-line, and, if the s’lectmen was to come down on ‘em, they could jest whip over the line, and they couldn’t take ‘em.
“Wal, it got to be a great scandal. The fellers talked about it up to the tavern, and the deacons and the tithingman, they took it up and went to Parson Williams about it; and the parson he told ‘em jest to keep still, not let the fellers know that they was bein’ watched, and next Sunday he and the tithingman and the constable, they’d ride over, and catch ‘em in the very act.
“So next Sunday arternoon Parson Williams and Deacon Popkins and Ben Bradley (he was constable that year), they got on to their hosses, and rode over to Pequot Holler. The doctor’s blood was up, and he meant to come down on ‘em strong; for that was his way of doin’ in his parish. And they was in a sort o’ day o’-jedgment frame o’ mind, and jogged along solemn as a hearse, till, come to rise the hill above the holler, they see three or four fellers with their hosses gittin’ ready to race; and the parson says he, ‘Let’s come on quiet, and get behind these bushes, and we ‘ll see what they’re up to, and catch ‘em in the act.’
“But the mischief on’t was, that Ike Sanders see ‘em comin’, and he knowed Tam in a minit, – Ike knowed Tam of old, – and he jest tipped the wink to the rest. ‘Wait, boys,’ says he: ‘let ‘em git close up, and then I ‘ll give the word, and the doctor’s hoss will be racin’ ahead like thunder.’
“Wal, so the doctor and his folks, they drew up behind the bushes, and stood there innocent as could be, and saw ‘em gittin’ ready to start. Tam, he begun to snuffle and paw; but the doctor never mistrusted what he was up to till Ike sung out, ‘Go it, boys!’ and the hosses all started, when, sure as you live, boys! Tam give one fly, and was over the bushes, and in among ‘em, goin’ it like chain-lightnin’ ahead of ‘em all.
“Deacon Popkins and Ben Bradley jest stood and held their breath to see em all goin’ it so like thunder; and the doctor, he was took so sudden it was all he could do to jest hold on anyway: so away he went, and trees and bushes and fences streaked by him like ribbins. His hat flew off behind him, and his wig arter, and got catched in a barberry-bush; but Lordy massy! he couldn’t stop to think o’ them. He jest leaned down, and caught Tam round the neck, and held on for dear life till they come to the stopping-place.
“Wal, Tam was ahead of them all, sure enough, and was snorting and snuffling as if he’d got the very old boy in him, and was up to racing some more on the spot.
“That ‘ere Ike Sanders was the impudentest feller that ever you see, and he roared and rawhawed at the doctor. ‘Good for you, parson!’ says he. ‘You beat us all holler,’ says he. ‘Takes a parson for that, don’t it, boys?’ he said. And then he and Ike and Ton; and the two Hokum boys, they jest roared, and danced round like wild critturs. Wal, now, only think on’t, boys, what a situation that ‘are was for a minister, – a man that had come out with the best of motives to put a stop to sabbath-breakin’ I There he was all rumpled up and dusty, and his wig hangin’ in the bushes, and these ‘ere ungodly fellers gettin’ the laugh on him, and all acause o’ that ‘are hoss. There’s times, boys, when ministers must be tempted to swear if there ain’t preventin’ grace, and this was one o’ them times to Parson Williams. They say he got red in the face, and looked as if he should bust, but he didn’t say nothin’: he scorned to answer. The sons o’ Zeruiah was too hard for him, and he let ‘em hev their say. But when they’d got through, and Ben had brought him his hat and wig, and brushed and settled him ag’in, the parson, he says, ‘Well, boys, ye’ve had your say and your laugh; but I warn you now I won’t have this thing going on here any more,’ says he: ‘so mind yourselves.’