CHAPTER XII
The Group at "The Eagle." – Entrée of a Stranger. – His Opinion of the Tavern. – Bulliphant wakes up. – Can't pick Fowls after Dark. – Sad Case of Mother Gantlet and Dr. Teazle. – Mr. Farindale begins to unbend. – Whistle & Sharp, and their Attorney. – Good Pay. – Legal Conversation. – Going Sniping. – Great Description of the Animal. – The Party start, Farindale holding the Bag. – "Waiting for Snipe." – Farindale's Solitary Return. – His Interview with Whistle & Sharp. – Suing a Puddleford Firm. – Relief Laws. – Farindale gets his Execution. – The Puddleford Bank. – The Appraisers. – Proceeds of the Execution.
Late in the fall of the year, early one evening, Turtle, Longbow, Bates, the "Colonel," Swipes, and Beagle were congregated at the Eagle. Turtle and Bates were engaged at a game of checkers, and each one, fast-anchored at his right hand, had a glass of whiskey and water, or, as Turtle called it, "a little diluted baldface." Their mouths were pierced with a pipe, in the left hand corner, which hung loosely and rakishly down, besmearing their laps with ashes, and now and then they puffed forth a column of smoke. The "Colonel," Longbow, and the other Puddlefordians were ranged round the fire. The Colonel sat in a rickety chair, his feet hoisted up on the mantel on a line with his nose, and his shoulders hitched over the ends of its posts; the Squire was busily looking into the glowing coals, his hands clasped across his breast, unravelling some question of law, and Swipes sat very affectionately on Beagle's lap, his right arm thrown around his neck.
While in this position, aloud call of "Hallo!" "Landlord!" "O-r-s-t-ler!" was heard without.
"Stir yer stumps, old Boniface – a traveller in distress," exclaimed Ike, to Bulliphant, who was asleep on a wooden box behind the bar, and was snoring louder and louder at each succeeding blast.
"Another two-and-sixpence, old free and easy," added Bates.
"This ere's a licensed tavern, and you must be up and doing, or the la' 'll be inter you," gravely remarked the Squire.
By this time the stranger dashed into the bar-room, his face flushed, and his temper, or his offended dignity, or both, in the ascendant, and exclaimed, ferociously, "Is this a tavern! are you all dead! where's the landlord! the hostler! Got any hay – oats! – anything for a gentleman to eat! – any place to sleep!" – when Bulliphant rubbed open his eyes with the knuckle of his fore-finger, gave a sleepy nod, and stumbled towards the door, to provide for his furious guest and his horse.
The stranger walked into the bar-room, unwound two or three gaudy shawls from his neck, took off an overcoat, a surtout-coat, shed a pair of India-rubber travelling-boots, run both of his hands deep into his breeches-pockets, took half a dozen pompous strides across the floor, looking down all the while in abstracted mood at his feet, paraded before a glass, twisted one of the locks of his hair around his fore-finger, and finally brought up with his back to the fire, where he stood, his hands holding apart the skirts of his coat, and his attention fixed upon something on the ceiling.
Turtle measured him with his eyes several times from head to foot; the "Colonel" hitched out of his way and begged his pardon, when, in fact, he was not at all in his way; the Squire was quite overcome at the amount of opposing dignity brought so directly in contact with him; Bates gravely whistled Yankee Doodle, gazing out of the window, and winked over his shoulder at Beagle and Swipes, who winked back again.
Bulliphant returned wide awake. "Any turkeys or chickens?" inquired the stranger.
"All gone to roost," answered Bulliphant, with a grave kind of brevity.
"Take a broiled chicken," said the stranger, giving a heavy hawk, with his hand upon his breast, and spitting half across the floor.
"Have to take it feathers and all, then," said Bulliphant – "wimin folks are superstitious – don't b'lieve it's right to pick fowls in the night – 'twas jest so with my wife's grandmother – she had the same complaint."
The stranger looked very hard at Bulliphant, and spit again, somewhat spitefully.
"Can give you mush, souse, slap-jacks, briled pork," continued Bulliphant, looking quizzically towards Turtle.
The stranger said, "he thought he'd stopped at a tavern– but he'd a great deal better turned himself into the woods, and browsed for supper" – and heaving a long sigh, sat down, and crossed his legs in a settled mood of desperation.
Bulliphant said "there warn't no cause for alarm – he'd seen sicker men than he die – and get well, too."
The stranger grunted and shifted his legs.
There was a long silence. All the Puddlefordians, except Ike and Bates, who were absorbed in their game, were looking soberly and steadily into the burning logs.
"Turtle," exclaimed Swipes, at last, breaking the solitude – "is that man goin' to die?"
"Can't tell," replied Turtle; "his life's on a pize – may turn one way, may turn t'other," and he took out his pipe, and blew a long whiff.
"Sleep well, last night?"
"Groan'd some 'bout midnight."
Swipes looked very sad, and the stranger's eyes passed from face to face with anxious looks.
"Ain't goin' to bleed to death?"
"Not zactly that, but mortification's goin' to set in, and he cannot stand it long, when that takes him."
"Dear me!" exclaimed the Colonel.
"Very strange case!" added the Squire.
"Great loss!" rejoined Bates.
The stranger, who was none other than the junior member of the firm of Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale, dry goods merchants, doing business in the city of New York, and who was out at Puddleford hunting up the firm of Whistle & Sharp, a couple of debtors, whose account had been in the rear for some time – the stranger, I say, became very anxious to hear the particulars of the man whose life was in jeopardy – and he exclaimed before he thought – "What is it, gentlemen? – who's hurt?"
"Why," said Ike, his face all the while cast iron, and his eyes steadily fixed on his game; "why, you see, old mother Gantlet was took with a violent mis'ry in her head – sent for Dr. Teazle – our village doctor here – the old 'oman said her head would bust – doctor said it wouldn't – the old 'oman said it would – the doctor said he'd tie it up – and he did try to tie it up, stranger – and while he was busy, her head did bust, and blew off the doctor's thumb and fore-finger" – and Ike shoved a man into the king-row and crowned him, without a look at Mr. Farindale, his face all the while as rigid as a tombstone.
Mr. Farindale gave a long whistle, and immediately called for a cigar; the Colonel dropped a quid of tobacco into his hand, and gave it a toss across the bar-room; Longbow shot forth a dignified spit into the fire, or rather it seemed to shoot out itself, without moving a muscle, and Bates stroked his chin several times with his left hand.
A long pause ensued. "What became of the woman?" inquired Farindale, after five minutes, looking sharply at Ike.
"She hain't been heer'd on since, as I knows on," replied Ike; "but the doctor's in a dref-ul state."
The game of checkers closed, and Ike and Bates moved around near Mr. Farindale.
"Stranger," said Ike, "travelled long in these ere parts?"
"Not long – but long enough."
"Goin' on?"
"On where?"
"Why, on to the next place?"
"Does Whistle & Sharp live hereabouts?" inquired Farindale, without answering Ike's question.
"To be sure they do," said Ike; "I know 'em like a book; am their 'torney."
"Their attorney —you their attorney – attorney of Whistle & Sharp," said the stranger, slowly and musingly, scratching his head with his fore-finger.
"Got anything for 'em or agin 'em?" inquired Ike.
"Are they good pay?" inquired the stranger.
"Always pays at the end of an execution," replied Ike – "never before – allers takes a receipt on the docket – makes their settlements a matter of record – puts things where they can't be ripp'd up – best way, ain't it, stranger?"
The stranger grunted, "Humph!"
"And then," said Ike, "there's no dispute 'bout authority to collect. Everybody can't tell who everybody's agent is. One New York clark run'd away one year with all the collections from Puddleford in his breeches-pocket; but the court has authority – gin'ral jurisdiction – and the discharge of a court is a discharge what is a discharge."
"That's a real opinion," exclaimed Longbow, who had not spoken for half an hour; "there's nothin' like a court to put a finish onter things;" and the Squire gave two or three heavy coughs, and blew his nose into his red cotton handkerchief, and doubling it up into a wad, looked around very gravely at Farindale as he dropped it back into his hat.
"Authority! The authority of courts to collect debts! They may have authority, but I never saw a court that had the power to collect a debt of me," exclaimed the Colonel, shifting his tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other as he spoke; "and I never put in a plea in my life – the plea always puts itself in, and is a dead bar to further proceedings every time – 'no assets' – 'nothing whereon to levy'" —
"Nully Bony! Nully Bony! you mean," said the Squire, horror-stricken at the Colonel's use of law language.
"That's it," said Bates; "hain't got nothin' to get onter" —
"And ain't nowhere to be found, nor nothin'," added Turtle.
"Just so," said the Colonel; "a kind of general suspension for want of capital – the fiddle's on hand, but the bow is gone."
The stranger was puzzled at the Puddlefordian view of paying debts, and wondered if Whistle & Sharp were advocates of the same doctrine.
"Stranger!" said Bates, turning the subject of conversation, "do you ever hunt?"
"Never," answered Farindale.
"Rare sport to-night, going a-sniping," said Bates.
"Sni-ping?" inquired the stranger, emphasizing the first syllable; "sni-ping! what is sni-ping?"
"Sni-ping?" answered Bates – "why, catching snipe, to be sure."
"Great sport," said the Colonel; "bagged three hundred night before last."
"The real yaller legs, too!" remarked Turtle.
Farindale said "he would like to accompany them – never saw a snipe in his life – would like to take one back to the city. Do they sing?" he inquired, turning to Turtle.
"Great singers! catch any tune! s'prising critters to larn," answered Ike; "got one up to my house that goes thro' half of 'Old Hundred,' by jest hearing the folks hum it round the house."
"Re-markable!" exclaimed Farindale.
"Great eating, too," said Longbow.
"Hain't got mor'n two or three bones in their whole body; all the rest meat," said Bates.
Preparations were immediately made for the sniping expedition. The stranger put on his India-rubber boots, and shawls, and overcoat; Ike procured a large bag of Bulliphant; and all hands, excepting Squire Longbow, whose dignity forbade anything like sport, wended their way to the river, where, Turtle said, "there were whole droves on 'em."
"Now," whispered Turtle, drawing Farindale close to him, and holding his arm all the while as he spoke in his ear, "we must keep very still – snipe are scary critters, and when they get frightened they put straight for the river. There is a big log out yonder – a favorite spot of theirs – down which they travel and jump off into the river. You jest take this ere bag, creep softly down to the log, slip the bag over the end on't, and wait there until we drive in the snipe. Don't speak – don't move; make 'em think you are the trunk of a tree; and when the bag is full, slip it off, and close it in a jiffy."
"Yes! yes!" whispered back Farindale.
"Mind, don't stir from your post till I halloo."
"No! no!" said Farindale.
Farindale did as he was directed. He found, however, a foot of black muck; but, after "slumping" a while, he managed to plant his spread legs out like a pair of extended compasses, and slide the bag over the log. Here he stood, half bent together, grasping the bag, and waiting for snipe.
There was a beating of the bushes around him; then all was still; then another beating, and another, and then a longer silence. Farindale was sinking deeper and deeper in the mud, and the water was nearly to the top of his boots. By and by, the noises ceased – no foot-step could be heard, and the stranger was alone with the bag and the log, and half up to his middle —waiting for snipe.
What ever became of the Puddlefordians is more than I can say. Farindale returned to the Eagle alone. Early the next morning he might have been found in anxious consultation with Whistle & Sharp concerning a claim there of a hundred and twelve dollars, and interest after six months, which he was very desirous to secure or settle. Mr. Whistle, the senior member of the firm of Whistle & Sharp, was a very thin-faced man, with sandy hair that had seldom been combed, and he wore a faded blue coat with metal buttons, the two behind having been placed just under his armpits, which made him look as though some invisible power was all the while lifting him up from the ground. His woollen pantaloons had passed so many times through the wash-tub, that he was obliged to strain out the wrinkles when he put them on, and they clung as tight to his legs as his skin. Sharp was a little man, had a long face, and his mouth seemed to have been bored – for it was round – about midway between his chin and his forehead; and he was always wasping around, giving consequential orders about nothing, and very often spoke of the firm of Whistle & Sharp, and what Whistle & Sharp had done, and what Whistle & Sharp could do, and would do.
Mr. Whistle informed Mr. Farindale that "the debt could not be paid at present, although," he added, "that the firm of Whistle & Sharp were good for ten times that amount."
"And another ten top of that," added Sharp, from the other end of the store, where he was tumbling down and putting up goods by way of exercise.
"Can you secure them?" inquired Farindale.
"Well, now, you have said it!" exclaimed Whistle, with apparent astonishment. "What can be safer than the firm of Whistle & Sharp? —secure!– never had such a thing hinted before during the ten years of our business."
"A mortgage," insinuated Farindale.
"Can't do that, – not no how; my old grandfather was swept out clean with a mortgage once; took all he had, and he was compelled to emigrate; died of broken heart at last."
"Then," said Farindale, "I must sue."
"What! sue the firm of Whistle & Sharp! Very well, sir, do, if you please."
"Yes-sir-ee– horse-cob! Mr. Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale," exclaimed Sharp, springing at one bound over the counter; "just sue us if —you– please; we'll pay the costs!" and Sharp whistled a tune with his eyes fixed steadily upon Farindale.
"Court sits next month," said Whistle.
"And we'll confess judgment," said Sharp.
"And the pay is sure," said Whistle.
"And no trouble hereafter," said Sharp.
Mr. Farindale began to think another sniping expedition was afoot. He was not a coward, if his cockneyism had lured him after snipe; but he was unable to determine what kind of people the Puddlefordians were. He had never met anything like them. So he sat in his chair, the account against Whistle & Sharp in his hand, tapping the floor with his right foot, trying to devise some way to secure his claim.
A thought struck him. "Pay it, and I will make a discount of twenty-five per cent.," said he.
"What's that you say?" indignantly exclaimed Sharp. "Do you mean to injure our firm? – the firm of Whistle & Sharp, who pay dollar for dollar! That ere, sir, is an insult. There's the door – walk! Sue! but you can't insult us on our own premises. That's the way to talk it, sir!" And Mr. Farindale did go, and he did sue, and the firm recovered a judgment against Whistle & Sharp for the sum of three hundred and twenty-four dollars and sixteen cents, and costs of suit.
It was no great matter to recover a judgment against a Puddlefordian; but it was something of a business to realize the damages. And that the reader may understand what kind of a prospect Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale had for their money, it is necessary to speak of the laws then in force for the collection of debts. The new states at that time were entirely "shingled over" with relief laws, which were passed to save the property of the pioneer from sacrifice. There was scarcely any money in Puddleford, and exchanges were made by barter. Personal property was valued by its relation to other property; eight yards of calico were worth so much wheat, corn, potash, cord-wood, or saw-logs. The merchant managed to turn his grain into high wines, or put it in some other shape that would bear transportation, and he was thus enabled to pay his debts. The farmer gave the mechanic an order on the merchant; the professional man took an order on the merchant; the day-laborer took an order on the merchant; everybody took an order on the merchant. The merchant was general paymaster; what he could not, or would not pay, remained unpaid; and he, in his turn, swept the farmer's crops, and took everything available; and the balance yet his due, and remaining unpaid, if any, was carried over against the farmer, and against the next crop. Thus the whole business of Puddleford ran through the merchant like wheat through a mill, and generally at a profit to the latter of from seventy-five to a hundred per cent.
It was this condition of the country that drove the legislature into the enactment of relief-laws. As there was no money to pay debts, it was enacted that property should be a legal tender. The law in force, at the date of the judgment against Whistle & Sharp, was a beautiful specimen of legislative impudence and ingenuity. It was a relief law! One section of the act provided, in substance, that upon the presentation of an execution, issued by any court in the state, by the officer to whom the same shall be directed, to the debtor or debtors mentioned therein, such debtor or debtors may turn out any property, personal or real, to said officer who shall levy on the same; and the said officer shall cause the same to be appraised by three appraisers, one to be chosen by the plaintiff, one by the defendant, and one by the officer, who shall forthwith be sworn, etc., and proceed to appraise said property turned out at its true cash value; and the said plaintiff in such execution shall receive said property at two thirds its appraised value; and, if he refuse, he shall not proceed any farther with his execution, or have another, until he first pay up all the costs of said appraisement.1
An execution was issued by J. Snappit, Esq., attorney for Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale, upon the judgment, recorded as foresaid, against the firm of Whistle & Sharp, and put into the hands of the sheriff for collection.
Now the sheriff of the county which included Puddleford within its limits was an accommodating man, a humane man, a man of the people, a – politician. He did not think it necessary to oppress debtors who were unfortunately unable to pay their debts – for the people elected him. Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale never voted for him– never could vote for him; Whistle & Sharp had, and would again. So the sheriff went down to Puddleford, and very politely informed them, with a wink, that "he had that execution against them, and it must be paid."
"Jest so – jest so," answered Sharp, reading over the writ: "Whistle & Sharp always pay – always have a pile of assets ready for a levy;" and returning the execution to the sheriff, begged a moment's delay, until "we could consult with our attorney."
Mr. Turtle was consulted, and the conclusion of Sharp's interview with him amounted to this: that Turtle should go immediately, and purchase for Whistle & Sharp the old steamboat cylinder, crank, and shaft; and the parties separated.
The steamboat cylinder, crank, and shaft, alluded to, was what Turtle called the "Puddleford bank – metallic basis." Some years before, a steamboat, on an exploring expedition up the river, among its windings and sand-bars, was wrecked, and a heavy cylinder, crank, and shaft, thrown ashore at Puddleford, where they lay at the period I speak of, and had for a long time, deeply imbedded in sand. This mass of iron, weighing many tons, had for a long time been a perpetual bar to the collection of all debts against Puddlefordians. Chitty, in his Pleadings, never invented one so omnipotent. It suspended every execution directed against it. It was transferred, by bill of sale, from one Puddlefordian to another (as no creditor was ever found willing to receive it at any price), as necessity required, and was considered, by common consent, public property – a "bank" as Turtle called it, "to which any person had a right to resort in distress."2
Turtle took a bill of sale of this iron from the last man in trouble, and turned it out to the sheriff on the execution against Whistle & Sharp.
"Now, Mr. Sheriff," said Turtle, triumphantly, "bring on your apprizers; a thousand dollars' worth of property to pay a little over three hundred. My clients, Whistle & Sharp, are bunkum yet – allers stand up to the rack at the end of an execution. Bring on your apprizers, Mr. Sheriff."
Mr. Turtle chose an appraiser first – a second cousin of Mr. Whistle, of the firm of Whistle & Sharp, and a man who was deeply in debt on their books – a bilious, weazen-faced, melancholy-looking man, who had acquired a great reputation for wisdom by saying nothing – whose name was Clinket. No one appearing to choose for the plaintiffs, the sheriff selected the other two. He named Mr. Troper, a seedy old fellow, whose crown was half out of his hat, whose beard was white, his nose red, and who had a whiskey-cough, and who was in the habit of visiting the barrel-tap of Whistle & Sharp three or four times a day, in consideration of odd jobs performed by him around the store; also, Mr. Fatler, a chubby-faced, twinkle-eyed wag, who would not hesitate to perpetrate a good joke, even under oath, particularly upon non-residents.
The Puddlefordians were out in mass to see Follett & Co. try a run on their "bank." Many remarks were made.
Bulliphant said "the cylinder alone cost five hundred dollars."
Swipes said "it was a bully piece of stuff."
"How much is the debt?" inquired Bates.
"Two thirds of twelve hundred," exclaimed Turtle, loudly, "is eight hundred."
"Worth the debt for old iron," said the Colonel.
These remarks, designed for the appraisers, had their effect; they examined; they figured; retired for consultation; returned; retired again; and finally appraised the property turned out at sixteen hundred dollars; paying, at two thirds its value, the debt of Whistle & Sharp, and leaving a very handsome surplus due them from their creditors. But I am very happy to be enabled to say that Whistle & Sharp most magnanimously offered to release all their claim on the levy to Follett & Co., if they would take the property, and discharge the judgment and costs, "making," as they said in their letter to them, "a clear profit on their part of from four to five hundred dollars."