The Cobbler’s Wager.

One fine summer’s day a strong, active young man was sauntering along the Exeter road, with apparently no immediate object in view but to pass away the time, for he certainly seemed in no hurry to reach the place of his destination—if, indeed, such a thing was in his thoughts, as it undoubtedly should have been, for he was carrying home a pair of shoes he had taken the greater part of the week to mend.

You will guess by this that he was a cobbler by trade, and from the way he was going on we may, perhaps, form an idea how it is that cobblers are proverbially so little to be depended upon in the performance of a promise—at least, when that promise refers to their work.

The young man we are talking of was not fond of work, but, being a merry, jovial fellow, was much liked in the neighbourhood where he lived, more particularly as he was always ready to give a helping hand to any one who required the assistance of a strong arm, and never hesitated to neglect his own business to help others.

Perhaps, too, that sort of occupation was more profitable than mending boots and shoes, for he always seemed to have money to spare when he met any companions of his own stamp at the different road-side inns. He was now coming near to such a house, and was trying to find a good excuse to turn in—for the landlord, according to his words, was a man of the right sort—when a butcher, in his cart, carrying a calf he had just bought, whom he knew well, overtook him.

No excuse was, of course, required now to drop in at Tom Turner’s, the landlord just mentioned, if even he had not been standing at his door, where, however, he was, ready to welcome them.

The three were soon merry enough over a jug of foaming ale; and the butcher, in particular, was in high spirits, for he had not only made a good bargain, but one he prided himself upon. The Landlord said to him, “I’m sure you’ve been playing your pranks off on some one, or that you’ve overreached some poor wretch in a bargain, makes you in such high glee this morning.”

“Well, I’ve not done so badly, I think,” the Butcher answered, rubbing his hands. “A little mother’s wit in one’s head is worth having, and where’s the good if one doesn’t use it? You must know I particularly wanted a calf this morning—indeed, I couldn’t do without it, whatever price I had to give; and as I happened to hear yesterday that old farmer Hagan had some very fine ones, I went to him. Now I didn’t tell him that I wanted a calf—leave me alone for that—but I said I wanted some sheep, which I knew he just happened not to have. He told me that he hadn’t any, and, as I expected, then said he had some first-rate calves which he wished me to see.

“‘I am very sorry to hear it, Neighbour,’ I said; ‘for calves are falling down to nothing in value since the celebrated Doctor Tweedle came into these parts. You know that he has declared veal to be the most unwholesome meat there is, and that eating it is little short of eating poison; so that no one will touch it. I have two of the most beautiful calves you ever saw, which I am but too happy to be able to get rid of at thirty shillings each—just half what I gave for them. A friend of mine has occasion for three, which he is going to send off to a distance; so I am glad to be able to do you a good turn, if you are willing to part with one of yours on the same terms; but it must be a good ’un.’

“Old Hagan was loath to part with one of his calves at such a price, but was so frightened by what I had told him, that he let me have the one that is outside in my cart, saying, ‘I know, Neighbour, that you are not a man likely to be over-reached, and that you would not sell at such a price if you saw a chance of getting a better one.’

“Now,” the Butcher continued, “does either of you think he could make as good a bargain as that?” And he chuckled, again rubbing his hands, as they both confessed that they gave in to him.

Shortly after, the cobbler rose to go, saying, as the butcher offered to give him a lift in his cart, that he was going another way; and as he went out, he made a sign to the landlord to follow him. When they were outside together he whispered, “I should like to play our boasting friend a good trick.” “I wish, with all my heart, you could,” the Landlord answered; “but he is a cunning fellow.” “Cunning as he is, I’ve a great mind to steal the calf he’s so proud of having cheated old Hagan out of, and then sell it him again, but at double the price,” the Cobbler said. “He’s too deep for you,” said the Landlord; “you can’t do it.” “What will you bet?” the Cobbler asked. “Anything you like!” was the answer. “Well, then,” the Cobbler again said, “let it be a gallon of your very best ale. Now you go back, and manage—as if without any particular motive—to tell our friend that you have a calf (that can be easily done as he is getting into his cart), when you may as well say that it is just like the one he has. You do this, and leave the rest to me.”

“I hope, with all my heart, that you’ll succeed,” the Landlord said, as he went back into the house; and the cobbler hastened along the road which he knew was the butcher’s way. When he had got some distance from the house, he dropped one of the shoes he was carrying home by the side of the road, where it would be sure to be seen, and then ran on some distance further, where he dropped the other shoe, choosing the spot close by an opening in the hedge by the road-side.

Shortly after, the butcher came the same way, still chuckling over his morning’s bargain, and when he saw the shoe, drew in his horse. He was about to get out, when he thought better of it, saying, “There’s some of that careless cobbler’s work. He evidently has come this way, and dropped one of the shoes I saw him carrying—but I’m not going to take the trouble to carry it after him. Let him come back, and that will teach him not to refuse a civil offer again. If he had but dropped the pair, I should not mind getting out to pick them up—though certainly it would not be to give them to him, but to keep them myself.”

With these friendly thoughts he drove on, and, before long, saw the other shoe. “Hallo!” he said; “why, that lazy rascal of a cobbler, rather than go back when he discovered the loss of the one shoe, has thrown the other away as useless; but I’ll not be such a fool, and won’t begrudge a little trouble for the sake of a good pair of shoes.” So saying, he jumped out of his cart and picked up the shoe, and, finding it was a good one, ran back for the other, leaving his cart standing in the road.

No sooner had he turned a corner in the road, than the cobbler jumped out from behind the hedge where he had hidden himself, and having lifted the calf out of the cart, took it on his shoulders, and hurried back with his load, as fast as possible, a short cut to Tom Turner’s house.

Tom received him with an acclamation of joy; and as soon as they had stowed the calf away in a shed, he produced some of his very best ale, over which they discussed what was further to be done. The Cobbler said, “As soon as the butcher finds that his calf has disappeared, and that there are no signs of it, he will be sure to come back to you, having heard you had one; but be sure you do not let him have it a farthing under three pounds, for you know that was the price named by himself, and that he said he must have one to-day at any price. When we have had our joke out, we will give him back his money, making him pay the amount of our wager, and another gallon to boot. But he is a slippery rogue, so mind you do not part with the calf without receiving the money down. And now, what will you bet that I do not steal this very calf again?”

The landlord, enjoying the joke, betted another gallon, and his companion continued, “To prepare for another sale, tell him, as he is driving off—tell him you have another calf, the twin brother to this one, and so like it that no one can tell one from the other.”

After all that had been arranged, the cobbler related every circumstance of the past adventure—not forgetting the butcher’s soliloquy—to Tom’s infinite amusement, and added, “Take particular notice whether he says anything about finding the shoes; for if he intends to act dishonestly we may alter our determination about giving him back his money.” He had scarcely finished when they saw the butcher’s cart at the door, so he hastened away to his former hiding-place.

The next moment the butcher was in the house, and he cried out, “Tom! you must positively let me have that calf of yours, for mine has played me an infernal trick, and has run off! I saw the brute, and ran after it. But it doesn’t matter, for I know where it is, and can easily catch it again. But I’m in a hurry, so I thought it better to come back for yours.”

“How did it happen?” Tom asked.

“Why, my horse got a stone in its hoof, and as I had to go a few yards off to get a dry stick to pick it out with, the brute took advantage of my being away, jumped out of the cart and got into a field by the side of the road. When I got back, though I saw it, it had the start of me, and I was not inclined to run far after it. But, now, I’m in a hurry; so tell me at once, Tom, what you want for your calf.”

Tom answered, “You know that I do not quite believe in veal being poison, in spite of the great Doctor’s opinion; but, to accommodate a friend, I don’t mind parting with it cheap, though I really can’t take less than three pounds.”

The butcher, finding that his own words were used against him, made no difficulty, but, paying the money, carried off the calf, Tom calling after him that if he lost that he had his twin brother for him. He congratulated himself, as he drove along, that, though he paid dearly for the calf, he had, at least, got a good pair of shoes for nothing. To make up for lost time he put his horse to its best trot, but drew in suddenly when he got to the spot of his misfortune, for he heard a sound like the bleating of a calf. He listened for a moment, and then exclaimed, in glee, “Oh! it’s you is it, my runaway? Now, take my word for it, you shall suffer for this.”

He jumped out of the cart and got into the field, but the bleating seemed to proceed from the next field, and when he got there from another, till he was led on to a considerable distance from his cart.

The cobbler, who had imitated the bleating of a calf, when he had led on the butcher till he got confused, hurried back to where the cart was, and hastily taking out the calf, got safely back with it to Tom Turner’s.

Tom, who had scarcely expected success this time, was fit to split his sides with laughter, when he heard an account of this last adventure, and in his turn told what had passed between him and the butcher.

“Why, the rascal!” exclaimed the Cobbler, who was a honest fellow himself, “so he intends to steal the shoes, for he knows well enough that they belong to me. We’ll give him another chance when he comes back, for I’ll tell him that I lost the shoes; but if then he does not restore them, why I’ll sell them to him for his calf and the money we get out of him. Don’t you think it will serve him right?” The landlord agreed, that if he persisted in dishonestly keeping the shoes, he would deserve to pay dearly for them, adding,—

“If we could manage it, it would be well to let him have his calf this time for nothing.” But the Cobbler, who was very indignant at the fellow’s shuffling dishonesty, said, “No, no, he deserves no manner of consideration, but I hope he won’t prove quite as bad as I think him.”

The butcher soon returned, and this time told the truth of the manner in which he had lost the calf; but when the cobbler told him of his loss he was far from confessing that he had found the shoes, and that they were then in his cart, hidden under some straw. He was out of humour at his own losses, and said, rather brutally, “You are so careless that your loss serves you right. What is your loss to mine? I have now paid four pounds ten for a calf, and still haven’t got one for my customers. Come, Tom, my good Friend, you must be merciful this time, and let me have your other calf a little cheaper. If you’ll let me have it for two pounds here’s the money, but if not I must go back to old Hagan’s for one.”

Whilst this bargain was being concluded the cobbler went out, and looking in the butcher’s cart soon found the shoes, which he took, replacing the straw as he found it.

Tom accepted the two pounds that were offered him, and the butcher was this time allowed to get his dearly-bought calf safely home; but I’m sorry to say the owner of the shoes had to wait another day for them, as the cobbler spent the remainder of that one with his friend, and merrily they spent it.