DEAR-BOUGHT WIT.

NED had been accustomed, in all ordinary weather, to take his trick at the helm with the rest; but the captain would not permit it for the first fortnight out, greatly to the annoyance of Ned, who prided himself very much on being able to steer. Wheels were not in use then, and the old-fashioned tiller with which vessels were steered came against the hips, sometimes with a good deal of force, and the captain was fearful of causing Ned’s wound to break out again; neither would he permit him to stand his watch. All day he was on deck, pulled and hauled with the rest, and went aloft.

As Ned didn’t care for turning in till nine, ten, or even twelve o’clock, of a pleasant night, when he had not been fatigued through the day, Mr. Bell—who was naturally inclined to make all the inquiries possible about his son, and the new country to which he was going—sought out Ned in the pleasant evenings, and whiled away many an hour in conversation most interesting to both. Ned described the personal appearance of the son to his father, and also that of Lion Ben, told all the stories he had ever heard of his enormous strength, and his encounter with the pirates, recounted the beauties of Elm Island, of Charlie’s farm, and sketched the characters of Captain Rhines and Uncle Isaac. No doubt the virtues and attractions of Charlie received their just due in the description of so enthusiastic an admirer.

“You say, Ned, that my son owns six hundred acres of land.”

“Yes, sir; and a saw-mill on it; and the machinery came from England,—that is, the crank, saw, and mill chain.”

“Why, a man must be immensely rich to own so much land. There must be some mistake about it.”

“No, sir, there ain’t; for Mr. Griffin, the mate’s brother, his next neighbor, told me so, and I’ve been in the mill. He owns more than that, sir; he owns part of this vessel, and part of the Casco (a great mast ship of seven hundred tons), and one fourth of the Hard-scrabble; and he built the whole of them.”

“I can’t understand how he came by so much money at his age, for he’s not much more than a boy now.”

“Perhaps Lion Ben, Uncle Isaac, and Captain Rhines gave it to him, they think so much of him.”

“I don’t believe that. People are not so fond of giving away money. There must be some mistake. All my forefathers have been prudent, hard-working people, and never one of them owned a foot of land.”

“Well, sir, I don’t know how it is, but I know it is so. I will call Danforth Eaton. He can explain it all, I dare say.”

“Do, young man.”

Eaton told Mr. Bell about the ventures that Charlie sent in the Ark, which gave him the first money he ever possessed; also about his learning the ship carpenter’s trade; and astonished the old gentleman by telling him that Charlie’s land cost only seventy-five cents an acre. He also told him about the building of the Hard-scrabble, and how much money she made. Upon these matters Eaton was an authority, as he had worked on all the vessels Charlie had built, and knew the whole matter from the beginning, whereas Walter Griffin was too young to be familiar with the events of Charlie’s boyhood, and the information of Ned was all second hand.

As the voyage approached its termination, the excitement of the father increased. Ned was now able to stand his watch, and often, at twelve o’clock, the old gentleman would come on deck, and spend the remainder of the night talking with him and Eaton, and also with Peterson, whose acquaintance he had now made.

When, by the captain’s reckoning, the vessel was nearly up with the land, and men were sent aloft to look out for it, he became quite nervous, thinking, perhaps, the happiness of possessing and meeting such a son was too great a boon. Again, he imagined that he might die before the vessel arrived, or that, after all, there might be some mistake. “God only knows what is in store for me,” he said, brushing the tear from his eye, as a joyous scream from the royal yard, in the shrill tones of Ned, proclaimed, “Land, O!”

Let us now see what the unconscious object of all this solicitude is doing. He is about half way between his house and Uncle Isaac’s, walking at a smart pace, and with the air of one bound upon a long walk. It was early autumn. As he approached the house, he saw Uncle Isaac in the barn floor, winnowing grain in the primitive fashion.

“Good afternoon, Charlie. Go into the house. I’ll be there in a moment. I’m almost through.”

“I can’t stop, Uncle Isaac. I’m going farther.”

“Where to?”

“Over to Mr. Colcord’s, to look at a cow. He’s got seven. He told me I might have my pick of them for fifteen dollars.”

“What! Jim Colcord?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s the most narrow-contracted creetur that ever lived. He soaks out mackerel, and then takes the water to make hasty-pudding, in order to save the salt. Robert Yelf worked for him one year in haying time. Didn’t you never hear him tell about his jumping into the loaf of hot rye and Indian bread?”

“No, sir; what did he do that for?”

“I’ll tell you. One day, his wife had cooked all her dinner in the brick oven, except some potatoes that she had baked in the ashes. She had baked beans, Indian pudding, a hind quarter of lamb, and a great loaf of rye and Indian bread in an iron pan that would hold a peck. He had a number of hands at work for him, getting hay. He’s rich the old screw, but so mean that he never allows himself or his family decent clothes, and always goes barefoot. He’s got a noble woman for a wife, too, as ever God made, and a nice family of children.”

“I believe such men always get the best of wives.”

“It’s a good deal so, Charlie, I guess. Well, as I was saying, coming into the house that day, just afore twelve o’clock, and seeing no pots or kettles on the fire, he took it into his head that his wife had made no preparation for dinner; that the men would come in at twelve, have to wait, and he should lose some time.”

“Whereas,” said Charlie, “the dinner was all in the oven, and ready to be put on the table.”

“Just so. He instantly began to jump up and down on the hearth, and curse and swear. His wife, who was scared to death of him, began to take the victuals out of the oven, to let him see it was all right. The first thing she came to was the great iron pan of rye and Indian bread, which she put down on the hearth. Thinking, in his passion, that this was all, he jumped right into it with his bare feet.”

“I guess it burnt him some.”

“I guess you’d think so; if there’s anything in this world that’s hot, or holds heat, it’s rye and Indian bread. It stuck between his toes, and scalded to the bone. He ran round the room, howling and swearing, and the tears running down his cheeks.”

“Served him right.”

“I think so. Now, if I were you, I wouldn’t have anything to do with him; he’ll cheat you, sure.”

“I reckon I can tell a good cow when I see her.”

“Perhaps you can; but he’s cheated as smart men as you are. Let me go and trade for you.”

Charlie would by no means consent to that, but set off on his errand.

“Well,” said Uncle Isaac, as they parted, “it is said, bought wit is good; perhaps it is, if you don’t buy it too dear.” When, at length, at the place, he was received by Colcord with the greatest cordiality; but Charlie saw that the house and all the surroundings accorded precisely with Uncle Isaac’s description of his character.

Colcord himself was a meagre-looking being; although in years, he was barefoot, and so was his wife. Charlie also noticed that the small quantity of wood at the door seemed to be rotten windfalls and dead limbs of trees, though he possessed a large extent of very heavily timbered woodland. Three boys, whose dress barely served the purposes of decency, completed this singular family. The youngest, notwithstanding his rags and a certain timidity of expression (the result of hard usage), was a most intelligent, noble-looking boy, with whose face Charlie instantly fell in love; his heart went out to these boys.

“I have known hardship and poverty,” he said to himself, “but I thank God I never had a father who, when I asked him for an egg, would give me a scorpion. My poor father did all in his power to give me schooling, and make my childhood happy.—You remember,” said Charlie to Mr. Colcord, “the talk we had some time since about cows, when you told me that for fifteen dollars I should have my pick out of seven. This is the day set, and I have come to look them over.”

“Andrew,” said Colcord, to the oldest boy, “drive the cows into the yard.”

After Charlie had examined each cow in succession, he said, “Mr. Colcord, here are but six cows; I was to have my choice of seven.”

“It is true, Mr. Bell, I did say so; but when I came home and told my wife, she took on at such a rate about my selling that cow, that I’ve tied her up in the barn. She won’t consent to part with her; it would break her heart. You must excuse me there.”

Charlie’s suspicions were roused in an instant. All that Uncle Isaac had told him in respect to the sharp practice of the man rushed at once to his recollection. He was determined to have that cow, at any rate, and instantly asked to see Mrs. Colcord, intending to make her a present, to reconcile her to the loss of the cow; but he was told she had gone away to spend the day.

“The old rascal,” soliloquized Charlie, “has shut up his best cow, thinking I wouldn’t notice there were but six in the yard.—Mr. Colcord,” he said, “it was a fair contract between us. You agreed to let me take my pick of seven cows. I am here, according to agreement, with the cash. I’ll have that cow, or none.”

“Well, if I must, I must,” said the old man; “but my wife will cry her eyes out;” and he flung open the cow-house.

Charlie felt so sure that this was the best cow of the herd, that he never stopped to examine her closely, asked no questions, didn’t even take hold of her teats, to see if she milked easy, or to examine the quality of the milk, but put a rope on her head, and drove her off, congratulating himself, all the way along, that he had outwitted the old sneak.

“Guess Uncle Isaac won’t say any more about bought wit,” thought he. “Couldn’t have done better than that himself.”

It was about the middle of the afternoon when Charlie reached home. At the usual time his wife went to the barn to milk, and began with the new comer.

“She has got nice teats, and milks easy, at any rate,” said Mrs. Bell.

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the cow gave the pail a kick so vicious as to send it spinning over the floor, spattering her with milk.

“It is because she is in a strange place, and is afraid of a stranger,” said Mrs. Bell; and, holding the pail in one hand, she continued to milk with the other. The cow began to kick, first with one leg and then the other, without an instant’s intermission, so that to milk was impossible.

Charlie, who was in the barn-yard, milking the other cows, now came to the rescue. “I never saw a cow I couldn’t milk,” he said; and taking up one of her fore legs, fastened it to the rack with a rope. “Kick now, if you can.” Placing the pail on the floor, he began to milk with both hands; but the vicious brute, springing from the floor, fell over upon him, spilling the milk, breaking the bail of the pail, upsetting Charlie’s milking-stool, and leaving him at full length on the floor, in not the most amiable mood (for his wife could not refrain from laughing). He beat her to make her get up, but she was sullen, and get up she wouldn’t. He twisted her tail, but she wouldn’t start. He then, with both hands, closed her mouth and nostrils, strangling her till she was glad to jump up. Thinking she had got enough of it, he began again to milk, when away went the pail into the manger, and the milk into Charlie’s face. Provoked now beyond endurance, he beat her till she roared; but the moment he touched her teats, she began to kick as bad as ever. In short, all the way he could milk her at all was to fasten her to the stake next the side of the barn, build a fence on the other side, so that she couldn’t run around either way, then tie her hind legs together, milk her till she threw herself down, and then finish the operation as she lay.

While all this was going on, the dog kept up a furious barking.

“What is that dog barking about, Mary?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps there’s a skunk or a woodchuck under the barn.”

If it was a skunk, he was peeping through a knot-hole in the back barn-door.

As they came in with their milk, Joe Griffin was approaching the door, having come to borrow a chain and canting dog.

Charlie now perceived that the cunning old wretch had shut up this pest, and feigned reluctance to part with her, on purpose to draw him on.

“I don’t believe,” said Mrs. Bell, “but what his wife was at home all the time. He knew, if you spoke to her, she would tell you the whole truth, for she is an excellent woman.”

Charlie resolved to keep the thing from the knowledge of every one, especially of Uncle Isaac, whose assertion, “He has cheated as smart men as you are,” recurred most unpleasantly to his recollection.

“Mary,” said he,” we must not breathe a word of this to any soul,—father’s folks, Joe Griffin, or, above all, Uncle Isaac. I had rather pocket the loss than have it known that I got so taken in. I’ll dry her up, and fat her. She’s a large cow, and will make a lot of beef.”

But such things will always, in some way or other, leak out. While Charlie imagined that himself and wife alone possessed the secret, it was known to half the town, and they were chuckling over it. Indeed, it had come to the ears of Lion Ben, on Elm Island, whose adopted son he was.

A fortnight after the occurrences related, Fred Williams and Joe Griffin were standing in the doorway of Fred’s store, when they espied Lion Ben coming from Elm Island in his big canoe, which he was forcing through the water with tremendous strokes.

Landing, and dragging the heavy craft out of the water as though she was an egg-shell, he merely nodded to Joe and Fred, and proceeded with rapid strides in the direction of Charlie Bell’s.

“What can that mean, Joe?” asked Fred. “He never spoke to us.”

Fred was his brother-in-law, Joe one of his most intimate friends.

“It means that he is angry. Didn’t you notice his face? I never saw him angry, though I’ve known him ever since I was a boy; but I’ve heard say he is awful when he rises. A common man would be no more in his hands now than a fly in the clutch of a lion.”

Ben went directly into Charlie’s pasture, avoiding him, hunted around there till he found the kicking cow, and pulling a rope from his pocket, put it over her horns, and led her in the direction of Colcord’s. Uncle Isaac was butchering a lamb at his door when Ben came along with the cow, and was just about to speak to him; but catching one glimpse of his face, he dropped his knife, and pretending not to see him, walked into the barn.

“Isaac,” cried his wife from the window. “Isaac, Ben has just gone by.”

“I saw him.”

“Saw him; then why didn’t you speak to him, and ask him to come in, and stop to dinner?”

“He’s got the cow Jim Colcord sold to Charlie. I guess he’s on his way to call the old viper to account for his trick. When he is in one of those rages you’d better go near a she catamount than him.”

“Will he murder him?”

“I hope not.”

“It is some ways there. Ben can’t hold his passion long, and will most likely get over it somewhat before he gets there.”

“If he don’t, much as I abhor the old creetur, I pity him.”

When Ben arrived at Colcord’s the family were at dinner; seeing an ox cart in the barn-yard, he tied the cow to it. He entered the kitchen without knocking, where the family were seated at the dinner-table, seized old Colcord by the nape of the neck, carried him, pale as a ghost, with eyes starting from their sockets, and too nearly strangled to scream, into the barn-yard; here Ben sat down upon the cart-tongue, flung his victim across his knees, and while he was alternately screaming murder, and begging for mercy, slapped him with his terrible paw, till the blood came through his breeches, while the family looked on, crying and trembling.

Ben, as a redresser of wrongs, considered it his duty, not only to inflict punishment for his knavery in the matter of the cow, but likewise for the abuse he had for years inflicted upon his uncomplaining wife and children.

When he had finished the castigation, he ordered him to bring the money Charlie paid him for the cow, and ten dollars additional for his trouble in whipping him. Colcord brought the money, but, fearing to approach Ben, put it on the cart tongue.

After counting it, Ben called for a basin of water, soap, and a towel, observing, that he was accustomed to wash his hands after handling carrion, and informing him (after wiping his hands, as he hung the towel on the wheel of the cart) that, if compelled to come there again, he should most probably make an end of him.

That night Charlie hunted the pasture over in vain for the cow; but the next morning Uncle Isaac came over, told him where the cow was, and handed him the money, which Ben had left with him on his return.

“How did father find it out?” asked Charlie.

“Captain Rhines told him.”

“Who told Captain Rhines?”

“I did.”

“Who told you?”

“Joe Griffin.”

“How in the world came he, or anybody else, to know anything about it?”

“That’s more than I know; but he said you had to build a fence round her, and tie her hind legs together to milk her, and when she couldn’t kick, she’d lie down.”

“I bought wit pretty dear, Uncle Isaac.”

“Not quite so dear as Jim Colcord did. They say he can’t sit down, and won’t be able to till snow flies.”