The Humors of Falconbridge Part 45

Having transferred the body of the captive from his "own canoe" to theirs, the Mills-Pointers made fast the stranger's _dug-out_, and then paddled for the landing. The pirate was duly hauled ash.o.r.e, or on to the _wharf-boat_, and left under guard of one of the captors--a dreadful ugly-looking customer, a _cross_ between a whiskey-cask, bowie-knife, and a Seminole Indian or bull-dog, and armed equal to an a.r.s.enal--while the other two went up to the nearest "grocery," reported the capture, took a drink, and sent out word for _Court_ to meet. The poor victim was deposited on his back across some barrels, with his hands tied behind him. Recovering his scattered senses, the _pirate_ "waked up."

"Look here, my virtuous friend," said he to his body-guard, who sat on an opposite barrel, with a heavy pistol in his hand, "what's all this about?"

"Shet up!" responded the guard; "shet up your gourd. You'll know what's up, pooty soon, you ugly cuss, you!"

"Well, that's explicit, anyhow!" coolly continued the captive. "But all I want to know, is--am I to be robbed, killed off, or only initiated into the mysteries of your craft?"

"Shet up, you piratin' cuss, you; shet up, or I'll give you a settler!"

was the reply.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Shet up, you piratin' cuss you; shet up or I'll give you a settler!--_Page_ 305.]

"Well, really, you are accommodating," cavalierly replied the but little daunted captive. "One thing consoling I glean, my virtuous friend, from your sc.r.a.ps of information--you are not a pirate yourself, or in favor of that science! But I should like to know, old fellow, where I am, and what the deuce I'm here for."

"Well, you'll soon diskiver the perticklers, for here comes the _Court_, and they'll have you dancin' on nothin' and kickin' at the wind, pooty soon; you kin stake your pile on that!"

And with this, a hum was heard, and soon a mob of a dozen well-_stimulated_ citizens, and strangers about the Point, came rus.h.i.+ng and yelling on to the wharf-boat and were quite as immediately gathered around the captive. The first impulse of the _posse comitatus_ appeared to manifest itself in a desire to hang the victim--straight up! A second (how _sober_ we know not) thought induced them to ask a question or two, and for this purpose the presiding _judge_ drew up before the still prostrate captive, and said--

"Who are you? What have you got to say for yourself, anyhow?"

The sunburnt, ragged, and rather romantic-looking prisoner turned his face towards the _judge_, and replied--

"I have nothing of consequence to say, neighbor. I would like to know, however, what all this means!"

"Where's your crew, you villain?" said the _judge_.

"Crew? I have never found it necessary to have any, neighbor; navigation never engrossed a great deal of my attention, but I get along down here very well--without a crew!"

"You do?" responded the _judge_; "well, we're going to hang you up."

"You are, eh?" was the cool reply; "well, I have always been opposed to capital punishment, neighbor, and I know it would be unpleasant to me now!"

The quiet manner of his reply rather won upon the _Court_, and says the _judge_--

"Who are you, and where are you from?"

"My name is Banvard--John Banvard, from Boston!"

"It is, eh? What are you doing along here, alone in a canoe?"

"_Taking a panorama of the Mississippi, neighbor, that's all._"

The _Court_ adjourned _sine die_; the clever artist was untied, treated to the best the market afforded, that night; his canoe, rifle, &c., restored next day, and John went on his way rejoicing in his narrow escape--finished his sketches, and the first great panorama "got up" in our country, and which he took to Europe, after making a fortune by it in America.

Genius for Business.

It's a highly prized faculty in shop-keeping to sell something when a customer comes in, if you can. A female relative of ours went into a Hanover street fancy store 'tother day, to "look over" some ivory card and needle cases; the slightly agricultural-looking clerk "flew around,"

and when the question "Have you any ivory card cases?" was propounded, he responded--

"Not any, mum;" glancing into the show-case, his visual orbs _lit_ upon a profusion of well-known matters in domestic economy, for the abrogation of certain parasitic insects.

"Haven't any card cases, mum,--_got some elegant ivory small-tooth combs!_"

Have You Got Any Old Boots?

No slight portion of the ills that flesh is heir to, in a city life, is the culinary item of rent day. Was.h.i.+ng day has had its day--machines and _fluid_ have made was.h.i.+ng a matter of science and ease, and we are no longer bearded by fuming and uncouth women in the sulks and suds, as of yore, on the day set apart for renovating soiled dimities and d.i.c.keys.

Another and more important matter, from the extent of its obnoxiousness to our nerves and temper, has come home to our very threshold and hearths, to disturb the even tenor of our domestic quietude and peace.

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

Boston lost a good citizen by those bell-pulling, gate-whacking, back-door-pounding infernal collectors of time and care-worn _boots_.

The old boot gatherers were almost as diverting as novel to me, when I first located in Boston; but I have long since learned to hate and abhor them, and their co-laborers in the tin-pan, tape, tea-pot, willow work, and white pine ware trade, with a most religious enthusiasm.

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

How often--a hundred times at least, have I gone to the door and heard this inquiry--ten times in one day, for I kept count of it, and used enough "strong language" at each shutting--banging to of the door, to last a "first officer" through a gale of wind.

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

The idea of jumping up from your beef steak and coffee, or morning paper--just as you had got into a deeply interesting bit of information on "breadstuff's," California, or the Queen's last baby, to open your door, and espy a grim-visaged and begrimed son of the Emerald Isle, just rearing his phiz above the pyramid of ancient and defiled leather, and meekly asking--

"_Have yez got any ole boots?_"

These _collectors_ are of course prepared for any amount of explosive _gas_ you may shower down upon their uncombed crowns, as the cool and perfectly-at-home manner they descend your steps to mount those of your next-door neighbor plainly indicates. The "pedlers" and--

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

Drove my respected--middle-aged friend Mansfield--clear out of town! Mr.

Mansfield was a _retired_ flour merchant; he was not rich, but well to do in the world. He had no children of his own, in lieu of which, however, he had become responsible for the "bringing up" of two orphans of a friend. One of these children was a boy, old enough to be _devilish_ and mightily inclined that way. The boy's name was Philip, the foster father he called Uncle Henry, and not long after arriving in town, and opening house at the South End, Mr. Mansfield--who was given to quiet musings, book and newspaper reading--found that he was likely to become a victim to the aforesaid hawkers, pedlers and old boot collectors.

Uncle Henry stood it for a few months, with the firmness of an experienced philosopher, laying the flattering unction to his soul that, however harrowing--

"_Got any ole boots to-day?_"

might be to him, for the present, he could grin and bear and finally get used to it, as other people did. But Uncle Henry possessed an irritable and excitable temperament, that not one man in ten thousand could boast of, and hence he grew--at length sour, then savage, and, finally, quite meat-axish, towards every outsider who dared to ring his bell, and proffer wooden ware and tin fixins, for rags and rubbers, or make the never-to-be-forgotten inquiry--

"_Have you got any ole boots to-day?_"

Always at home, seated in his front parlor, and his frugal wife not permitting the expense of a servant, Uncle Henry, or Master Philip, were obliged to wait on the door. The old gentleman finally concluded that the pedlers and old boot collectors, more as a matter of daily amus.e.m.e.nt than profit or concern--gave him a call. And laboring under this impression, Uncle Henry determined to give the nuisances, as he called them, a reception commensurate with their impertinence and his worked up ire.