University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

Bradshaw had determined to go to the jail in
the afternoon, to see Jane Durham and learn from
her the facts of the case. But it was wearing late
by the time he reached his office, and he entered
the court to speak to Nancy of her.

“Honey,” said Nancy, “I see ye take an interest
for the poor thing. It's right, and ye'll have
yer reward. The poor thing is deserving and has
been badly treated. I'm old, ye see, Bradshaw,
but I've been young, and I know a woman's feelings—yes!
I say it in humbleness, a sinful woman's.
May be I've been more of a sinner than this young
woman—but I've not suffered as much, and there's
a merciful Providence for all.” So speaking, Nancy
screamed at the top of her voice, after her
black girl, Beck, who had strayed away somewhere,
and said, “I'll go over and see the poor
thing;—and so ye tell me, honey, that Job Presley
has been kind to her, and has her out of the jail
with his wife. She's a feeling woman, a very feeling
woman, and so is her daughter Lucy. Beck,
ye hussy, where have ye been? A pretty trollop
ye are to be caterwauling about, and leave me to
'tend to every thing. What'll ye come to by such

conductions? Here, attend, and none of your fooling
around among the fellows. Mind, the big pippins
are two for a fip. The frost killed 'most all the fruit
this year, and if folks get good fruit, they must pay
for it.”

With Mary Carlton leaning on his arm, Bradshaw
entered the ball-room, following Kentuck, on
whose arm leaned Emily Bradshaw. Though Miss
Bradshaw's parents were religious, they had little
or no objection against their daughters partaking
in such amusements. Miss Bradshaw had no fondness
for them, but her brother was anxious for her
to attend, and the fashionable society in which she
was thrown, whenever she visited the city, compelled
her to comply with some of its requisitions,
or seem very puritanical. She went very little
into society, for her extreme delicacy shrunk from
its glare; but this very circumstance made her
more admired. The hackneyed man of the world,
wearied with the flirtations and arts of some
fashionable belle, might often be seen with respectful
courtesy attending Miss Bradshaw, throwing
aside the mere manners of the ton as qualities,
which, in this instance, were not most likely to
please. Her pale brow, her dark hair, her simple
dress, her most winning manners, that wore the
impress of the gentlest heart, and the feminine loveliness
of her face and figure struck every one. It
was an interesting sight to see Miss Carlton and
Miss Bradshaw conversing together, the one leaning
on the arm of Bradshaw, and the other on that
of Willoughby. The tall proud form of the Kentuckian,
his expanded chest, his face and head on

which nature had stamped her noblest impress, contrasted
finely with the delicate being who held his
arm. The slender form of Bradshaw, his intellectual
head, his penetrating and fiery glance,
formed another contrast with the blue laughing
eye and fairy figure of Mary Carlton. Standing
together and contemplating the dancers, they
formed a group that would have interested a
painter.

The music sounded merrily: Mary Carlton
might be seen threading the mazes of the dance to
meet her partner, Bradshaw, like a fairy in a labyrinth.
There was Henry Selman, dancing with
Miss Penelope in high glee; occasionally glancing,
with a triumphant air, at Mr. Bates, who was attitudinizing
on the confines of the dance. Propped
against a pillar—not far off was the judge, with
both hands in his pockets, in humorous observation
of Bates, looking as if he were contemplating
a statue of wo.

“Bradshaw,” said the Judge, in the interval of
the dance, “I thought you were going a thief-catching,
to-night.”

“So I am, but only as an amateur, as you say.
I don't go until eleven.”

“Well, joy go with you; have you told the ladies
of your anticipated achievement?”

“No, we wait until we have conquered, before
we blow the blast of triumph.”

“What if you are the conquered? Will you be
suffered to leave the lane on your parole of honour?”

“I don't know, Judge, we go like the savans in

Napoleon's Egyptian army, probably, to be laughed
at by the troops, and to be treated with no respect
by the barbarians, should we fall into their
hands.”

“Likely: here comes Kentuck. Willoughby,
what time do you commence your possum hunt,
to-night?”

“About eleven, I believe.”

“It's a delightful employment, and so characteristic
of a Kentuckian, to go a hunting.”

“Suppose you should be surrounded, will you
die upon the field? or will you tuck up your coattails
and heel it—raise a dust in that way? You
had better wear roundabouts. `He who fights and
runs away,' &c. I've been looking at Bates this
half hour. Well, I don't wonder that fellow's
thoughts are always dull when I reflect the subject
is always himself.”

“Why, Judge, you're in spirits to-night, judging
from your conversation,” said Willoughby; “but
not from your phiz: that always plays possum to
your feelings, except when you are sad; and then
it gets the spirit of contradiction in it, and looks
comic.”

“A Kentuckian's phiz,” replied the Judge, “is
pretty much like his country.”

“How's that?” asked Willoughby.

“He has his hair every which way, untouched
by the comb or scissors, like his forests, unpruned
and free. His forehead is like one of his hills—

bluff and bold, and with just as much brains in it.
His smile is not like his glorious rivers—
His chin, when it is shaved, looks like a platter
licked clean by a cat. His neck is as open as a
prairie. His form's like one of his girdled trees;
and his arms are the branches, when tossed by the
winds. His cheeks are rich alluvial, where plenty
of pork and whisky has been deposited. His manners
are those of a bear taught to dance with a
chain round his neck, and to grin when his tail is
pulled. His oratory is like a north wind roaring
through a wilderness. His eye twinkles like a star,
but it is not with the borrowed light of any kind of
lore, but merely with the pride of a rooster, thinking
of his dung-hill.”

“Ha! ha! Good,” said Kentuck, “when we consider
that I saw this very extemporaneous effusion
written off on the back of one of the Judge's briefs,
this very day, and blotted all over with emendations.”

“Willoughby, that's no such thing,” said the
Judge, colouring.

“A fact,” said Willoughby, laughing. “And,
Judge, carry out your analogies. You're a Virginian,
and Virginia is said to be the mother of old
Kentuck. If such is the character of the daughter,
what of the mother? She, like the mother of the
Gracchii, as Calhoun said, when asked for her jewels,
may point to her children—but most of her
great ones are now gone; and, like all old women,
she is now past bearing.”

In such jesting, which provoked no anger, the
young men whiled the time, until the courtesies of
the ball called them off.

“Well, Selman,” said Bradshaw, to the admirer
of Miss Penelope Perry, “how do you come on in
the court of love?”

“Why, Bradshaw,” replied Selman, with a delighted
smile, “better. I cut Bates out to-night.
I don't know why it is, but he is not as attentive to
Miss Carlton as he used to be. He directs his whole
battery against Miss Penelope, now; but I think
he's losing favour—ain't he?”

“I think he is. She looks very well to-night.”

“O, very. Bradshaw, she won't let me dance
with her too often. Do engage her for a set, and
keep that Bates away.”

“With pleasure.”

As Bradshaw advanced towards Miss Penelope,
he whispered to Willoughby: “Kentuck, I'm going
to engage Miss Penelope for the next set—or will
you?—and I'll engage her for the set after. You
must dance with her, and help Selman on. We
must keep him in good spirits, and make him a beau
here, among the fair.”

“To be sure. We must row Bates up salt river.
I've set the Judge on him, by telling him, which is
a fact, that Bates said he looked like the great owl
at the menagerie. Bates refused to pay but two
dollars at the supper, the other night, because, he
said, that was all it was to cost. The breakage
cost two dollars a-piece, besides.”

“His love for the rhino is hereditary. I'm told
that the frail fair one, Catherine P—, pledged a

diamond ring to him, the other day, for ten dollars,
worth fifty; and he refused to return it, because
she did not redeem it at the time stipulated.”

“Whew!—the devil! It ain't possible. Bradshaw,
I don't believe that.”

“Ask the judge. He tells the tale with a holy
honour. The girl, I believe, is his client. He
swears he'll get the ring.”

“Miss Penelope,” said Bradshaw to that lady,
“may I have the pleasure of dancing with you the
next set?”

“If I am not engaged, sir; I promised Mr. Bates,
that I would dance with him; and he looks as if he
were about to claim my promise.”

“Ay, are you such an interpreter of Mr. Bates's
looks?”

“Not at all, sir; but I wish to keep my promise
—at least for my self-respect.”

“When did you promise him, Miss Penelope?”

“In the beginning of the ball.”

“Ay, did he name the set?”

“No, sir.”

“Then will I cut him out? He has yet not paid
his respects to you, to claim the promise. A pretty
fellow! If you have only your self-love to gratify
in dancing with Mr. Bates, and no other love, allow
me to assure you that your best way of gratifying
that self-love is to dance with me.”

“How so?” asked the lady, laughing.

“Because it will be the very way to show Mr.
Bates, that you have forgotten a promise, which
his self-complacency is indifferent about remembering.
Why, you don't know, but that he himself
has entirely forgotten it.”

Miss Penelope took Bradshaw's arm, and they
were soon in the dance.

“You seem to enjoy yourself,” said Willoughby,
in another part of the room, to Miss Emily Bradshaw.

“O! yes, sir, I generally enjoy myself. I see the
Babel, without feeling the stir. I mean a very
great deal of it. It is really delightful to look round
on the happy faces—isn't it?”

“It really is; but do you take no note of the sour
ones?”

“O yes; I observe that they are sour, but I can't
interest myself in the mere sourness. I like to
watch the contrast. We may see sour faces any
where. You know it is said, that the reason so
many married couple look so much alike, is because
they have looked so long at each other that their
features at last acquire a resemblance. If this be
true, we should be careful how we take too deep
an interest in the feelings of the crab apples of
our race.”

“I must tell Cavendish of that. He's so fond of
contemplating odd people, and strange spectacles,
that I must warn him. His face shows already his
propensities.”

“Yes,—but I don't think it will ever alter his
heart.”

“No, I don't think it will; though, he gets very
cynical, sometimes”

“But,” said Bradshaw, “who was passing by, and
overheard the remark, “as Goldsmith said of Johnson,
all of the bear that the Judge has about him,
is the skin.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the Judge, who was at
his shoulder; “that is an ermine of which I am not
ambitious. You valiant gentlemen who go forth
on such a glorious expedition to-night, should be
equipped in that way. No, I'm wrong—I should
not recommend to you the bear's skin, but that
which a certain other animal assumed for valiant
purposes—the lion's. But you'll be found out.”

“How so?”

“As he was found out by the bray.”

“Ha! ha!—but we can't take you along, Judge,
though you are thus equipped.”

“Why not?”

“Because you'll be found out, without it.”

“I understand you, sir,—I'm not only an ass,
but the stupidest of the tribe,—hey? Well, I'm not
ass enough to go.”

Bradshaw passed on, and Cavendish and Willoughby
stood beside his sister.

“I hav'n't seen you in the dance yet, I believe,
Mr. Cavendish,” said Emily Bradshaw.

“No, miss, that is an enjoyment in which I seldom
join. The fact is, I have a hatred to such skipping
about. There must be pleasure in it to some people,
of course, or they would not practise it. This
jumping up and down, and running to and fro
seem to me a relic of barbarism; just as I consider
the jewel in Miss Carlton's ear, (I'm glad to see
that you do not wear them, Miss Bradshaw,) is a
barbaric ornament—the relic of a ruder age. A
Shawnee woman, you know, wears one in her
nose as well as ears. I don't see why the ears
should be complimented in this way, at the expense
of the nose.”

“The nose, you know, is complimented with
specs,” said Miss Bradshaw. “Do you consider
the use of specs a barbarous custom?”

“No, certainly, we cannot: but I consider them
a sorry sight—sorry spectacles. I think a man
would almost be justified in making a resolution
against wearing them, like Dean Swift. Think of
our students, particularly of medicine—why is it
that so many of them require specs? It must be
for the dignity of the profession. Think of them
gaping about through their glasses, like a cat in a
gooseberry bush, looking, by moonlight, after a
mouse. If there is any thing wanting in the paraphernalia
of Mr. Bates, it is a pair of spectacles.
Behold him!—he is skipping in the dance, now,
like an ape in high health: ten minutes ago, I saw
him Byronizing against a column, and looking like
many a fellow I have seen at the bar, ruminating
on the consequences of sheep-stealing.”

“Mr. Cavendish! Mr. Cavendish!” exclaimed
Emily Bradshaw, “you'll lose your good name for
amiability, if you often speak in this way.”

“It will not be the loss of the reputation, if I
have it,” said Cavendish, “but your opinion, that
I deserve to lose it, that would pain me, Miss Bradshaw.
How beautifully Miss Carlton dances!”

“Yes,” said Willoughby; “like a sunbeam on a
stream—but, Judge, may be Bates is ruminating
on the gentlest kind of theft.”

“It must be on a petty larceny, sir. The heart
that he could steal would not be worth much.”

“Kentuck,” said Bradshaw to Willoughby, as
another cotillon was forming, “it's half after ten;
we should be off.”

“That's a fact,” replied Kentuck. “Half after
ten! why, by my watch, it is after eleven. What
shall we do?”

“Suppose we get Cavendish to see Miss Carlton
and my sister home, and go.”

Willoughby looked blank, and asked, “What
about our dresses?”

“We can get a rough overcoat at the watch-house,
and that will do. Cavendish, you'll see the
ladies home for us.”

“Why, Bradshaw, I expected to go with you.
If you get into a scrape, I don't want you to get
your head broke, when I might prevent it by going.”

Bradshaw and Willoughby exchanged smiles.
They explained to Cavendish that they could not
all go; and, after a good deal of trouble with him,
he agreed to remain. They made their apologies
to the ladies, and departed.

They were soon at the watch-house. At the
door, they met Jones, with four other watchmen,
going upon their mission to catch Adams. A few
words were exchanged between them, when the
watchmen entered the watch-house, to obtain for
Bradshaw and Willoughby the necessary disguises.

The watch-house was situated in the centre of
the city. It was the house where the watchmen
met to receive the orders of the captain of the
watch, and to which the rioters and marauders of
the night were brought and locked up, to await a
hearing before the magistrate, who always attended
early in the morning. The room the young
men entered was low and long: a dingy lamp of tin
hung suspended from the ceiling. Along the walls

were benches, permanently fixed, on which lay, at
length, or reclined, in any attitude that pleased
them, those watchmen who were not on duty. Behind
the desk, near a fire-place, was a large, square-shouldered
man, with a dread-naught coat on; his
cheeks were adorned with an immense pair of
whiskers, and through his bushy eyebrows his reddish
eye glowed like a cigar in a dark night, in the
mouth of some sturdy smoker. This was the captain
of the watch.

“Lawyer,” said he to Bradshaw, “so you're going
a larking to-night. I heard of your business
with Adams last night: I wonder, being as you're a
small man, that you came off so well. The fellow's
a noted gallow's bird, and fights like vengeance.
He has sworn he won't be taken alive:
you'll have tough times to-night.”

“There is no harm in taking him dead, is there?”
said Bradshaw.

“Not exactly,” said the captain, hesitatingly;
“but it would be best to take him alive.”

Bradshaw did not mean all that might have been
meant by this phrase; but he knew among whom
he stood. He remarked,

“I have no enmity against the fellow; but he's
a great rascal, and he ought to be taken. Jones
here has a large family, and is a good watchman,
and I want him to get the reward.” So saying, the
young men, who had put on dread-naught coats
and old hats, and the watchmen departed together.
They reconnoitred in the neighbourhood of the alley
for some time before they entered it. Several
squads of young men, frequenters of the neighbourhood,

passed them; but they were much more
peaceable than usual; the late transactions having
quelled their turbulence. It must have been after
one, when they entered the lane. Loose clouds
had been floating in the heavens since dark; after
midnight, they gathered in huge masses, and the
wind began to blow roughly.

“What think you of the business, Squire?” said
Jones, in a whisper, to Bradshaw, as they approached
the house where Bradshaw had contended
with Adams: “had we best enter the house?”

“Why, Jones, I should ask you; but my opinion
is, we had better enter some of these houses. I
wish I had a pair of false whiskers on, I could enter
then without the least fear of detection, and
pass for a watchman, or one of them, as I chose.”

Jones inquired of his companions if either of
them had a pair of whiskers to spare, and after
some explanation, one of them agreed to lend his
for the purpose. Bradshaw, accordingly, fitted
them on as well as he could, without a glass. It
was agreed that the watchmen were to wait in
the old frame building, in which Bradshaw had hid
with the girl from pursuit, until a signal was given,
and Bradshaw and Willoughby were to enter the
grocery, and see if they could make any discoveries.

“Kentuck,” whispered Bradshaw, as they advanced
towards the grocery, “what do you think
of this business?”

“First rate,” was the reply, “I'm for going the
whole hog. Suppose, we turn thief takers, and rival
Vidocq or old Hays?”

“We will, if we succeed, but remember this is
our first attempt. Have you pistols?”

“Yes, two of them, and a dirk.”

“So have I. Let's have the word Kentuck for
our watch-word, and if I hear you call it, or you
me, we must come to the rescue. I've no idea of
having my profile spoilt, or of being carried out
feet foremost; and, therefore, if any of these fellows
flash their knives dangerously, it will be worse
for them.”

The grocery store was a high frame building;
on one side of it was a vacant lot, and on the
other a frame house not quite so high, and divided
from it by an alley of about seven feet in width.
Bradshaw and Kentuck entered, and passing up
by a counter, they took their station near a stove.
Seated by the stove, were two young men, who
looked at the new comers, and stretched out their
persons so as to take up as much room as possible.
The one by Willoughby, put his feet on the only
chair that was between them. As soon as Kentuck
observed it, he said, “My good fellow, if you'll
let your carcass occupy but one chair, I'll take a
seat”—and without waiting for the removal—he
lifted the chair, let the fellow's leg fall, and sat
down. The man stared at Kentuck, who returned
his glance with the mildest expression in the world,
which the fellow observing, and mistaking for “no
fight,” said, “Do you want a fuss here, my young
lark?”

“Why, I don't much care,” said Kentuck, in a
drawling tone. “If there's a fuss, I shall be into it to

a certainty; and if there ain't a fuss, I shall sit still.
I tell you what it is, stranger, I'm all the way
from old Kentuck; you've heard of such a place,
may be? It's a place for varmints, wild varmints,
I tell you. The word there, is go a-head. You've
hearn tell of people licking their weight in wild
cats, hain't you? I've seen it done. May be I
could do it—should like to try? You've hearn tell
of rowing a man up salt river, hain't ye? Well,
I've seen it done; there's no joke in it. Did you
ever see a man bite the head of a nail off? Bring
me one.”

While Willoughby spoke this, he stretched his
legs out, and looked the man in the face with the
most imperturbable indifference.

“You're a picture,” said the fellow, struck with
his don't-care manner.

“Now, ain't I?” said Kentuck. “I'm not one of
your pictures to hang round a girl's neck, though:
I am a full length painting. One of your pictures
that may dangle in a strange kind of frame, some
of these days—two posts upright, and one across,
with a rope and the picture at the end of it, so
well done, that the whole people are admiring the
execution. Do you take, stranger?” The fellow
nodded, and grinned. “Well, it's no matter—while
we live, be merry. What'll you take to drink?”

“If you're for drink,” said the fellow, “I'll take
a little whisky.”

“Ay, of the mountain dew,” said Cavendish.
“What's this landlord's name.”

“Scratch, they call him.”

“Here, Scratch,” called out Willoughby, to an
old man by the door, who was keeping a sharp eye
upon his moveables—“let's have some of your very
best; no deception, old boy, or you'll get scalped,
just as a wild Indian scalps a fellow. They learnt
the trick to the Kentucks, and we can do it like
lightning. I'll bet you a treat, for the company,
that I'll take this Kentuck,” (and he thrust his hand
into his pocket, and produced a curiously wrought,
large knife,) “I'll take this Kentuck, and with one
sweep, just one, round your head, I'll leave you,
old Scratch, in the condition for a namesake, with
no more hair upon your crown, than there is on
the back of my hand. What say you?”

“Sir, the liquor's good,” said Scratch, “and I
want no such experiments.”

“Old boy, you'd scarcely feel it. It's a mere circumstance,
you'd look just as well with a scratch;
and who knows but what you might get a pension
by the scalping? But, no matter, if ever you want it
done, you must call on me. Stranger,” continued
Willoughby, turning to the fellow beside him, “I've
been a river character, a wild woods river character;
I've seen sawyers, and swamps, and snags,
and alligators, and every thing. Why, the sprees
you have here, in your lanes and alleys, are nothing
to Natchez under the Hill, or the swamps at New
Orleans. They'll dirk a fellow there just to keep
their hands in. I've seen knives there flash around
like sunbeams, and I just set among 'em as I set
now and looked on.”

“What brings you all the way here?” asked the

fellow who had just taken his liquor, and who felt
warmed towards Willoughby.

“Why, when I was last at New Orleans, I took
the sea, round from there, and landed at New
York, looked round there a spell, cut up in other
places, and at last came here. I happened to get
the word, while I was in this here city, that an
old comrade of mine had got into hardships somewhere
down this way, and I thought I'd just take
a look after him.”

“What's his name?”

“Adams,” replied Willoughby. “Do you
know such a man, stranger?”

“What, besides Adams, is his name?”

“Henry Adams,” said Bradshaw, who observed
that Kentuck was at fault. “He's been a high
boy in his generation. The word reached us to-day
that he'd got into a bad fix. It wasn't to-day,
exactly, it reached us, but last night. You
see, we took a spree, and got lodged in the watch-house.
While they were talking with us, the
watchman came in, and told about some fellow
having a fight here last night with Adams, and
how Adams got hurt—knocked down two or
three times about a girl, at a place they called old
Moll's. He described the place pretty exact, and
I knew it must be in this lane.”

As this conversation was going on, the landlord,
old Scratch, came round from behind his
counter, with a light in his hand, and observed,
narrowly, the young men. It occurred to Bradshaw,
from the landlord's interest, that, in all
probability, Adams was in his premises. The

scrutiny seemed to awaken Scratch's suspicion of
the new-comers, for he said—

“You've got the best kind of tailoring, I see,
under them old coats; and they look a good deal
like a watchman's. What have you been after?”

“Fun, my old roarer,” exclaimed Willoughby,
to whom the eye of the landlord had been mostly
directed; for, as our readers have observed, he
had talked the most, and also exposed his countenance
and dress in a manner that made Bradshaw,
at first, fear they would be found out. Willoughby's
consummate acting, satisfied him there
was little danger, and delighted him. “Fun, my
old roarer! I can't call you a salt river roarer;
though you're not far off of the salt water. I see
you're fresh; but do you think a man of my inches
wouldn't wear the boot, if best was to be found?
As to the getting, that's not your business, my
old Scratch. You'd better let me scalp you, and
get a good top-knot in place of those rough stubbles
you have on your crown. Look at me,” continued
Willoughby, slapping his thigh: “do you
think I was born with these pants on? Man, just
eye them—they're as soft as a girl's cheek. I'd
take them off now for a better pair; and why not
take off your hair if you can get better? You're
now a scratchless Scratch. But keep dark, my
old fellow; don't flare your light so much this
way. I've some acquaintance in this city that
I wouldn't like to see me in your establishment:
they'd suspect my respectability.”

Scratch took the hint, and replaced his light on
the counter, deliberated a moment, and withdrew.

He returned, after a short absence, to the back of
his shop, and beckoned Bradshaw and Willoughby
to him.

“What kind of a looking man is this Adams,
that you speak of?” inquired Scratch.

“He's a thick-set, bull-necked fellow,” said
Bradshaw, “with black hair and eyes. He was
lately in jail. I went there to see him; but they
wouldn't let me in.”

Old Scratch hesitated a moment, seemed perplexed,
and remarked, unawares—

“He says he has known men like you, but none
that they call Kentuck.”

“My old boy,” said Kentuck, “can't a man
change his name, and have what these lawyers
call an alias. You don't think a free rover sails
always under the same flag, do you?”

“No,” said the old fellow, with a grin, “I
guess not. But what do you want to see him
for?”

“To see him for!” exclaimed Willoughby.
“The devil! Why, don't you know that the
watchmen and constables are after him, hunting
high and low?”

“Yes,” said Bradshaw, who was satisfied that
Adams was in the house; “they'll be down upon
you presently, and raise the devil. We want to
get him off some where if we can. We heard
the watchmen say, the other night, they would
turn over every stone in the city for him.”

“Blood and thunder!” exclaimed Scratch,—
“can't a man do for a friend, without always getting
into trouble!”

“Scratch,” said Bradshaw, “they'll blow you
sky high if they find him; and they'll take him,
besides. He's a fellow that'll tell on any body
to get himself off. By thunder, I don't want him
to tell on me. I want to hide him.”

“It will be hard work to move him,” said old
Scratch. “He's very bad: he's got his foot twisted
all out of place: his head and shoulder is terribly
bruised. Come on; let's see if we can't do
something for him. Mind, I depend on you as
his true friends. You're on no account to reveal
the place where you find him.”

So speaking, Scratch led the way to the back
part of his house, and then, by a ricketty pair of
steps, to the second story. His house was uninhabited,
save by himself, and those outlaws whom he
harboured. All his goods, that were of any value,
were in the front part of his shop: they consisted,
principally, of liquors, which, together with a few
dry goods, and a barrel or two of fish, and some
cordage, comprised his stock in trade. The second
story had two or three rooms in it, which, as the
doors were open, the young men could observe
were filled with all kinds of rubbish, of the most inflammable
materials.

“You see,” said Scratch, chuckling, “they may
hunt the hare, but they can't find him. If them
dogs of constables press too heavy on me, do you
see?—I can just let a candle fall in yon old tar
barrel, and if they don't scamper like old rats,
what's that to me?”

Bradshaw and Cavendish felt in a quandary, as
to how they should act, on seeing Adams; but, as

they could not communicate with each other, by a
tacit understanding, they determined to follow to
his hiding-place, and trust to circumstances. The
watchmen would, doubtless, keep their station until
they heard the signal, or the young men left the
grocery. If Adams was much disabled, they could
easily take him; but the main point was to prevent
the interference of old Scratch and his company,
before they could communicate with the
watchmen;—however, on went the landlord, and
they followed after. He led the way to the corner
of the building, next to the vacant lot, beside
the tar barrel to which he had pointed, and touching
a board, that seemed to be nailed against the
wall to repair a dilapidation, a narrow door opened,
which led by a ladder to a kind of third story or
cock-loft. On entering the apartment, it appeared
long and narrow, with the ceiling unplastered and
slanting, which was, in fact, formed by the roof of
the house. There was no flooring on the rafters,
only, here and there, a board laid across in different
directions. Treading a board that appeared
to lead to the sky-light, the landlord opened a door
close to the eves, which they had to stoop to enter,
and Bradshaw and Willoughby found themselves in
a miserable room, if room it might be called, on the
floor of which, on a mattress, lay Adams. The ruffian's
encounter with Bradshaw had been no child's
play; he looked squalid and feverish. He was so
altered from sickness, and his wounds, Bradshaw
scarcely knew him. The Kentuckian eyed his
broad chest, bony arms, and bull neck, and wondered
how Bradshaw could have contended, successfully,
with such superior strength. The landlord,
with the candle which he held in his hand, lit one
which stood by the bed-side of Adams, and then
stepped behind the young men. Willoughby had
to stoop very much, in consequence of his height,
and the lowness of the room. Forgetting, for a moment,
this necessity, as he stepped forward, he struck
his head against the roof with such force, as to
throw him off of his balance. In the impulsive effort
to recover himself, he threw out his hand, and
struck from the head of Bradshaw the watchman's
hat and false whiskers. Snatching a pistol from
his bed-head, and aiming it at the head of Bradshaw,
Adams exclaimed, in the same instant that
he fired—“We're betrayed!” The ball grazed
the left temple of Bradshaw, and ploughed its way
right over the top of the head of the landlord. The
bone of his skull was thick enough to resist its entrance—but
it nearly did for him what the Kentuckian
offered to do with his knife. Uttering a
yell of pain, old Scratch descended the ladder with
all possible speed, and fastened the door after him.
Bradshaw threw himself upon Adams just as he
was cocking another pistol, and he had scarcely time
to force his hand in a harmless direction, when he
pulled the trigger, but it only snapped. Willoughby
sprang upon the body of the ruffian, as he attempted
to fire, and said—“I'm the strongest—let
me hold him. Run, Bradshaw, and bring the watch.”

Quick as thought, Bradshaw hastened down the
ladder. He found the door fast: but, placing his
body against the wall, and his feet against the door,
with main force, after a powerful effort, he burst

it open, and tumbled into the room. Within ten
feet of him, near the tar barrel, stood old Scratch,
with the light in his hand. Bradshaw rushed past
him, and descended the steps, into the grocery.
There were several persons around the stove, who
evidently had been startled by the report of the
pistol. Bradshaw looked round to see if there was
any back way, through which he could pass out;
for he reflected, without his false whiskers and hat,
he might be known to some of them, as the one
who had hurt Adams. He saw no way of passing
out, but by the front door. As he rapidly advanced
to do so, the fellow who had been conversing at the
stove with Kentuck, asked—“Where's the other
fellow? Who fired the pistol? Where's your
whiskers and hat, my lark?”

“Keep dark,” said Bradshaw; “I left them up
stairs. There's watchmen hid away, about here,
I believe.”

“The devil! What will Adams do? Don't you
smell something burning?”

At this moment, old Scratch called out from
above—“Knock him down—kill him! He's a spy.”

The fellows immediately placed themselves in a
threatening attitude: one brandished a formidable
club, and others drew their knives. They stood
directly between Bradshaw and the door, calling
out—

“Traitor, spy—we know you. Say your prayers!”

“Make way, my brave boys,” said Bradshaw,
nothing intimidated, drawing and cocking a pistol,

as he spoke. “Make a clear passage. Put up
your knives and clubs. The first man who attempts
to use one, I'll shoot dead.”

“Don't fear him,” exclaimed the fellow who
had previously spoken: “his pistol's not loaded.
Didn't you hear it go off, up stairs?”

“Why don't old Scratch come down,” said another
fellow, intimidated by Bradshaw's manner,
“and help us, if he wants him caught?”

“See, boys!” said Bradshaw, producing another
pistol, and holding one in each hand,—“two pistols
have not been fired: one must be loaded. Your
blood be upon your own head! The first one that
attempts to stop me is a gone case.”

So speaking, he passed deliberately by them,
while old Scratch came running down stairs, crying
out, “Stop him!” They followed, but at a respectful
distance, after Bradshaw, determined to
dog him. He crossed over to the old building in
which were the watch. He thought it best not to
call them, as the fellows might then scamper off;
and he wished them to be taken. They followed
after him, giving, at intervals, a low whistle, which
was answered from the upper part of the lane,
where footsteps were heard advancing. All at
once, the cry of “Fire! Fire!!” from a hundred
tongues, burst forth in that fearful tone, that tells
it is near: at the same moment, a blaze of light revealed,
to Bradshaw, the forms and faces of the
watchmen, among whom he stood.

“We've found him,” said Bradshaw. “He's at
old Scratch's.”

He turned and beheld the old villain's house on

fire, with the flames blazing out of the second story
windows. It immediately occurred to him, that
Scratch had set it on fire; and the rapid progress
of the flames was proof enough that his train, of
which he spoke, was well set. Bradshaw looked
anxiously round for Willoughby, but in vain. He
told the watchmen, hastily, the circumstances; and
requested them to take Scratch in custody, if they
should see him. He then entered the burning
house, in search of Willoughby. He proceeded as
far as the steps to the second story, but he found
it impossible to ascend—the whole was in a blaze;
and in places the fire dropped down into the grocery,
through the floor, which, in several places,
was burned through. He called in a loud voice,
stood listening, and called again and again, but
there came no answer. By this time, a great
crowd had gathered; the bells were ringing; the
cry of fire sounded through the city; and the noise
of the engine bells and wheels was heard in the
lane, as the hose-men ran to and fro, unreeling the
hose. When Bradshaw re-entered the street, two
engines were in full play on the fire. On the opposite
side, he saw old Scratch looking very composedly
on the house. Springing forward, and
seizing him by the throat, Bradshaw exclaimed,
“Where's my friend? Tell me, or I'll choke you?
Where's Kentuck?”

“In the house,” said the old fellow, doggedly.

As Bradshaw was in the act of pressing him to
the pavement, he glanced towards the house, saw
the trap-door open, and, in a moment after, Willoughby
stood on the roof. It seemed to swing and

tremble beneath his weight. Stooping down, Willoughby
helped Adams through the door, and, half
dragging him, for he could not help himself, they
reached the chimney that stood near the adjoining
house, divided, as we have before described, from
it by an alley of about seven feet in width. Luckily
for them, the wind blew in the opposite direction,
so as to bear the flames towards the vacant
lot. The whole of the house on that side was burning;
and great bodies of flame broke upward through
the very roof at that corner. The engines directed
the whole body of the water there, but it seemed
inevitable that the two must perish. “Where's
the life escape-ladder?” was called out on every
side. “Not come yet, not come yet,” was the answer.
The crisis was so fearful that the immense
crowd looked on in breathless suspense. The
firemen worked away at their engines without
their accustomed song, in dead silence, with their
eyes upturned to Willoughby and Adams. The
Kentuckian stood erect, with his arm resting on
the top of the chimney; his hat and watchman's
cloak he had left in Adams' room: a splendid cable
chain of gold was plainly perceptible, over the
breast of his mole-skin vest. At his feet, cowering
and clinging to the roof, with both his hands, was
Adams. His face expressed the wildest horror; in
heart-rending tones, he was calling on the crowd
for God's sake to save him.

As soon as Bradshaw saw Willoughby, he called
out to him, in a firm, clear voice, that every man
in the crowd heard, “Willoughby! Kentuck! hold

on; I'll bring you a rope from the next building.'
Willoughby waved his hand.

To throw off his coat and boots, catch up a coil
of cordage, and enter the adjacent house, were
with Bradshaw, but the work of an instant. Several
of the crowd said it was no use, as he passed
them; and one or two, from the best of motives
endeavoured to restrain him, but he rushed on
and, in a moment more, he stood on the roof of the
next house to the grocery. He put the coil of rope
round his neck; with one spring, he lit beside Willoughby;
but he would have fallen, had not the
Kentuckian caught his hand, for he had to jump
on the slanting part of the roof, in consequence of
the chimney. The roof cracked and smoked; a
cry of horror burst from the crowd.

“Here, Kentuck, put this rope round you, and
let me let you down,” said Bradshaw.

“No, let's put it round this poor devil first,”
said Willoughby, “and let him down. I would
have dared the risk of jumping on the next roof
but I could not leave this man to die, while there
was hope.”

While they spoke, amidst the breathless silence
of the crowd, they tied the rope round Adams
and lowered him down in safety. Willoughby
wrapped the rope round the chimney, made it
fast, and said—

“Now, Bradshaw, do you descend.”

“Not until you are first down,” said Bradshaw.

Willoughby folded his arms, and looked a
Bradshaw.

“No, Kentuck,” said Bradshaw, “I got you
into this difficulty. You're making the peril
greater for both of us by waiting. Go a-head!”

“Come on!” called out the crowd, “come on!
the roof is falling!”

The Kentuckian still paused; Bradshaw sprang
upon the next building, as the only means of
making him take the rope. As Bradshaw leaped,
Willoughby seized the rope: scarcely had it felt
his weight, when the roof fell in with a tremendous
crash. The crowd thought for a moment that
both were lost. But, when the roof fell, the chimney
stood; and Willoughby clung to the rope, and
held himself suspended, for an instant, by an admirable
presence of mind, in air, till the smoke
somewhat subsided; and, while the flames were
yet smothered under the roof, he let himself down
in safety. By almost a miracle, Bradshaw, when
he jumped on to the next house, maintained his
footing. This he could not have done, had he not
been in his stocking feet. If the Kentuckian had
tried it, he must have fallen, booted as he was.

“is he safe?” called out Bradshaw. “Is Kentuck
safe?”

“Safe as an old 'coon!” exclaimed Willoughby;
“how are you, Bradshaw?”

At the name of Bradshaw, the crowd huzzaed
loudly. The deep silence—the fearful suspense—
that had held them awed, was now broken, and
they shouted again and again. Bradshaw felt a
thrill of real pleasure as he looked down on the
sea of heads, and saw so many approving faces upturned
towards him, and the many from the house-tops

and windows. It gave him greater pleasure,
though, when he heard the crowd below huzzaing
for Kentuck. Adams, overjoyed at his deliverance
from the fiery death, had, though in the custody
of the watchman, told the crowd around of Kentuck's
generous risk for him; while, in no measured
terms, he was denouncing old Scratch, who had
disappeared. The miserable male and female tenants
of the lane gathered round Kentuck, who
was endeavouring to find his way to Bradshaw, in
wonderment and admiration; and, strange to tell,
his gold chain hung untouched round his neck.

The first person that Bradshaw met, when he
descended, was Fritz, with his boots and coat in
his hand.

“Mr. Bradshaw,” said Fritz, “I just got here
when you threw off your coat and boots; a fellow
was making off with them, when I stopped him.
When I saw you on the top of that house, sir, I
thought you wouldn't need 'em.”

“Fritz, my good fellow,” said Bradshaw, “you
and I have both learned that, to be in danger, is
not always to be hurt. A miss is as good as a mile,
you know.”

“That's a fact,” said Fritz, smiling, knowingly.

“Fritz, I want to see you, particularly. You
must call at my office as soon as you can.”

The boy promised to do so. As Bradshaw was
passing through the crowd, he met, at the same
instant, Willoughby and the Judge.

“You're pretty specimens of human nature,”
said the Judge, who evidently was much moved,
but who appeared very cynical; “pretty specimens

of human nature, to disguise yourselves to catch a
poor devil, that you may, perhaps, hang him; and,
when you've caught him, to risk your lives to save
him. Bradshaw, you showed some feeling, if not
sense, in trying to save Willoughby, but as for
the Damon and Pythias friendship between Willoughby
and this Adams,—I can't understand it.
To stand on a house-top, beside a felon, whom you
have caught, when you had no business to catch
him; and because he can't get off, to burn with
him, is a luminous idea! There's nothing like it,
except that of a Hindoo widow burning on the
funeral pile of her husband. And that's not like
it; for she burns according to law, and the law
must be respected. How much a Kentuckian's
understanding is like an Irishman's, to be standing
up there in such a theatrical position—`Get up,'
said a watchman, to Pat, `the house is on fire.'
`An', by hokey, what do I care?' said Pat, `go till
the landlord—I'm only a lodger.' And you, Bradshaw,
after you had jumped on the house to let
that Adams down, first; and then to stand parleying
with a Kentuckian as to who should descend!
A Kentuckian, who, if he could get a crowd to
look at him, would take Sam Patch's leap any
time, or ascend in a balloon for the sake of the
claps he'd get. It is preposterous, by Jove! I picked
up the biggest brick-bat I could find, and hurled it
at you with real vengeance!”

They had, by this time, reached the outskirts of
the crowd.

“Whose hack is that?” shouted the Judge, to a
hackman, who was driving.

“A gentleman sent a boy to our stable for it,
just now, sir,” said the hackman. “He ordered it
here.”

“'Twas I,” said the Judge. “That Jackson
has hacks, to be got at all hours, night and day:
it's a great convenience. Here, boy,” giving a
boy some silver, “you've been quick. Bradshaw,
get in; you look feverish, now. As soon as I saw
you safe—I knew you must have pitched your
clothes any where—so, to prevent you and Willoughby
being taken for madmen, or the inmates
of these places, burnt out, without clothing, and
roaming in search of it, I sent a boy round for
a hack. You're pretty spectacles, Willoughby—
parading a gold chain—it's lucky it wasn't stolen:
his friendship for Adams saved it—and a ball-room
dress, in these haunts, to catch a rogue. He looks
like that mad tragedian, that came into the court,
the other day, and cut up his antics. A sixty dollar
suit for such a purpose!—there's your vanity
again! I suppose you wanted to shine out before
the Desdemonas of the lane. I saw a whole crowd
of women after Kentuck, like, I wont say what.
It's a marvel you were not knocked in the head.
Bradshaw, I wonder you had not more sense, than
to go on such an expedition, in a gentleman's dress.
Whose old coat is that, and where's your hat?
You'll catch some cutaneous disease from that rascally
garment, that will last you for life.”