University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Bobby soon reached the house. It was a comfortable
two story brick building. Its best room was on
the ground-floor. The windows of this room opened
three feet or more above the grassy yard, in which,
on this side of the house, there were many cedar trees.
Clinging around and above the windows was a wild
vine, which Miss Grattan had taught to spread its
graceful tendrils about them. Seeing the light from
the windows, and hearing the voices, Bobby walked
up to it. The centre and lower pane happened to be

broken; and the lad leaned his arms on the sill of
the window and looked in, while Towzer stretched
himself at his feet. A curtain spread its folds on
either side of the window, and partly obstructed an
observation of the room from the point where Bobby
stood through every pane except the broken one,
which being in the centre was not hidden at all by the
drapery. There was still an obstacle in the way of
Bobby's vision, and that was the wig-covered head
of Mr. Bronson, which was within a foot of the
broken glass, and towered up nearly to the top of it.
Bobby could only catch glimpses of the room on
either side of Mr. Bronson's head, and an imperfect
view over it. While Bobby stood there Colonel
Bentley observed him. A sudden thought seemed to
strike the colonel. He arose from the side of Miss
Fitzhurst, by whom he had been sitting, passed out,
and walking round to the side of the house, touched
Bobby on the shoulder. The boy turned round, when
the colonel stepped aside from the window under the
shade of the trees, and beckoned Bobby to him.

“Bobby, I want you to do something for me.”

“What's that, colonel? I expect I can do it.”

“Wait till I return into the house and then stretch
your hand into the window and pull that fellow's wig
off—”

“Ha! ha! ha!”

“Hush; don't laugh so.”

“Colonel, I wanted to do it of myself, but I mus'nt
—Granny would never let me hear the last of it, and
it would displease Mr. Elwood.”

“Bobby, I know you don't like Bronson.”

“To be sure I don't, sir. Did'nt he call out to me
the other day in meeting. He said I made the noise
when it was Joe Giles, and he knew it. And you see
Granny's religious-like; and if she hears it she'll
pester me to death. I don't hide that I don't like
him.”

“I don't like him either, Bobby.”

“Folks say so, sir. They say he's a courting over
at your house as well as here.”

“The devil they do. The plebeian rescal—he
never was there but on business in his life. I tell you
what it is; if you will do it I'll give you that beautiful
little fowling-piece, with the powder horn and
shot bag complete.”

“Will you, indeed, colonel?”

“I will, upon my honor.”

“Then hang me if I don't do it,” said Bobby.
“Mind, colonel, the gun, powder horn, and shot bag
complete.”

“Yes; and plenty of powder and shot into the bargain.”

“I'll do it, sir. When shall I have the things?”
asked Bobby, as the colonel was leaving him to enter
the house.

“To-morrow morning early, if you come for them.
Wait until I get into the house before you do it.”

As the colonel walked away, Bobby turned and beheld
a cat with its back bent up in a belligerent attitude
towards Towzer. A sudden thought struck
Bobby, by which he believed he could save himself
from the risk of discovery. He felt that the cat in
her fear of the dog would, if held to the window,
having first been held to her foe, make an effort to
escape into the room, which doubtless was familiar
to her, and where her instinct told her she would be
in security. And he knew that by giving her tail a
pinch and pull at the instant it would mingle fury with
her fear.

In the mean time Colonel Bentley re-entered the
room, and, as he resumed his seat by Fanny, he asked:

“Did you really, Miss Fitzhurst, mean what you
said, when you remarked the other day that you considered

there was no impropriety in wearing false
hair.”

“I do really think so, colonel,” replied Fanny, in a
satirical tone. “Pray what suggested this profoundly
interesting question to you.”

“Mr. Bronson there, Miss Fanny, has some pretentions
to pretty, as I am told; and as I differ with
you in opinion, suppose you take my arm, and we step
up to him and ask him the question?”

“Colonel, you are pleased to be facetious! I never
ask Mr. Bronson any questions, sir, but the price of
his ribbons.”

“Well, Miss Fitzhurst, as you won't ask him, I
must do so myself. Do listen to his answers, and observe
him.”

Accordingly, the colonel advanced to Bronson
where he sat by the window, beside Miss Grattan,
who was listening to the conversation of Mr. Pinckney,
who was seated on the other side, and said:

“Mr. Bronson, I have had a dispute with a lady,
sir, which, as you are the oldest man in the company
(Bronson looked grave at this, but endeavoured to look
honoured), and the most rigid in your morals, I have
determined to leave to you—”

“What's that, Colonel Bentley? asked Bronson,
putting on an amiable look.”

“Do you think, sir, it is proper to wear false hair?
a wig for instance.”

“Colonel, sir—I—do I—”

At this instant the angry growl of a cat was heard
at the window; the next moment, looking as furious
as an enraged wild one, it sprang on Bronson's head,
and fixed its claws deep into his wig.

With a cry of horror Bronson started to his feet, and
dashed the cat from her perch. The animal fell to the
floor, but bore the wig with it; and, furious with the pain

which the blow and fall had inflicted, she tore and bit
it at a desperate rate.

The ladies ran to the gentlemen for protection,
while Bronson, for a moment, stood speechless and motionless
like Hamlet, the Dane, when he sees the ghost
of his father. Recovering himself, he caught up the
the chair on which he had been seated, and made at
the cat.

“Hiss, cat!” ejaculated the colonel. The affrighted
animal at this darted into the passage, the door of
which chanced to be open, leaving the tattered wig
beyond a barber's art.

“Really, sir,” said Colonel Bentley to Bronson, “I
should not have been surprised if your hair had stood
on end at the sinfulness of my question, but I had no
idea that it would run away with affright.”

Amidst the confusion, and forgetting his Cousin
Peggy's request, Bobby hurried away to mingle with
the huskers, and escape suspicion if any should arise
as to whether the cat had any instigator to its misdeeds.
Bobby had some fears, for Towzer had
barked fiercely when he heard the din within. He
found Pompey where he had left him, seated snug
against the tree, and a little elevated by the drink
which he had obtained for him. The huskers were
engaged might and main. They had nearly gotten
through with their labour, and it was very doubtful
which side would gain the victory, for their respective
piles, though very much reduced, were about the
same size. A large pile of loose and rustling husks
had accumulated behind the workmen, while some ten
feet before them the husked corn, thrown into a heap,
glittered in the moon-beam. Nat, in the intensity with
which he worked, had ceased his song; silence prevailed,
except now and then when some enthusiastic
negro would send forth a shout that started the echoes
around. The negroes of each party glanced at the

pile of their opponents, and in intense and low tones
exhorted their comrades to “go ahead.” Each party
seemed fearful that the other might discover the exertions
they were making. It was an interesting scene.

“They'll soon be done, Mister Bobby,” said Pompey,
“You diskiver and observe they're going their death:
it'll be about a tye. I don't take much interest in it.
But I want to wait and get a bit of something to eat,
and may be I'll give 'em a touch on my violeen.
Some body has hid Nat Ramsey's away,—the nigger
was jumping about here just after you went, axing
every body if they had seed his “fiddle.” He call
his violeen a fiddle. It's just so with vulgar persons.
He hates it, so he stopped his pipes. I never liked
his singing no how. He thinks he can play the violeene.
But he don't even understand how to hold it.
He jams it up way down below his shoulder. Now
that's not the way to hold a violeene. You must
hold it light an' easy, and just rest it agin the shoulder.
And another thing, master Bobby, them are niggers
what works in the cornfield you know, and does every
thing about the farm, they are a kind of stiff in the jints,
they aint got the touch in the eend of their fingers to
make a violeene speak. And as for Nat's singing; I
assure you, Master Bobby, that I has heard a wite
gentleman in the circus beat that very Nat Ramsay
all hollow at one of his own nigger songs.”

“Who is that?” asked Bobby.

“Why, Mister Bobby, its Mr. Rice,—Mister Jim
Rice.”

“I heard Jack Gordon speak of him,” said Bobby,
“an' I must go and hear him some of these nights
when we stay in town.”

“Yes, I assure you, Mister Bobby, he can do it.
When he comed out he was blacked all over, and I
would ha' sworn that he was a real African nigger.
He had them same kind of legs, an' his leg seemed

right in the middle of his foot.” Here a loud, prolonged
shout disturbed the further conversation of our
worthies.

“Hurra, for our side!” shouted Nat Ramsay; and,
notwithstanding the condition of his foot, he threw
himself in the cornhusks and rolled about in delight,
throwing them over him as a frolic swimmer would
sport with the waves.

“Look here,” exclaimed one of the opposite party,
a black, named Cæsar, belonging to Mr. Elwood,
kicking the husks aside where Nat had worked, “see
how they've shyed and chiseled—I axe you if dem ar
husks haint got corn in 'em.”

Nat jumped up, and, throwing aside the husks of the
other party, he picked up several ears of corn with the
husks on them.

“Look a here now,—I wonder if them are aint got
corn in 'em too. You don't think niggers is as cute
as coons, do ye, to find ebery single corn. There's
some o' your side husking yet—dar a heap afore em
as big as a barrel.”

This part, plain to every eye, decided the victory.

“The Lord ha' mercy,” exclaimed Nat, going to
the tree where he had deposited his fiddle; “did any
body ever see the like of the niggers about here,”—
come help me look for it, boys—it's smashed I speck,
or stole.”

While some of Nat's friends were assisting him to
search for his fiddle, Pompey was called on for a
tune. The husks were cleared away from the place
where Pompey sat preparatory to a dance. The old
fellow brought forth his violin with great dignity,
arose, and placed his back against the tree with his
hat off, and removing the husks from his foot so that
he might keep time with it, he gave them the juba
song in great style.

When Bobby saw Pompey fairly underway he went

to the spot where Nat was looking for his fiddle.
After affecting to assist him in the search for a few
minutes, Bobby looked up into the crotch of a tree, a
foot or two above his head, and pointing to an object,
he asked Nat if that was not his fiddle.

“Master Bobby, you're right—the very cretur,” said
Nat, taking the instrument from the place; “concarn
it, who could put it thar?”

“Cæsar,” said Bobby to that person; “tell Pompey
that I had to go home.” I musn't stay for him, said he
to himself, but I must get up early and go for the gun.

Bobby congratulated himself as he proceeded on
the successful issue of the trick. He stopped short;
and, placing his hands upon his knees, laughed aloud at
the idea of the ridiculous figure which the baldpate
of Bronson cut, of which, ere he retreated, he had
suffered himself to snatch a glance. As Bobby jogged
on he looked round through the woods, and thought
to himself what gunning he should have therein, and
with such a gun—the very best one he had ever
seen.

Bobby was interrupted in his pleasant reveries by
the quick tramp of horses, which he thought from the
sound must be descending a precipitous bridle-path
which led to the hills. Bobby listened, and looked, and
in a few moments distinguished two horsemen entering
the road on which he trod. The road, an old county
one, led round the hills by the property of Mr. Fitzhurst
and Elwood to a mill, which some years before
the date of our narrative had been burnt down by the
carelessness of the miller. Since this event the road
was of no use to any one, but Mr. Fitzhurst and Elwood,
in the transportation of their wood or grain from distant
parts of their property.

Bobby wondered who the horsemen could be, and
what they were after. As they approached him they
seemed in anxious conversation, and Bobby, without

any fear, but with the desire of observing them unnoticed,
withdrew to the shadow of the wood at the very
point that Mr. Fitzhurst's lane, which passed through
his estate, let into the old road.

“You think its all right, then,” Bobby heard one of
the horsemen say, as they neared the spot.

“Yes, I'm up;” replied the other, whom Bobby
recognised both by voice and person as being Jack
Gordon. “You ride on to the village in that way,”
continued Gordon, “and I'll cut through this lane.
We'd better not be seen together,—I know the folks
all about here, and can take liberties. And I've got
other reasons two that I'll tell you of some day; don't
be so fast.” They had slackened the pace of their
steeds as they drew near the mouth of Fitzhurst's
lane, and this enabled Bobby to hear so much of what
was said. At the last remark of Gordon they stopped,
and he asked:

“Do you think that husking match is over yet?”

“I should say not,” replied Gordon's companion;
who wore his hat very much over his face, which
prevented the lad from observing his features.

“Then I'll push ahead,” replied Gordon, “and meet
you at the village to-morrow—keep dark.”

“Never fear me,” replied the other person. So
saying, they put spurs to their horses, and parted
company: Gordon entering the lane, and the other
pursuing the road.

“Gordon's at some devilment,” said Bobby to
himself, as he stepped into the lane again. “There
now, I forgot to tell him what Cousin Peggy said.
Jack Gordon wont bear watching. I've forgot twice
to-night what Cousin Peggy told me. I wonder what
he's after.”

When Bobby passed by Mr. Fitzhurst's mansion
it was wrapped in profound repose. As he approached
his home, the sound of a horse's tread broke

suddenly on his ear, as if it had just started from
some point or other. In a musing mood, he quietly
entered the back door of his grandmother's humble
dwelling, and stole to bed.