University of Virginia Library

THE MYSTERY REVEALED;
OR THE WAY ALL HANDS WERE “MOST OUDACIOUSLY TUCK IN.”

Pineville awoke from the quiet slumber of a
starless night. The morning was cloudy and damp,
and long after the most fashionable citizens had
broken their fast, a dense fog still rested upon the
earth, involving houses and horseblocks, shops and
shantees, sign-posts and horse-racks, flower-gardens
and duck-ponds, chimneys and fodder-stacks, objects
conspicuous and objects out of sight, things elegant
and things inelegant, (which in our villages are usually
disposed in such pleasing contrast,) in one general,
indiscriminate obscurity. But the “glorious orb” at
length appeared, dispelling the mists and vapors of
the upper air, and sending its genial rays aslant upon
the scene, imparting life and animation to the Pinevillians,
and brilliancy and beauty to the landscape.

Then it was that signs of animal life and enjoyment
might have been detected by the discriminating
observer. Men and cattle were astir—the former in
pursuit of the various occupations by which they obtained
a livelihood, and the latter migrating to the
woods and fields for the same laudable purpose.
The village swine were performing scavenger duty
in the streets and yards—the matronly old hens were

leading forth their young fledglings to the morning
repast, scratching up the isolated grubs and disturbing
the repose of the indolent bugs that lay concealed
among the weeds and rubbish,—while a gang of
vagabond goats were performing feats of agility about
the court-house steps. But by far the most interesting
group was that which had assembled round the
piazza of the village hotel, to pick their teeth in company,
whittle the backs of the split-bottomed chairs,
and discuss the topics of the day. There was a
dearth of news just at that time, and conversation
was dull. Something was said about the probable
price of cotton in the fall, and some grave speculations
were made as to the prospects of the corn crop.
Old Mr. Hearty, who is generally regarded as an
oracle in such matters, expressed his deliberate conviction
that the price of cotton would mainly depend
upon the quality of the staple, what the planter
“ax'd” for it, and what the buyer was willing to
give—there was no doubt in his mind about that, it
was a settled matter—but as to the corn crop, that
depended entirely on circumstances. One ventured
the opinion that the rain was over. Sammy Stonestreet—whom
the boys universally called Stonefence,
because of his unconscionable ugliness—said he knew
a “yarb” for taking pimples off people's faces, to
which Tom Rogers, who was slightly affected that
way, replied, that it was a pity he could not find
something that would soak the ugly out of his own
countenance, which, he said, was enough to give
him the night-mare every night of his life. The latter
remark raised a laugh at Sammy's expense, and,
after a pause, Billy Wilder asked if anybody had
any good tobacco; upon which Bob Echols pulled
out a piece about the size of his hand—but in reality
only half a hand of tobacco—and passed it to Billy,
after which it passed through divers other hands
until the greater part found its way into the mouths
of the bystanders, and not even the slightest moiety
would ever have reached its owner again, had not
some one on the outskirts of the crowd—who probably
had a hole in his pocket—called out “Who's
tobacco's this?” Bob owned the remnant, remarking
that he “bought it at Harley's,” and conversation
and expectoration became brisk and general.

Some writers would pause here, to give the reader
a group of portraits—in other words, to give him a
separate and special introduction to the crowd into
whose midst we have thus unceremoniously ushered
him. But we will not imitate their example, for
good and sufficient reasons—first, because we do not
claim to be skilled in the limning art, and, secondly,
because we consider an unsuccessful portrait no better
than a caricature—a libel on the original—and
thirdly, and lastly, as the logicians say, because we
prefer (and we doubt not but our readers do the
same) to form our estimates of individuals from an
acquaintance with their characters, rather than by
the contour of their features—indeed we find this the
only safe way to judge of people.

But as Sammy Stonestreet appears to have been
designed and blocked out by nature herself for a
caricature upon his species, we may venture to make
a dab at his profile, with no very serious apprehensions

of spoiling the job; and after informing the
reader that the balance of the company was composed
of just such a variety as he would be likely to
meet assembled at that hour of the day round the
door of a village boarding-house, we will leave him
to cultivate his acquaintance with them as we progress
with our sketch.

Well, then, when we said Sammy was “unconscionably”
ugly, we spoke conscientiously. His
order of ugliness was perfectly sui generis—Boss
Ankles, not even the genius of ugliness himself (if
there ever was such a deity) could claim kin with
Sammy Stonestreet on the score of family resemblance,
so peculiar to himself was the style and
fashion of his deformity. But for fear the reader
should doubt our sincerity in this general allusion to
Sammy's personal appearance, we will endeavour to
give him some vague idea, at least, of that individual's
peculiar form and favour. To begin, then,—
Samuel Stonestreet stood, nett (he wore no shoes)
five feet one, and a fraction; but he claimed full another
inch, in consideration of the angle of his legs,
for he was desperately knock-kneed, with a drooping
forward inclination of these latteral appendages,
which caused him to stand rather in a jumping attitude,
upon the palms of his feet. To proceed upwards,
he was remarkably short in the cupple, as a
wagoner would say, which was probably owing to a
most unnatural and unhealthy hump, which seemed
originally to have been lodged upon the right shoulder,
but which had swayed back and downwards
until it had given a sort of sidewise twist to his body,

which, as he approached you, swinging his cotton-stalk
in his hand, his little gray, sinister eyes twinkling
in his head, gave him very much the appearance
of one about to deal a blow, and many an unlucky
“lick” had poor Sammy received from over-squeamish
persons, in consequence of the natural belligerance
of his attitude. But to proceed to the climax of mortal
ugliness. A short shrivelled neck supported a
head of ponderous dimensions—a perfect chaos of
phrenological developments—a mental Alps, with
promontories and peaks, ravines and valleys, utterly
defying any thing like scientific exploration or systematic
measurement. But what shall we say of his
face? Broad, round, and quince-coloured—but we
will, perhaps, succeed better to take a feature at a
time—small nose, decidedly snub, with pink-coloured
nostrils—eyes, pale, gray, and small, divided by the
slightest particle of nose, which seemed stretched
upwards solely for that purpose—lips thin and colourless,
the upper one short and inclined towards the
nose, leaving exposed the teeth of the upper jaw,
which projected far over his nether grinders;—mouth
large and difficult to close, while the chin, which
should have terminated the lower region of the facial
territory, seemed to have shrunk entirely away, leaving
the neck and mouth in close proximity. But, as
if nature's finishing touch had been designed solely
to give full relief to this specimen of her handiwork,
she blessed Samuel with a profusion of bright saffron-coloured
hair, for the better display of which she
added a “cow-lick” which held it erect from ear to
ear, giving a general contour of face more resembling
a weatherbeaten sun-flower, with a few seeds plucked
here and there for eyes, nose, and mouth, than any
thing else in nature to which we can liken it. But
enough of Sammy's hideousness.

The crowd were engaged, as when we left them,
in a sort of running, general conversation, when an
incident occurred—for it must be admitted that the
passage of a four-wheeled vehicle through a quiet
country-village like Pineville, is an incident. But
the occurrence to which we now more particularly
allude, was an incident indeed, one that will not be
forgotten while the chronicles of Pineville are remembered.
A large dapple-gray horse, evidently much
jaded, was seen approaching in a forced trot, drawing
a rather dilapidated looking buggy, with two
women, in homespun frocks and green veils. Conversation
was suddenly suspended, while every eye
was directed to the vehicle. It came down the street
towards the tavern, but it did not stop. The horse
seemed willing, even desirous, as he drew near the
sing-post, but one of the women,—not the one who
held the lines,—extended a brawny hand, in which
she held a stout hickory, and dealt him a blow that
tallied its date upon every rib of the side upon which
it fell. The poor animal frisked his tail and quickened
his gait, but endeavoured to turn the next corner
on the opposite side, which effort was, however,
promptly counteracted by repeated applications of
the aforesaid hickory. Having finally gained the
main road, the horse was forced into a rapid gait,
in which he continued until lost to the view of the
astonished spectators.

Not a word was spoken for full a minute after the
passage of the vehicle; but any one who had observed
the severe scrutiny with which the crowd
regarded those veiled women, and noticed the glancing
of eyes and peculiar suspicious expression of their
countenances, would have been qualified that but one
sentiment prevailed in that company, and that was,
that all was not right in that buggy.

Sammy Stonestreet was the first to break silence.

“Dadfetcht,” said he, “if I don't bet my best
dominecker, (Sam fit chickens occasionally,) that
them's men in wimin's clothes.”

“Pshaw! what a idee!” ejaculated old Mr. Hearty,
resuming the seat from which he had risen to get a
better look.

“Well, they's monstrous quare lookin' wimminflesh,
that's a fact,” remarked Billy Wilder, with an
air of curious gravity; “I never seed a woman hit a
hoss sich a lick as that afore in my life.”

“And how fast they druv,” observed one.

“I'd gin a pretty penny to got a squint at ther
faces,” said another, “but them dratted veils hid
'em clean.”

“I seed 'em! I seed 'em!” exclaimed Sammy,
bustling about in the crowd, “and if that one on this
side didn't have whiskers, I hope I may never see
chinkapin time agin, dadfetch me!”

“But, boys, did you ever see a woman as tall as
that one that toated the hickory?” inquired one.

“Well, they didn't look much like any of our
gals about ther waists, that's a fact,” remarked
uncle Hearty, beginning to give in to the popular

opinion. “Take it altogether, it is rather a suspicious
circumstance.”

“Gentlemen,” remarked Dr. Peter Jones, “that
horse has come more than twenty miles this morning,
or more likely has travelled all night—a very strong
symptom that something's in the wind.'

“Shore enough,” said Bob Echols, “and to pass
right through town so, without stopping for breakfast
nor nothing. I tell you what now, all aint right.”

“Well, who is they? whar upon yeath can they
be gwine in sich a hurryment?”

“Ther aint no tellin',” answered Billy Wilder,—
“in these times quare things is turnin' up every day.
They mought be some fellers broke from the penitentiary,
or it mought be the sub-treasury runnin' away
with the government money.”

“That's a fact, and it ought to be seen into,” remarked
half a dozen in the crowd.

Just at this crisis, old 'squire Rogers, in company
with Mr. Montgomery, the schoolmaster, approached
from the post-office, from which they had just received
their newspapers. The 'squire unfolded the “Columbus
Enquirer,” and placed his spectacles astride
of his nose, while the crowd were relating to him the
circumstance of the mysterious buggy, and indulging
in their various speculations respecting the probable
character of its inmates. After glancing his eyes for
a moment over the damp sheet, while some half
dozen pressed round and gazed over his shoulder,
the old gentleman read aloud—

“DARING AND EXTENSIVE ROBBERY!”

“TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD!!”

The sensation produced in the crowd by this startling
announcement was tremendous.

“Ah! eh! what?—Robbers? where? when?—
Didn't I say so? Read it out!—Let's catch 'em!”
—came from a dozen throats at once, while Sammy
went leaping, like a kangaroo with a split stick on
his tail, from side to side, exclaiming—

“Didn't I know, Billy?—didn't I say so, uncle
Hearty? Dadfetch me if I's the chap to be fooled
with petticoats. Didn't I see boots and trowser's
legs under them gowns?”

It was several minutes before any one could be
heard above the general clamour of the crowd, which
had now considerably increased in number. At
length, when order had been in some measure restored,
at the request of 'squire Rogers, Mr. Montgomery
read the article from the paper, which stated
that the Insurance and Trust Company's Bank at
Columbus had been broken into a few nights previous
by two armed men, and robbed of upwards of
$80,000 in specie and bills, and that a reward of
$10,000 had been offered for the apprehension of the
robbers. Before the last word was fairly out of the
reader's mouth, a confusion of voices shouted—
“Them's they!”—“Let's catch 'em!”—“No time's
to be lost!” and two or three were seen running for
the sheriff without further consultation.

In less than five minutes, all Pineville was in commotion.
It was now settled in the minds of the majority,
beyond the question of a doubt, that a brace of
daring bank-robbers had just passed through town
disguised as women, and there was not wanting those

who were willing to affirm that they not only saw
whiskers beneath those veils, but that pistols and
bowie-knives protruded from the bosoms of their
gowns; and Sammy Stonestreet was “dadfetcht” if
he didn't hear dollars jingle in the bottom of the
buggy, when the wheel struck a certain root. There
were some obstinate people, who always would have
opinions of their own, that could see no reason for
entertaining any such suspicion; but these were few,
and nobody cared whether they could or not. Half
the men in town were going in pursuit—all the
horses, old saddles and remnants of bridles were put
in requisition, and there had not been such a mustering
of old shot-guns and horse-pistols since the
Indian war.

“Why, what upon yeath's broke loose now?” inquired
Major Joseph Jones, as he rode into the midst
of the crowd of armed and mounted men, having just
arrived from his plantation.

“Come on, Major,” said the sheriff; “you're the
very man we want.”

“But whar you all gwine, boys—what's to pay?”

“Oh, a heap! robbers! ten thousand dollars reward—escaped
in wimin's clothes! with green veils!
not more'n fifteen minutes ago!” was all the major
could gather from the confusion of voices around
him. But he was a public-spirited man, and was
determined to have a hand in the game, whatever it
was.

“Come on!” shouted the sheriff, and away dashed
the whole cavalcade, down the road, rolling back a
thick cloud of dust from their horses' feet, and raising

a din and clamour that nearly frightened the women
and children out of their senses. Another moment,
and they were lost to the sight of those whom they
had left to indulge in speculations, doubts, and surmises,
until their return.

Like a tempest they swept through the country,
carrying terror before them, and leaving astonishment
and wonder in their train—children ran screaming to
their mothers, women shrunk from the doors and
windows, dogs barked, and cows ran bellowing to
the woods. Onward and onward they sped—already
several miles had been gained, and eager eyes were
looking up the long stretches of the road in the confident
hope of soon overtaking the object of their
pursuit. At length the party arrived at a fork of the
road—tracks of wheels were discovered in both. A
brief consultation was held, when it was determined
that the sheriff with one part of the company should
take the road to the right, and the major with the
balance should pursue that leading to the left. Not
a moment was to be lost.

The party are already divided, and each division
pursuing its respective route at the top of their speed.
We will go with the sheriff.

Continuing the same rapid gait, the sheriff's party
proceeded about two miles, when, meeting a horseman
with whom they were all well acquainted, they
asked if he had met a buggy with two women in
green veils.

“Yes,” said Mr. Hopkins, “I met old Mrs. Curloo
and her daughter Nancy, in a buggy just back here
a piece, gwine down to Billy Curloo's, on the Runs.”

“Are you certain it was Mrs. Curloo?”

“To be sure I is, for I stopped and chatted with
'em a minit; but they was in a monstrous hurry, as
they said Billy was gwine to make a die of it and
had sent for 'em.”

This was perfectly satisfactory, and the sheriff and
his party, chop-fallen and mortified in the extreme,
turned back to town, with only one consolatory reflection
wherewith to relieve their deep chagrin,
which was, that the other party were likely to be
worse fooled than themselves.

“Now, this has all come of listening to that abominable
fool, Stonestreet,” remarked the sheriff, as
they rode leisurely along on their return. “I had no
confidence in his story in the first place; but everybody
seemed to agree with him, and, under the circumstances,
the least I could do was to investigate
the matter.”

“I was a-most certain it was all a piece of nonsense
in the first place,” remarked a rather elderly
member of the party, who had but a few minutes
before been the boldest and most determined in the
pursuit; “but nothing would satisfy 'em but I must
come. I wouldn't a gin the old mare sich a brush,
not for the whole Curloo generation.”

“'Taint that what I looks at,” said John Hicks—
“it's the everlastin' laugh the fellers will have on us.
We wont hear the eend of this bis'ness for a coon's
age, you see if we do.”

“That we wont,” said the sheriff; and he laid
back in his saddle and took a good hearty laugh at
himself. “Two women in green veils ride through

our town in haste to see a sick relation, and in fifteen
minutes half the inhabitants are in pursuit of them,
with guns, pistols, and jack-knives, to take them for
bank robbers. Was there ever such a pack of fools?”

At the end of this speech of the sheriff's, he took
another laugh, and the whole party made an attempt
to raise a general laugh, but it was a shallow affair
and soon died away. There seemed to be a conviction
resting upon their minds that the laugh was on
the other side—that they were much better qualified
just then to be laughed at than to laugh. Each
seemed desirous of relieving himself of as much of
the ridicule as possible. One mentioned the fact that
he had brought no gun, and another only went along
to see the fun; and, finally, they all came to the conclusion
that they were not half so deeply involved as
the party that were still in pursuit.

Their jaded horses did not travel back so briskly,
and it was past noon when they reached the village.
Some two or three made it convenient to find business
in the country, leaving the sheriff and the balance
of their companions in the chase to bear the brunt of
the ridicule which was sure to be heaped upon them
by those who, for want of horses, had been compelled
to remain at home. As the party rode up to the
tavern, a crowd of eager inquirers were soon assembled
round them, from whom questions came thick
and loud.

“Did you cotch 'em?”—“Who was they?”—
“Whar's the rest o' the boys?” and a hundred other
such interrogatories were put, before the sheriff, who
had begun the laugh in advance, had time to state the

facts. As soon, however, as he was allowed a hearing,
he made a faithful report of the proceedings, informing
them of all that had transpired.

A loud shout ensued, in which the sheriff and his
party joined with as good grace as the circumstances
would permit. After the noise had somewhat subsided,
the shrill, squeaking voice of Sammy Stonestreet
was heard in the midst of the crowd.

“You needn't tell me!” he exclaimed; “oh, no,
you needn't tell me, 'squire! Them wasn't no Curloos,
them wasn't. I knows the Curloos like a
book, and I'll be dadfetcht if ther was a sign of a
Curloo in that buggy what went through here this
morning.”

“Did you see the buggy yourself, 'squire?” asked
one.

“Oh, no, but it was just on ahead, and Hopkins
told us all we wanted to know.”

“What Hopkins, Henry or Peter?” inquired another.

“Peter Hopkins, who used to oversee for old man
Stullings, you know.”

“Oh, yes,” shouted two or three, “he's the Hopkins
that came so nigh gwine to the penitentiary for
stealin' niggers;” and the universal opinion was, that
he was not worthy of belief, and that just as likely
as not he had been sent back by the robbers to put
the sheriff off their track.

“I know'd it—it's jest as I 'spected,” said Sammy.
“Them devils is got clean off after all. Pete
Hopkins aint no better nor he should be, and I
wouldn't swar he wasn't in cahoot with 'em!”

Some further inquiry was made about Hopkins.
His character sank a degree at every probe, until it
was far below the moral zero, and when it was understood
that he had disappeared shortly after his
interview with the sheriff, the suspicion that he was
leagued with the robbers was entertained by all those
who still hoped that the very worst surmises of the
morning, respecting the inmates of the buggy, might
prove true; which, as is usually the case, on such
occasions, comprised much the largest portion of the
company.

The sheriff, fully satisfied in his own mind as to
the character of the strangers, soon after retired, leaving
the crowd to indulge their various speculations.
Uncle Hearty winked his eye significantly, and remarked
that it was a very “quare way to do business,
to ride ten miles after robbers, and git rite up
to 'em, and then come away without so much as ever
settin' eyes on 'em.”

“Did you ever!” said a bystander—“and then for
to go and take Pete Hopkins's word all about it!”

“I didn't like the perceedin', myself,” remarked
the elderly gentleman before alluded to, as one of
the sheriff's party; “but he was the sheriff, you
know.”

“Sheriff or no sheriff, you wouldn't choked this
child off that a-way,” said one with a resolute twist
of the head—“I'd seed whether they was Curloos
or not, I'll be bound.”

“Gentlemen,” said Sammy Stonestreet, “them
was no more Curloos than I is. Why, Lord bless
you, Nancy Curloo aint more'n so big, (measuring

with his hand from the ground,) and don't know a
green veil from a bed-quilt.”

“And I'd like to know,” remarked a very calculating
little man, “what they would come away round
through town for, to go to the Runs, when they could
just cut across by Parker's Bridge, and save more
than five miles of the distance.”

“That's a fact,” chimed in a dozen who were
familiar with the road.

Indeed, so settled had become the opinion, among
the crowd of gossips who thronged about the tavern,
that the sheriff had been misled, that there was some
talk of getting up another party to go in pursuit of
the robbers. But it was getting late, and the few
horses left in town were unfit for service, after the
fatigue of the morning. Besides, it was confidently
expected that the party then in pursuit would come
upon the track which had been so stupidly abandoned
by the sheriff; in which event their capture was inevitable.
Sammy expressed the most unbounded
confidence in Major Jones, giving it as his opinion
that if the major once got on their trail, he would
follow them to Florida before he would allow them
to escape.

But the winds themselves are not more changeable
than public opinion; and as well might one attempt
to hold the unseen currents of the air in check, as to
stay the tide of public sentiment, when once the elements
of reaction are at work. There are always
some one or two persons in every small community,
who lead the mass, and, as when some avant-swine
breaks through the barrier that circumscribes the

wanderings of the herd, the balance are sure to rush
impetuously through the same hole, so the multitude
are certain to give unanimous assent to the opinions
of those whose lead they are accustomed to follow.

Among the acknowledged sense-keepers of Pineville,
Mr. Montgomery, the schoolmaster, stood
“A. No. 1,” and it was just the easiest thing in the
world for him to blow all Sammy Stonestreet's cherished
notions to Ballyhack. The old gentleman
was utterly astonished at the credulity of his fellow-citizens,
and was surprised beyond measure that
anybody should entertain for a moment the very ridiculous
suspicions that had been indulged that morning.
The town was coming to a pretty pass, indeed,
that two poor women could not drive through to see
a sick relation without being pursued as bank-robbers.
He had no opinion of the proceedings in the first
place, but since the sheriff had returned, he thought
that every one ought to be satisfied as to the character
of the strangers. 'Squire Rogers was decidedly
of his opinion, and Mr. Peter Hopkins, who had been
detained by business on the road, having arrived in
town and reiterated and confirmed the statement of
the sheriff, the almost unanimous opinion was that the
whole matter was a piece of perfect “tom foolery,”
and that the party that had gone in pursuit, and
especially those that were still absent on that business,
ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Only one solitary individual had the hardihood still
to proclaim his conviction that the strangers were not
what they represented themselves to be, and that obdurate
individual was Sammy Stonestreet.

“Never mind,” said he, “you'll see—maybe I is
a fool, and Mr. Montgomery knows every thing—but
I'll be dadfetcht if I don't know what I does know,
jest as well as anybody—and I know I seed whiskers
and trowsers, and I know I can tell Nancy Curloo
and her mother from two dratted grate big strappin'
men, if they is got gowns and green veils on. But
you'll see—jest wait till Major Joe comes, will you?”

And, sure enough, they did wait for Major Joe and
his party, but not with the same anxious hopes that
filled the bosom of the inveterate Sammy. They waited
the arrival of their absent friends, in order that they
might heap upon them the overwhelming measure of
their ridicule, by the bestowal of which they hoped
to mitigate, in some measure, the deep chagrin which
they felt for the part themselves had taken in the
ridiculous affair.

The hours rolled off. It was sunset, and yet the
Curloo chasers, as they termed them, had not arrived.
The crowd still lingered about the hotel, eager to
greet them, and many was the funny remark and
witty joke enjoyed at the expense of the absent.
But all this was nothing to what was in store for them
on their arrival.

“Never mind—you'll see!” was all that Sammy
could say.

“Yes, you will see,” said one; “you'll see one
of the sneakinest lookin' gangs of fellers that ever
was in Pineville. The fact is, I b'lieve they're
ashamed to come home.”

“I shouldn't wonder if they was,” chimed in uncle
Hearty.

“I'll bet Major Jones don't show his face in town
for a month,” remarked one of the crowd. “But as
for Dr. Pete, it aint the first time he's been tuck in,
tryin' to get people to git the reward. He oughtn't
to mind it a snuff.”

“That's a fact, the doctor's been monstrous
unlucky,” said another; “he got his mouth badly
mashed that time when he tuck the major, and I
wouldn't be surprised if he was to git his dratted
neck broke some of these days with some of his
smartness.”

It was now quite dusk, and still no signs of the
party; various surmises and conjectures were advanced
as to the probable cause of the delay. Some
thought they had gone so far, in their headlong haste,
that they had not yet been able to retrace their steps
—others were apprehensive that their horses had
given out, while much the larger portion were of
opinion that they were really ashamed to come home
in daylight.

“Never you mind,” said Sammy, as he stood with
his gaze intently directed down the road.

The crowd were growing more and more impatient,
and the prospect of being compelled to forego
the fun they had anticipated in quizzing and ridiculing
the Curloo chasers, began to operate as a check
upon the hilarity of the hour, when, suddenly, Sammy
was heard to exclaim—

“Look! see!—ah! eh?—yes, yander—dadfetcht,
yander they is—hurra, boys!—now we'll see!” and
away he ran, followed by the whole company, in
the direction of the road, in which a group of

mounted men were dimly seen, slowly approaching
the town.

In another minute Sammy was dancing about in
a perfect ecstasy, shouting as he flourished his cotton-stalk
over his head,—“I told you so!—here
they is!—them's they!—them's the Curloos! Hurra
for Major Jones!—I know'd he'd cotch 'em. Maybe
I is a fool—maybe I don't know a man with a frock
on from a Curloo!”

And sure enough, to the utter astonishment of
everybody except Sammy Stonestreet, there they
were—two individuals in women's clothes, with
veils. It was too dark to observe the precise colour
of the veils, but as the two who wore them were led
along in the midst of the horsemen, burdened with
ropes and cords about their necks and arms, the
crowd were at once satisfied of their identity, and
with one voice, or rather in a confusion of voices,
pressed their inquiries as to the whereabouts and
manner of their capture. But it would have taken
more tongues than were in that little party to answer
half the interrogatories of the fast collecting citizens,
and they hurried on to the magistrate's office, where
it was understood all would be revealed.

All Pineville was in an uproar. “They've caught
'em!” was the universal cry of old and young, as
they hastened to join the crowd that had assembled
around 'Squire Rogers's office, which was now
promptly lighted up and put in readiness for the
customary magisterial investigation. Sammy Stonestreet
was in his glory, and could not refrain from
raising the skirt of one of the prisoner's frocks with

his stick, that he might exhibit the boots and
“trowsers” which he had testified to in the morning.
“Didn't I say so!” he would exclaim,—
“maybe I is a fool and can't tell trowsers when I
see 'em.”

At length, every thing being in readiness, 'Squire
Rogers having taken his seat at his desk, adjusted
his spectacles upon his nose, and placed the Bible
and the Georgia Justice in fearful array before him,
the prisoners were summoned into the presence of
that worthy functionary of the law. As they were
ushered into the lighted room, they were observed
to hold down their heads and gather their veils
closer round their faces. All eyes were directed
upon them, and 'Squire Rogers regarded them for a
moment through his spectacles with legal severity.

“A pretty pair of birds, really,” said his honour,
“to be circumlocutin' about the country in this
way”—then he whispered a few words in Mr. Montgomery's
ear and resumed—“but we'll try to take
care of you for the futer;”—but the noise was so great
that he could not proceed, and he commanded, “Silence
in court!” “I s'pose,” resumed the 'squire,
“you thought we was all asleep, down here in Pineville,
and you would just ride through our town
with perfect infinity, dressed out in them wimin's
toggeries.”

Here the sheriff inquired what had been done with
the buggy, to which Major Jones replied, that it was
coming on in charge of Dr. Peter Jones and Bob
Echols—the horse was completely broken down, and
they were obliged to travel very slow.

This explanation was perfectly satisfactory, and
the 'squire proceeded. Taking up his pen he wrote
in large round characters, “State of Georgia,” then,
after referring to the Digest before him, he demanded
of the prisoners their names.

There was some hesitation on the part of the prisoners.

“Come,” resumed the 'squire, “you mought as
well speak 'em out; I don't think sich characters as
you need be 'shamed of this respectable company.”
Then looking steadfastly at them, with all the dignity
of his station, he again demanded in a stern voice,
“What mought be your names?”

Upon which they threw up their veils and answered—

“Bob Echols and Peter Jones, at your service!”

The 'squire, in his sudden amazement, dropped
the Georgia Justice on the floor, while Sammy Stonestreet's
eyes, mouth, and nose, were transformed into
so many exclamation points, all expressive of his
utter astonishment and surprise.

“Well,” he exclaimed, giving vent to a volume
of suppressed breath with the word—“if that aint a
nice come off, dadfetch me!”

He would, perhaps, have said more on the occasion,
but his voice was drowned by the crowd, who
now joined in one concentrated shout that shook the
very roof, and waked the echoes in the remotest
quarters of the village.

In the midst of the confusion 'Squire Rogers rose
from his seat and placed his hat upon his head, remarking—

“Well, boys, it's my opinion all hands has been
most oudaciously tuck in this time!”

The matter is soon explained to the reader. The
young men who composed the major's party had
learned the result of the sheriff's investigations, from
an individual who had been in town during the day,
and foreseeing the ridicule that was certain to be
visited upon them by their fellow-citizens, had recourse
to the trick which they so successfully practised,
in order to involve their neighbours in the same
dilemma with themselves. The dresses were readily
obtained from some of their country acquaintances,
and they waited until night, that under its shadows
they might the better avoid detection.