Playing the mischief :: :: University of Virginia Library

We can judge what an impression she had
made upon these three distinguished legislators
by the extraordinary fact that each
one of them kept his appointment, and was
even scrupulously punctual as to time. Mr.
Hollowbread, for instance, looked anxiously
at his watch on heaving in sight of the
house, and then pushed forward at such a
killing pace, that when he planted his arctic
shoes on the Murray door-mat, he was in
an awkwardly short-winded, loud-breathing
state, and felt obliged to rest a moment before
ringing the bell.

For this sharp dash he would have been
pleased to reward himself instantly with a
little courtship; but Josie wanted to finish
with him and get him out of the house before
Mr. Drummond should come; so she
hastily produced her claim documents, and
set him to work on them. Seeing that she
“meant business,” he mounted his eyeglasses
astride his noble Roman nose, and carefully
read the papers through, really giving
his mind to them. It was a good mind yet;
it could, when resolutely spurred, do a great
deal of strenuous work; and in twenty minutes
he had a sufficient grasp of the case to
pass intelligent judgment upon it.

“There is no doubt that you have what
claim there is,” he said, at last, in a practical,
positive, clear-headed way which made him
appear quite solidly respectable. “You are
the sole heir of your late husband, Mr. Augustus
Murray, as appears by his will.”

Here Josie thought that she had probably
better put her handkerchief to her eyes, but
on an instant's reflection, decided that she
might as well omit that gesture, and did omit
it.

“His father,” continued Mr. Hollowbread,
“was Henry Murray, the brother of Julian
and John Murray, our good friends, the colonel
and rector. And their father was Jared
Murray, who, in 1810, was the head of the
family, and who then owned a large tract
of land in Beulah County, New York. On
and around this tract of land the battle of
Murray Hill was fought, and during that
battle the barn and so forth were burned,
either by our troops or the enemy. But it
appears that in December, 1811, this Jared
Murray died, leaving his landed property by
will, etc., in trust, in four specified lots, one
each to his wife and to his three sons. And,
furthermore, it appears that the lot on which
stood the aforesaid barn was, by this will,
the property of Henry Murray, the father
of Augustus. Consequently, Henry Murray
and his heirs and assigns are the sole persons
who suffered loss by said conflagration,
and who can justly claim damages therefor.
That seems to be a correct statement of the
case. Is it not, Mrs. Murray?”

She looked up in his face with an infantile,
pleading smile, the smile of an injured
innocent who demands restitution, and sighed,
“Yes.”

Her child-like hand—she really did not
seem to know where it was—had strayed, in
a very touching way, upon his coat-sleeve,
and was gently grasping it. Mr. Hollowbread
gazed down upon her with almost as
much of astonishment as of admiration and
affection. He had never before seen a so exorbitant
and seemingly unscrupulous claimant
who was so young in years and had the
air of being so guileless. The defunct barn
had probably not been worth a thousand
dollars; and here she wanted twenty thousand—forty
thousand—eighty thousand, for
it; wanted any sum that one was pleased to
mention. It was one of the most audacious
projects for swindling Government that had
ever been recommended to his attention.
Well, perhaps she did not half know what
she was about; women are so amazingly ignorant

in matters of manly business! She
might think that every body did this sort of
thing, and that, consequently, it was quite
proper to do it. The Government, he had
long since learned, was, in the opinion of
many people, a legitimate object of plunder.

“Is there any chance of getting my
rights?” she mustered courage to inquire.

Mr. Hollowbread saw, with conscientious
dismay, that he must take her in earnest;
he also saw that he must decide to favor her
monstrous suit, or give up pushing his own.
He looked once more into the witchery of
her splendid eyes; and they were too much
for his really respectable legislative honesty.

“Yes, you have a claim,” he repeated,
slowly, meantime wishing, from the bottom
of his heart, that she had not the ghost of
one, or else had a great deal solider one.

“Yes, I know I have a claim,” she laughed,
with a worrying cheerfulness. “But how
much will it bring me, and how soon can it
be got, and so on?”

Mr. Hollowbread perceived that she had
not the least idea of his troubles of conscience,
and feared that she looked upon
him as unbusiness-like and dilatory. He
wondered again if she were naughtily unscrupulous,
or innocently ignorant; and he
remembered an old doubt of his as to whether
women generally are not less moral, at
least in matters of property, than men;
whether, indeed, they might not be fundamentally
incapable of radical, unimposed,
self-sustaining honesty. We must pardon
this profane suspicion in a man who had seen
so many intriguing, conscienceless, greedy,
pilfering ladies as Mr. Hollowbread, and who
had been so frequently obliged to witness or
to combat their raids upon the United States
Treasury. His error consisted in this, that
he forgot, for a moment, the herd of vastly
more potent and grasping masculine filibusters.

“How much will it bring?” he echoed,
scarcely concealing his lack of good-will.
“Let me see: how much was the barn worth?
That is an essential point?”

“But can't you fix the value of it yourself?
Or, can't I? I suppose some barns are
worth as much as ten thousand dollars.”

“More, Mrs. Murray. But we must know
how much this particular barn was worth.
We must have some affidavit or other trustworthy
statement as to its value, by some
person who has seen the building.”

“Must we?” asked Josie, her handsome
face taking on a shade of gloom, if not of positive
annoyance. Then, after a moment of
hesitation, she handed to him another document,
which she had hitherto kept in her
pocket. It was an affidavit, signed and
sworn to by one Jeremiah Drinkwater, declaring
that he had aided in building said
barn, and knew the cost of it, and that said
cost amounted to one thousand dollars.

“One thousand dollars,” repeated Mr. Hollowbread,
meantime smiling to himself at
the thought that this pretty creature had
hinted to him to fix the valuation at ten
thousand. “Well, this is something solid,”
he added, cheerfully, glad to find that the
claim would not be very outrageous in
amount. “I should say that that might be
put through without a great deal of difficulty.”

“With the interest, of course, Mr. Hollowbread?”

“Oh yes!—the interest—yes, of course.
Let me see: seven per cent., for sixty years,
would be just forty-two hundred dollars;
that would make the whole claim fifty-two
hundred. Well, I think Uncle Sam ought to
foot that, and say nothing about it.”

“Fifty-two hundred dollars! Is that all?
Why, Mr. Curbstone made it a great deal
more than that. He said there were two
kinds of interest, and I ought to have the
biggest kind, or it would be a perfect swindle.”

Mr. Hollowbread suspected that it would
be a perfect swindle, anyway, especially if
Mr. Curbstone's devices and counsels were
followed scrupulously.

He did not want to demand compound interest
on such a preposterous claim; it put
him in mind of a lately exploded theory of
indirect damages; it might end in making
him ridiculous.

“Why, you must know what I mean,” added
Josie, whose sweet brow was puckered
with an attempt at recollection. “What is
that ridiculous word? Do think it up for
me.”

“Compound?” stammered the poor Congressman,
not daring to counterfeit ignorance.

“Yes — that is it — compound interest,”
laughed Josie, with angelic delight. “Now,
how much would it come to at compound
interest?”

“Sixty years—seven per cent. on one thousand
— say sixty thousand dollars,” calculated
the helpless Hollowbread.

“Oh, that is quite worth while, you see.
That would be worth taking. Besides, I
ought to have it. It would be a shame and
an injustice to keep me out of it. I am so
glad to find that you and Mr. Curbstone have
figured it up to exactly the same sum. It
must be right.”

Mr. Hollowbread grew uneasy over this
frequent mention of Mr. Fred. Curbstone. It
might turn out that he would help this lovely
being to a large sum of money, at great
cost to the public treasury, and to his own
tolerably respectable conscience, merely to
make her a good match for that dandified
young “scalawag” of a broker.

“I ought, perhaps, to warn you, Mrs. Murray,
against Mr. Curbstone,” he said, turning
paternal for the moment. “He is an able

business-man and intriguer, but he has no
more conscience than a catamount.”

“I dare say he is sly,” admitted Josie, with
a good-natured, indifferent smile. “I suppose
a man must be sly to succeed in business.
But he was surely a good friend of
mine to put me up to getting my own money
when I didn't even suspect that it was due
me. I don't care a single straw about the
man himself, but I can't help feeling obliged
for his kindness.”

Mr. Hollowbread perceived (to use one of
those picturesque idloms which give so much
pain to critics of a certain bore and penetration)
that he had put his foot in it. He had
given her a chance to insinuate to him that
he must be as kind to her in this matter as
Fred. Curbstone, or she would owe him no
gratitude. So, after having denounced the
broker as a conscienceless intriguer, he found
himself driven to back one of his roguish inventions.

“Of course—of course,” he grinned, his
eyes meantime being very pensive, and not
at all like the eyes of a happy man. “Well,
I hope to prove to you that I can be a better
friend than Mr. Curbstone.”

“Friend! Oh, Mr. Hollowbread, don't call
him my friend in any serious sense. He is
just useful to me, and I must say thanks.
That is all. I accept you as a friend. I do,
indeed, Mr. Hollowbread. If you succeed in
getting my rights for me, or even if you only
try without succeeding, I shall owe you a
life-long gratitude. I don't know how I can
ever pay it,” emphasized Josie, looking tenderly
in his face, and leaning slightly toward
him. “But I assure you in all sincerity that
I shall never, never be insensible to my obligations,
and never cease to be your hearty
well-wisher.”

She spoke with an eagerness, with a sort
of imaginative sensibility, which had the
semblance of thorough sincerity, if, indeed,
it was not temporary sincerity.

She kindled with emotion very easily, this
dangerous little woman—as easily, we may
perhaps say without injustice, as she cooled
off. If she had not much heart, she had an
intellect which could stir up, bring to the
surface and exhibit whatever heart she had,
and could thus give hers the appearance of
an ardent nature. Her very talk illumined
her feelings; she spoke so fluently and vigorously
that she could impassion herself;
only the passion was apt to die to ashes almost
as quick as she stopped chattering.

But the result with regard to other people
was that she seemed to like them immensely,
and that she frequently inflamed them into
a violent liking for her.

“Mrs. Murray, I will do all I can to obtain
your rights for you,” declared Mr. Hollowbread,
throbbing to the core with loving agitation,
and suddenly turning his back upon
whatsoever legislative straightforwardness
had been left him by long grinding in the
mill of politics. “I do earnestly and solemnly
trust that I shall yet prove myself
your best friend.”

“Oh, I know you will,” said Josie, breathing
a fervent little gasp which sounded to
him like a sigh of affection, and unflinchingly
exchanging with him a squeeze of her
hand.

It was curious, by-the-way, how little difference
this girl made between one man and
another, whether young or old, handsome or
ugly. She seemed to have none of that instinctive
aversion which youthful women
generally feel toward the near proximity of
elderly gentlemen who show a disposition to
snuggle. A male creature was to her a male
creature, and therein attractive enough, or
at least bearable.

An ancient beau, with dyed mustache, gray
hairs in his nostrils, crimson veins in his
cheeks, and an ungraceful spread of waistcoat,
was not “horrid” to her, even at fondling
distance; she could look into his faded
eyes as sweetly, and touch his hand as kindly,
and brush her hair against his shoulder
as temptingly, as if he were in the freshest
prime of marrying manhood. It was a singular
and almost an unpleasing trait in her,
it made her seem so stale in feeling and so
meretricious.

Mr. Hollowbread had sold himself for a
hope, and he was full of joy in his bargain.
He had made this young woman's acquaintance
to flirt with her, and to carry the flirtation
as far as he might. Now he was in love;
he already wanted with all his heart to marry
her; and he tremblingly believed that he
might win her as his wife.

As for her claim, he would push it, of
course; in fact, he could not help himself;
he must push it. After all, why not? Claims
as slight, and almost as absurdly stricken in
years, had been nursed up to vast sums and
triumphantly borne through Congress. One
more would make no great difference with
the reputation of that noble body, and ought
not, therefore, to be an insupportable burden
on his own conscience and political reputation.
Yes, he would push it, compound interest
and all, and be hanged to it!

But there was yet another trial awaiting
his legislative sensibilities.

“Will there be any expenses in collecting
my money, Mr. Hollowbread?” asked Josie.

“Well, there may be; we may have to hire
a little help,” he confessed, cringing at the
thought of employing a lobbyist to bribe
carpet-baggers and other purchasable Congressmen.

“Well, I have thought of a way to cover
all the charges,” she smiled, quite pleased
with her own business cleverness. “You
spoke of it yourself during our conversation
in the hack. You could bring in a bill for
the outbuildings and the horses and cows

that were burned. That would make a very
handsome sum in itself. I should think it
would pay all the expenses, and leave something
nice for me.”

For a moment Mr. Hollowbread was confounded
and bothered by a proposition
which he knew meant sheer brazen pilfering
and perjury. Perhaps he would have
had a spasm of firmness, and would have
told Josie that her plan was one which no
honorable Congressman could even discuss,
only that he happened to look down into her
bewildering eyes, sparkling with youth and
tender with appeal. Then he said to himself
that she was an unconscious swindler,
and that her naughtiness was nothing less
than bewitching, like the innocent roguery
of an infant.

“I don't know about all that,” he replied,
with that broken little laugh which signifies
embarrassment, and not merriment. “There
is no mention in the papers of outhouses
and cattle. Congress will naturally require
us to stand by our record.”

“But couldn't one stick in something—
couldn't you?” ventured Josie.

No; Mr. Hollowbread thought he could
not stick in something; he was not bewitched
enough to go as far as that, at least not
yet.

“Ah, well,” sighed our disappointed heroine.
“Then I must let it go as it is; only
it does seem hard that I can't have all my
own money.”

“Yes, it is hard,” conceded Hollowbread,
ready to laugh outright, but also almost
ready to cry, so worrying was this scaly
business to him. “But still, sixty thousand
dollars is a good deal of money. And I suppose
we may possibly get that.”

And now, as he had taken the claim upon
his shoulders, he felt that he had a right to
some reward in the way of courting the
claimant. To this Josie would not probably
have objected but for one circumstance;
it was nearly one o'clock, and she wanted
to get rid of Hollowbread before Drummond
should appear.

“Oh! could you do me one little favor?”
she suddenly asked. “I have a letter here
which ought to go in the two o'clock Northern
mail. I was so occupied with the thought
of seeing you this morning that I forgot to
post it. But it is very, very urgent. Could
you possibly get it to the office before one?
I would be so immensely obliged to you!”

He did not want to go, but how could he
help it?

“Shall I take these documents along?”
he inquired, with such graciousness as he
could muster, while he gathered up his hat
and gloves.

“Another time,” she said, remembering
that Mr. Drummond would need to see them,
and also Mr. Bradford. “I want to read
them over once more, and get the case by
heart. Perhaps I will bring them to you
at the Capitol,” she added, with a coaxing
smile.

So Mr. Hollowbread put what tenderness
he could into his parting, and then hurried
himself out of breath to post a letter which
was of no consequence whatever, and which
had indeed been written with the sole purpose
of getting shut of him before one
o'clock.