University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Woodcock's allusions to the strangeness of his child, it
will have been seen, were not infrequent, in his conversations
with others concerning her; and it has already been
hinted that her eccentricities were attributable in a great
degree to her early loss of a mother's guidance, and her
almost exclusive association with her father and his usually
coarse companions. Some weeks had passed after Woodcock
returned to Mary Pynchon the clothes she had given
to his daughter, when, one morning, as he was cutting wood
at the door, he heard a very singular noise in his cabin.
He paused, with a curious, puzzled air, and said to himself,
in a low tone, “What in Natur's that? Well! she has
broke out in a new place, now!” As he stood, waiting for a
repetition of the strange sound, his ears were greeted with
a well executed imitation of the crow of a strong-lunged
cock.

“What has got into that critter now!” exclaimed Woodcock,
and then, dropping his axe, he assumed an unsuspicious
face, and walked into his cabin. He found Mary busy
in clearing away, and, in her poor manner, washing the rude
table furniture they had used for breakfast. He looked at
her a moment, and, in a kind tone of voice, said, “What are
you thinkin' about this mornin', Mary?”

“Peter Trimble,” replied the girl, without pausing in her
operations.

“What have you been thinkin' about that little—little—
nimshi?” inquired the father, with the softest appellation of
contempt he could call to mind.

“I was thinkin',” said Mary, “how he run a race with
Tim Bristol yesterday, and when he'd clipped it clean by
him, how he jumped on to a stump, and crowed.”

“And so you tried to crow, just as Peter Trimble crowed,
did you?” said the father.

“I? no!—I didn't crow,” replied Mary, pausing in her
work, and looking up with surprise.

“Not then, but jest now, gal. Jest now you crowed,
didn't you?” And Woodcock looked at her encouragingly,
as if he would have said, “Own up now, my child, I won't
hurt you.”

“I wish you wouldn't talk so to me,” said the girl, growing
impatient.

“Now don't go into tantrums, Mary,” said Woodcock
deprecatingly; “I heerd somebody crow, here, in this 'ere
cabin, and thinks I to myself that's the gal, a tryin' to see
what she can do.”

“I wish you'd stop tryin' to fool me,” said the girl in a
sharp tone, her temper rapidly rising.

“Well, go 'long, Mary, go 'long, I guess I didn't hear
anything,” said Woodcock, “only I didn't know but when
you was thinkin' how Peter Trimble crowed, you jest kind
o' tried to see if you couldn't do jest so—eh, now? Didn't
you do it, little tinker?” and Woodcock smiled, with an
anxious, distressed smile, that was meant for a demonstration
of persuasive tenderness and amiability.

At this moment, Mary was holding a vessel of hot water
in her hands, and her first impulse was to dash it, with all
the force in her power, upon the cabin floor; but she finally
set it down, and then went to her corner at the fireplace,
and, throwing herself into her chair, hid her face in her lap,
and burst into her usual fit of crying and scolding.

Woodcock watched her for a few minutes with emotions
of unmingled pain. He did not know what to do with her.
She seemed at times to be insane, and to say and do things

of which she was unconscious. He had no doubt that she
had been in a waking dream,—moving in past scenes, and
amusing herself in the fields of memory, while engaged in
the performance of the light household duties intrusted to
her hands. And he had, within a few weeks, come to
regard the condition of her mind as, in some manner, consequent
upon his former treatment of her, and the hard, unchildlike
lot that had been her experience. He never had
forgotten how she looked when she came from the sweet
presence of Mary Pynchon, with the new clothes upon her,
and the new and altogether unwonted delight on her face,
and the joy that animated every motion of her limbs. She
was then a new child to him, and he would have given anything
in his power to make that transformation permanent.

Woodcock sat for some minutes in silence, and allowed
the paroxysm of the poor child to subside, and then said,
“Mary, gal, come here to your poor old father.”

Mary looked up, and, through her tears, recognised a
look of thorough kindness bent upon her, which accorded
with the strangely sympathetic tone that had arrested her
attention. Instantly rising, she walked to her father's side,
when, taking hold of her, he tried to lift her to his knee.
The fatherly act was so unusual that the girl shrank from
his grasp, and stood away from him, to see what he meant.

“Oh, Mary, for God's sake don't!” exclaimed her father.
“Come to me, and set with me, and forget all those old
ugly things that plague you so.”

Mary was assured, and was soon folded tenderly in the
rough arms of her father.

“I want to talk,” said Woodcock, in a low tone, and with
his head bowed kindly down, “about one that's gone. Do
you remember your mother, Mary?”

The little girl shook her head, and sat with her eyes fixed
upon the floor.

“Your mother,” continued Woodcock,” was a clean,

sweet, han'some lookin' woman, and she had as good a heart
as ever was; and if you could only jest think how her eyes
looked,—'t seems 's if you could remember 'em if you ever
see 'em,—so soft and lovin', I've got a consait that it would
bring you all right. Don't you see them eyes a-lookin' on
you sometimes, Mary? Can't you kind o' play you're little,
and remember how your head used to lay on her arm,
with them eyes—them beautiful eyes—shinin' on you?”

Mary's eyes were still on the floor, and she shook her
head slowly and seriously.

“I'd give all I've got, or ever goin' to have, if my little
gal could only think on it. Seems 's if it would start her
all right ag'in, and kind o' put her in her mother's shoes,
and make her grow up good and han'some.

“Mary, it don't seem but a little spell ago when I come
home one night—it was twelve long years ago, but it don't
seem more'n one, and 'twas 'way off in the old country—
and I found this little gal in bed with her mother. You was
a leetle thing then, as soft and simple as a young robin, but
byme-by you begun to grow, and turn up your black eyes
to her'n, and laugh in her sweet face till she cried in your'n.
And then you'd go to sleep, with your cheek right up agin
her soft breast, and she with her arms round you, lovin' you
all the time. And when you got older, Mary, and could toddle
round, and we begun to feed you on the nanny-goat's
milk, and you got all tuckered out, playin' and runnin' out
doors, and would come in with your eyes lookin' as heavy as
lead, she used to take you up in her lap, and put your little
head—littler and softer'n 'tis now—in her bosom; and there
you lay, half laughin' in your sleep, and she lovin' you all
the time.”

Woodcock looked down to see whether his child was
interested, and, as she appeared to be in deep thought, he
proceeded.

“And so we all lived together for a spell, and then we

got into a ship, and come to this country. 'Twas a cruel
time for all on us, but she took a cold, or a fever, or somethin',
that she never worked clear off; and she kind o'
pined and pined away, workin' all the time for you and me,
till all at once she give it up, and telled me, jest as patient
and pleasant, she was goin' to die. And there was you
runnin' round, not knowin' what you was losin', and her big,
shiny eyes a-follerin' you round the room, and her heart
misgivin' her about how you would be brung up. And
when her breath begun to come short, and she said she felt
as if she was goin' away, she wanted I should fetch you,
and I picked you up off'm the floor, and laid you in her
arms, and put 'em round you, and your mother died, Mary,
with her arms round you—so—and her heart lovin' you all
the time.”

Woodcock's last utterances were difficult with a depth of
emotion that he had not anticipated, and could not control;
and, as he paused, the big drops were falling from the eyes
of his daughter, who still sat with her gaze upon the floor.
The whole scene was a new experience to the child, and her
feeling of embarrassment almost equalled in strength her
interest in the narrative.

The father sat for some minutes in silence, and then resumed.
“I thought that if I telled my little gal of all this,
and she could only make it seem as if a dear, good woman
had loved her, and 'tended her, and that she'd been the
sweetest thing that woman had in the world, p'raps she
could kind o' go back, and make a new start, and grow up
soft and gentle, like other little gals. And I thought, besides,
if she could only see them eyes, that used to look on
her so sweet and lovin', and could get the consait that they
was lookin' on her all the time, and could kind o' feel them
soft, warm arms round her, night and day, that she'd get
gentle, and wouldn't go to be round with Peter Trimble
and the other boys, but would be a nice, modest little

gal. Now, Mary, don't them eyes never come to you
any?”

The girl looked up in her father's face with a half wild,
half serious expression, and said, “Father, I know them
eyes; I've seen 'em.”

“That's right, Mary. Do you seem to see 'em now?”
and Woodcock regarded her with an encouraging smile.

“No, I don't see 'em now. I never see 'em only nights,
when I'm asleep.”

Woodcock's lip quivered as he inquired, “Why can't
you see 'em now?”

“'Cause they don't come now,” replied the child, with
perfect simplicity.

“Do they come, as you say, always when you are
asleep?” inquired Woodcock, beginning to feel distressed.

“No,” replied the girl, “they don't come always, but
only when you've been whippin' me, and then they always
come.”

Woodcock started with a pang of terrible keenness, and
heaved a sigh that was the expression of the profoundest
pain.

“Then you haven't seen 'em lately,” said he.

“No, I haven't seen 'em since you took away the clothes
Miss Pynchon gave me. I see 'em then all night.”

This declaration caused another pang, for Woodcock had
not failed to recognise a certain degree of selfishness and
unnecessary sensitiveness of will on his own part, in that
transaction, although he had indulged himself, so far as
possible, in the idea that he was justified by his motives.

“Well, Mary, I ain't never goin' to whip you ag'in,”
said Woodcock; “and I want to have you try to get them
eyes back without the whippin', and when you see 'em, no
matter if you're sleepin' or wakin', ask 'em to stay with
you, and perhaps after a while we'll both be better, and
we can keep the consait that she's always in the cabin with

us—and”—and here Woodcock, whose original design had
been seriously interfered with by the little girl's revelations,
went off into a disconnected reverie, during which Mary
slid from his arms, and resumed the occupation from which
he had diverted her.

At length, half muttering to himself, he said, “I can't do
nothin' with her, as I see. When she's wakin' she's sleepin',
and when she's sleepin' she's wakin'—dreamin' when she's
thinkin', and thinkin' when she's dreamin'. Everything's
botched, somehow, 't I've anything to do with,—all mixed
up and twisted. I can't do nothin' right, and I can't fix
nothin' when't's wrong. But the gal's growin' up, and I
must look after her, or she'll grow up to be no comfort to
herself, nor me neither.”

Then, giving expression to the idea that the world was a
very unsatisfactory place to live in, he rose from his seat,
and was about to open his door for the purpose of resuming
his work at the wood-pile, when a hesitating rap came upon
the outside. Immediately Woodcock stood confronting with
John Cabel, the constable of the settlement, with whom he
had had a quarrel and a suit at law, growing out of their
joint agency in the erection of the first house in Agawam
in 1635.

“Well, John Cabel,” said Woodcock, standing in his
doorway, without giving him an opportunity to enter,
“you didn't come here to see me this mornin' 'cause you
love me, so out with it, and no mincin'.”

Cabel looked into the face of his old companion, now his
enemy, and inwardly rejoiced in the opportunity of paying
off a long score of revenges. He was a small man, with a
small mind and infinite resource of language, sometimes
spreading little turfs of thought into prairies of expression,
and capable of running through all the latitudes of diplomacy
in so simple a mission as that of borrowing a peck of corn.

In a tone in which pity was intended to be insultingly

predominant, Cabel commenced: “I'm sorry, John, it has
come to this, but my duty as an officer of the law (the last
word brought out strong, and enforced with six confluent
little nods) compels me to do that which, considering you
and I used to be hand and glove (emphasis and confluent
nods), that is to say, on terms of intimacy (and John Cabel
coughed, with the fore-finger of his left hand on the right
aspect of his upper lip and the thumb on the left, and with
a softness that showed that it was a cherished cough, and
not intended to injure his lungs)—“compels me to do, as I
was remarking, that which, under other—that is to say
(emphasis and confluent nods) less peculiar circumstances,
might not be attended with the degree of pain which I
experience on this occasion.”

And John Cabel coughed again, with his left thumb and
fore-finger in position, and the palm of his hand so spread,
to shield his mouth, that the man whom he addressed could
not have inhaled from his breath any fatal effects, with which,
by an imaginary possibility, it might have been charged.

“Cabel, now what's the use of your makin' a fool of
yourself?” said Woodcock, regarding him with a look of
supreme contempt. “If you're sick to the stomach, why
don't you throw up, and get shet o' your slobberin'?”

Cabel smiled, coughed, and replied, “You have not forgotten
how to joke, John, and it reminds me of other days
(emphasis and confluent nods)—days when our relations
were different; that is to say, when they were not unpleasant.
They have been somewhat disturbed, it is true,
but never with my consent, and now, to be obliged, as an
officer of the law (emphasis, &c.), to visit your house, gives
me more pain than I can conceal, and—”

“Look a-here, Cabel,” said Woodcock, “if you don't
empty your pail, and stop spillin' over this way, I'll give
you the door to look at, and you may call me when you're
all ready.”

“Very well, John,” said Cabel, changing his manner at
once, “I've got a writ for ye, which tells ye to come before
the magistrate to answer to a charge of slander made by
Mr. George Moxon. What have ye got to say to that,
eh?”

“Did you say I'd got to answer to the magistrate?”
inquired Woodcock.

“The magistrate, of course.”

“Well, mind your own business then, you beetle-head,”
said Woodcock. “I'll say what I've got to say when the
time comes.”

Cabel enjoyed extremely the tone of irritation with
which Woodcock uttered his last reply, and gave himself
gently over to the most luxurious cough of the whole
series.

As for Woodcock, this new annoyance had taken him at
a decided disadvantage. He was weak with the softening
influences of the morning, and “never felt so little up to a
gruff,” as he afterwards expressed it, as he did at the time
he met Cabel. He had begun to apprehend more and more,
that Mary was suffering from his own reputation, and, for
the moment, he felt as if he would rather die than engage
in another quarrel which would tend to make him, and the
one being associated with him, subjects of renewed unpleasant
comment in the plantation.

It was, therefore, with something like dejection in his air
and feelings that he threw the accustomed wolf skin over
his shoulders, and prepared to accompany Cabel to the
house of the magistrate.

In the early days of the plantation, and for many years,
all cases tried before Mr. Pynchon were tried by a jury of
six men, and were but irregularly managed at the best.
Owing to the peculiar circumstances of the place—the lack
of a prison, and the ordinary means of enforcing law—legal
processes frequently exhibited a mixed character and were

at the same time, and in the same case, civil, ecclesiastical,
and criminal.

When Woodcock arrived at the house, he found that Mr.
Moxon and the constable had arranged matters so as not to
delay the course of justice by the escape of an unnecessary
minute, for the six jurymen were in the house, as well as in
their seats. As he walked into the house, he bowed stiffly
to Mr. Pynchon, and fixed a surly gaze upon Mr. Moxon,
who, on not obtaining any motion of obeisance, turned his
eyes in another direction.

“I'm all ready, Square,” said Woodcock; “shall I set
down or stand up?”

“You will stand,” replied Mr. Pynchon, “until you have
heard the charge read on which you have been summoned
before me.”

Mr. Pynchon then read the charge, which (without going
into its formalities) represented that Mr. Moxon, having
been called upon while in Hartford to testify in regard to
the moral and business character of Woodcock, had felt
obliged, from what he knew of him, to testify against him;
and that, in consequence, Woodcock had charged him with
taking a false oath, in repeated conversations with different
members of the plantation. After he had concluded, he
asked him whether he pleaded “guilty” or “not guilty”
to the charge of slander, in connexion with these representations.

“Well, Square, I aint guilty of anything, as I know of,”
said Woodcock. “I don't consider it's guilty—”

“Prevarication,” said Mr. Moxon, with a nod at Mr.
Pynchon.

“No, 'tisn't prevarication, neither,” said Woodcock, turning
to Mr. Moxon. “It'll be time enough for me to borry
your jack-knife when I've got whittlin' on hand I can't do
with my own.”

The mistake which Woodcock's ignorance of language

had led him into was sufficiently ludicrous to draw a smile
upon the faces of all present, and he thus escaped a reprimand.
The smile, however, weak as it was, was sufficiently
strong to restore him to himself, and to harden him for the
time into the man he had long been in reality and reputation.

“What do I understand your plea to be?” inquired Mr.
Pynchon.

“Not guilty!” exclaimed Woodcock, in a stiff, stern
voice, and then, tossing his wolf skin over a chair, he sat
down.

When the names of the witnesses were called, three of
those on the jury of six arose and were sworn with the
rest.

“Will your Honor 'low me to say a word?” said Woodcock,
rising.

“Certainly, if relating to the case,” replied the magistrate.

“Well, I was thinkin' that if you'd jest let these men
that don't seem to know anything about the case go, and
put the rest of the witnesses in their seats, you'd save time,
and wouldn't have to pump any of 'em, 'cause they'd know
all they could tell, and could tell all they know to one
another. I thought I'd jest hint it to you, Square,” continued
Woodcock, preparing to sit down, “for it's all the
same to me who's on the jury.”[1]

“Goodman Woodcock,” said Mr. Pynchon, in a firm but
pleasant tone, “it is apparent from this remark that you
intend to complain of injustice in connexion with your trial.
I had hoped to find you this morning in a more candid and
penitent frame of mind,—one which should lead you to
doubt neither our charity for you nor the honesty of our
judgments in establishing justice between you and Mr.
Moxon. You are accused of a grave offence. You are
charged with having proclaimed your minister to be guilty
of the heinous sin of perjury. If the charge shall not be
sustained, it will give me great pleasure to congratulate
you on having freed yourself from an accusation that, to
my mind, involves one of the most heartless and cruel
crimes of which a man can be guilty; for there is hardly a
crime that I consider so foul as that which tampers with a
good man's good name. It is a crime that is the basis
of nearly all the troubles in this and the other plantations
of the colony, and one which I am determined shall be
punished, so far as my power and influence go, in the manner
it deserves.”

Woodcock sat regarding the magistrate's words and
manner most intently, and when he closed, he rose respectfully,
and, fixing his eye fully on the eye of Mr. Pynchon,
said, “I don't misdoubt, Square, but what you mean all
you say, and I don't say but what it's all right, take it by
and large, but I was wonderin' whether you'd a' said it if
I'd been in the minister's boots, and he in mine.”

Mr. Moxon was instantly on his feet, and pointing his
finger at Woodcock, he exclaimed, in a tone of authoritative
menace, “Take heed! take heed!”

“And I wonder,” said Woodcock, shifting his eyes from
the magistrate to the minister, without changing his voice,
“if you'd a' stood my p'intin' to that man, and hollerin' out
as he done jest now.”

Mr. Pynchon reddened in the face, and replied, “I have

no words to bandy with you, Woodcock. The trial will
proceed.”

The witnesses were examined, one after another, by Mr.
Moxon and the magistrate, and the evidence was conclusive
against the accused. He had charged Mr. Moxon openly
and boldly, with taking a false oath against him; and not a
doubt remained on the mind of any one, in relation to the
fact.

At the close of the testimony, Mr. Pynchon addressed
Woodcock, telling him that he had heard the evidence
which had been placed before the jury, and could not but
be aware of its character; and that if he had anything to
say before they should bring in their verdict, and would
say it with proper respect to the court and the reverend
plaintiff, he could now have the opportunity.

Woodcock sat a few moments in silence and study, and
then, rising, said: “You know, Square, my tongue aint
a smooth one, and I don't know how I should make out,
tryin' to foller the marks, but I'll say what I think's right,
and you can stop me when I get off'm the trail. I'm satisfied
with what these folks have said, and I could a' saved
'em the trouble of sayin' anything, but I kind o' wanted to
see how straight they'd tell their stories. They've gone
through 'em pretty well, and now I'd like to tell what I
meant when I was talkin' about bein' guilty, just as the
minister run into me. 'Tain't very comfortable for a feller
to think he haint got a good character; and when he
catches another feller swearin' it away, it's natur to hang on
to it. I didn't consider it guilty to hang on to mine, and
that was what I was tryin' to get off. In this 'ere case,
I've tried to show proper respect to the minister. I've
only said he shot too far to the left to hit the truth, when
if he'd been John Cabel that had done it, or any other thin
strip of a man, I should a' laid him down, and stomped on
him.”

Here Woodcock was interrupted by an excited motion
on the part of Mr. Moxon, who half rose from his seat, and
who, failing to command the eye of Mr. Pynchon, settled
uneasily back into his chair again. As for Cabel, he relapsed
into a cough, as satisfactory to himself as it was full
of provocation to Woodcock, who, seeing that he might
proceed, resumed his remarks.

“As I was sayin', Square, I've tried to show respect to
the minister, but I don't see what it's all for. I've been in
the colony half-a-dozen years, more or less, and done as
much work as any other man of my size. I marked the
trees clean from Roxbury to this plantation, and put up the
fust cabin here, with a little help from a poor feller (looking
at Cabel) that's now bad with the heaves; and I've been
crowded and knocked round, and I've paid rates and been
made to walk the colony crack; and all the time I couldn't
be a freeman and vote, 'cause I wan't a member of the
church. I hain't been anything, 'cause the ministers
wouldn't let me. I have to help support 'em, and live
under their laws, and when they take a notion to swear
away my character, I mustn't kick; if I do, the constable
grabs my foot, and ties it up to the jury-box.

“P'raps I ain't talkin' very close to the mark,” continued
Woodcock, recalling himself, “and I'll come back, and take
the track again. Mr. Moxon thinks I've damaged him nine
pound, nineteen shillin', which 't seems to me don't tally
with his swearin' down to Hartford. I'm better'n he swore
I was, or else his character's weaker'n he thinks 'tis, or else
I hav'n't damaged him so much as he's tried to make out.
If my character wan't good for anything, I couldn't hurt
him, and if his character's weak enough to be hurt by such
a man as he says I be, then he's no business to growl, and
talk about money. It's a good brew that bursts the barrel,
and a broken egg that spiles easy.”

“I protest,” exclaimed Mr. Moxon, suddenly and excitedly

rising—“I protest against being made the butt of
this fellow's vulgar jests. I have as much respect, may it
please your Honor, as any one can have, for the rights
of a man on trial for a grave offence against the laws,
but I am not called upon to submit to the inflictions of his
revengeful spleen. I claim the protection of the court.”

“Woodcock,” said Mr. Pynchon gravely, “you have
forfeited your promise, and spoken disrespectfully towards
the court and the plaintiff.”

“I beg pardon,” interrupted Woodcock, afraid that Mr.
Pynchon was about to silence him, “but I meant no offence.
The j'int fitted middlin' well, but the stick wan't hewed
smooth. I hope you won't set me down till I've had it out,
and can feel easy. This 'ere jury's goin' to say whether I
owe Mr. Moxon anything or not. I've paid my part, since
I've been in the settlement, to give Mr. Moxon porridge,
and salt to put into it. My rates are all square, if I have
had a hard time here; and what did I ever get for't?
Nothin' but blowin's—sometimes right afore my child,
sometimes right afore a whole meetin'; and then he goes
to Hartford, and swears away my character, and 'cause I
don't knuckle, and 'low him to tread me down, he brings
me here to get money out on me, over and above the rates
that bring me nothin' but cusses. I don't owe him—”

“I protest,” said Mr. Moxon.

“Sit down, Woodcock,” said the magistrate.

Woodcock very reluctantly undertook obedience to the
command, but before he touched his seat, he rallied doubtfully,
and said, “Square, if you'll give me three words
more, I won't 'fend you, my word for't. I jest wanted to
say that there's been considerable fuss made, fust and last,
about makin' me a better man, and I thought if the jury
was goin' out, and was good in figures, I sh'd like to have
'em find how long it would take to make a Christian of me
in this way, and about what it'll cost.”

Having finished to his satisfaction, Woodcock wiped his
forehead with a dirty handkerchief, threw his coat open as
if he had made a hard physical effort, and sat down.

“This case,” said Mr. Pynchon, “might be safely left to
the jury without any remarks from me, but it involves
important consequences, and demands a few words, especially
as the magistracy of this settlement has but recently
been established. The plaintiff in this case is the minister
of the church in our own plantation, one whom you know
as a godly man, and an approved teacher of the truth in
Christ. His is a holy office, a mighty responsibility, an
unspeakably sacred work; and it is necessary to his usefulness
that his name be preserved free from reproach. I do
not decide, nor is it necessary for you to decide, whether
Mr. Moxon had sufficient ground for the testimony which
he gave at Hartford against Goodman Woodcock. I do
not propose to say whether I think that he has treated
Woodcock in all points as he should have done. In these
matters, to his own master he standeth or falleth, and
neither you nor I have aught to question or affirm touching
them. The testimony establishes the fact that Woodcock
has circulated among the people of the settlement the story
that their minister has foully perjured himself. Of this you
can have no doubt, independently of the confession of the
defendant himself. In this thing, he has sinned against the
ministry as well as the minister, wounded the cause of
Christ, and done violence to that order and that dignity of
office which are essential to the maintenance of Christian
society. In assessing the damages, you will have reference
as well to their effect upon the defendant as upon the
plaintiff, and be guided by the pecuniary circumstances of
the defendant to a certain extent. Large damages could
not be collected, and if they could be, the effect upon him
would be what no one wishes for, while I am sure the plaintiff
would regret the possession of money that would

place the soul of any man in jeopardy. You will now
retire—”

“Square,” said Woodcock, rising hurriedly from his
chair, “afore the jury go, I sh'd like to put a question or
two, to some of the witnesses that's been up.”

“This is a very unusual, not to say disorderly request,”
said the magistrate.

“I know't's off'm the trail, but the fact is, this case has
swum a pond since you begun talkin'. I didn't think you'd
go agin me so hard, though I don't think the other side's
anything to brag on.”

“Whom do you wish to call again?” inquired the magistrate.

“John Cabel, and p'raps some of the jury, if you'll be so
kind,” replied Woodcock, “though I ain't goin' to dodge,
if you do hit without hearin'.”

Mr. Moxon had not exactly liked certain portions of Mr.
Pynchon's remarks, but he felt sure of his case, and so did
not interfere with the proceedings. Mr. Pynchon called
Henry Smith to his side, and after a few minutes' indistinct
conversation, told Woodcock that he could have liberty to
question Cabel.

“Get up, Cabel,” said Woodcock, turning sharply to that
official.

Cabel turned a mute look of appeal to the magistrate,
who said, “You will rise, Cabel, and the defendant will
address you respectfully.”

“John Cabel,” said Woodcock, “who telled me that
Mr. Moxon swore agin me in Hartford? Now none o'
your dodgin' nor spreadin'.”

“It seems to me,” said Cabel, indulging in a short cough,
“that that is a remarkable, that is to say, a very singular
question for one to ask, who should know without asking.
You are aware that I have had very little association with
you of late (a long quiet cough), and that I could not have

a very thorough knowledge of your sources, that is to say,
your means of information.”

“You're a sweet nut anyway,” said Woodcock, with a
smile that was half scowl. “Don't you know, as well as
you want to know, that you told me yourself?”

Cabel looked at Mr. Pynchon, and that gentleman settled
the matter by saying very peremptorily, “Yes, or No, to
that question, Cabel.”

“Yes.”

“All right,” said Woodcock. “Now, did you ax me what
I'd got to say to it?”

“Yes, or no,” said Mr. Pynchon.

“Yes.”

“Well, what did I say?”

“You said,” replied Cabel, without any urging, “that
Mr. Moxon had sworn to a lie.” (Emphasis, &c.)

“That's true,” said Woodcock, “and now you may set
down, and if we wa'nt here, afore these gentlemen, and you
was a brother of mine, which I'm thankful you ain't, I sh'd
say, if you sleep on marish hay, you'd better shift your bed,
for it's bad for your pipes.”

“Mr. Smith,” said Woodcock, immediately turning to
Henry Smith, at the head of the jury, “who telled you that
I said Mr. Moxon took a false oath agin me?”

“John Cabel,” replied Mr. Smith.

“What made me tell you jest the same thing over agin?”
inquired Woodcock.

“The occasion, I believe,” said Mr. Smith, rubbing his
chin to help his memory, “was my inquiry of you whether
Cabel had represented the truth.”

“That's all,” said Woodcock, rising; “I jest wanted Mr.
Pynchon to see how I come to say what I did, and to ax
him whether he thinks it would 'a been natur' for me to
own up that my character was bad, or keep mum, which was
tantamount to the same thing; and I wanted to show him

how the story got to me, and got spread up and down the
plantation. Mind, I don't take nothin' back, but I wanted
to fetch out who planted the corn, and how I come to hoe it.”

“There can be no doubt in your minds,” said Mr. Pynchon,
turning to the jury, “that these are mitigating circumstances,
and you will give the defendant the benefit of
them in your assessment of damages.”

The jury retired to an adjoining apartment, and occupied
but a short time in coming to their decision, which was
arrived at by a vote to award Mr. Moxon, as damages, the
mean average of the individual estimates of the jury.

As they returned and resumed their seats, Mr. Pynchon
pronounced the inquiry, “What do the jury find?”

Henry Smith arose, and replied, “The jury find for the
plaintiff, damages, £6 13s. 4d.”

“Well,” said Woodcock, rising, with a mingled expression
of anger and disgust upon his rough features, “I'm glad
you've found the damages and found the money with 'em,
for you've done a smart thing, and saved me considerable
elbow grease besides.”

“What do you mean by that remark?” said Mr. Pynchon
sternly.

“I mean,” said Woodcock, with a scowl of contempt and
defiance, “that when Mr. Moxon's broth tastes like Woodcock,
it won't be till after I've died game, and he's lame and
lost his eyesight.”

“And what do you mean by that, sir,” inquired the magistrate
again.

“Well, Square, my meanin' don't lay very fur under the
skin, but I s'pose I can fetch it out, if you say so. I don't
mean nothin' more nor less than that I don't owe the minister
any money, and I shan't pay him no money.”

Having very emphatically pronounced his decision, and
conveyed a look of menace to John Cabel, who gave expression
to a sudden sense of discretion in a cough which

conveyed him, by easy stages, into semi-unconsciousness,
Woodcock, whose last movements had tended towards the
door, lifted the latch, and passed unmolested on his way
homewards.

His departure was followed by a long consultation. Mr.
Pynchon felt that his authority had been slighted, and with
good reason; Mr. Moxon was dissatisfied with the amount
of damages awarded him, and incensed at Woodcock's repeated
insults and insolent defiance; the jury were offended
that Woodcock had spurned their judgment; and Cabel,
who insisted at great length that he knew John Woodcock
through and through, declared that the monster had as
good as threatened his life.

“There is no way,” said Mr. Moxon, at last, “but to
drive him from the settlement. No order can be maintained
with such a man amongst us. He must leave the plantation,
or he will destroy it.”

And the majority, as they separated, were of his opinion.