University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

It was a bright autumn day of the year to which the
reader was advanced by the last chapter, when the Agawam
training band, under the command of Captain Holyoke,
paraded upon the village green. The band was composed
of all the men in the plantation capable of bearing arms,
including even boys of sixteen years, and old men with the
first infirmities of age upon them. The members were not
dressed with any great degree of uniformity, nor were their
arms of equal length and calibre, but they formed a resolute
and hardy looking corps—well fitted to act in such warfare
as they were liable to be engaged in.

One would naturally suppose that the members of a body
so indifferently appointed as this would have little place for
personal vanity or military pride, but, when it is remembered
that this company and its performances were the
only embodiment and expression of the military spirit possible
at the time, it can be imagined that many a young
man studied personal effect, and thought of bright eyes at
favorite windows, with no little interest.

During the half day devoted to training, a compliment
was usually paid to the house of the captain by such officer
as might be temporarily in command, and even Holyoke
happened occasionally to put his little army through their
evolutions in front of his own house. On the day alluded
to, the company were marching steadily along the street,
to the time of the old drum used to call the people to Sabbath
worship, when one of the members began to betray a
remarkable degree of agitation.

As they approached the house of Holyoke, he frequently
looked down upon his legs, and, at the conclusion of each
survey, lifted his hand to his face and brought it, spread
broadly, down to his chin, at which point the fingers came
in and reported what they had found to the thumb. One
might go the world over, and not find so uneasy a specimen
of a soldier as he. As he came nearer, and still nearer, to
the house, he began to lift sudden stolen glances to the
window, to ascertain whether the subject of his thoughts
was there; and, as he caught sight of a pair of black eyes,
flashing among a set of smiling and spirited features, the
pimples upon his face became enraged, one after another,
and his feet were confounded in such a manner that he was
half afraid that he could never get by the house without
being ordered from the ranks. He had not a doubt that
Mary Woodcock saw every motion. He could actually feel
her looking at him. The influence of her eyes was such
that he had nervous twitches in his ankles, that brought
his feet to the ground in uneven steps. He felt it up and
down the muscles of his limbs; it heated his face, and confused
his head. Yet he could not keep his eyes from the
window; and, as the company came to a halt, and displayed
their skill in exercise, his eyes and mind seemed to be about
equally divided between the window and the commanding
officer.

Peter Trimble was not in love with Mary Woodcock.
That was a passion he was not equal to. He could love (in
his small way) any woman at sight, provided the probabilities
were in favor of his securing her hand. A compliment,
real or fictitious, from a girl, was enough to change the
current of his affections without a ruffle on the surface. He
knew Mary Woodcock's origin, the nature of the prejudices
that popularly prevailed against her, and her own consciousness
that the majority of the young men shunned her; and
the remnants of his old cunning had turned his mind

towards her, as one whom, perhaps, he might obtain for a
wife.

He was, therefore, not a little annoyed to find, as he
came nearer to the house, that her attention was perfectly
absorbed by some other member of the corps, and that she
only turned to him once, and then with a smile that greatly
resembled derision. When the company was dismissed,
Peter had become quite unhappy—not from unrequited
affection, but in consequence of a vague consciousness that
he had made a miscalculation. He was unable fully to satisfy
himself, even after having walked by the house a dozen
times while the inmates were asleep that night.

The man who had the fortune to attract the attention of
Mary Woodcock, and who became the unconscious cause
of Peter's uneasiness, was one who had never been a favorite
with the women of the settlement. The fact was not
due, however, to any vice of his nature or habit, to any low
associations, or to any ugliness of person. He was unpopular
because he was not manlike in his constitution. He was a
short, slenderly built man, with a feminine face, a mild blue
eye, full of amiable sweetness, a soft and pleasant voice,
and a manner that was all meekness and modesty. He was,
in strict terms and in no unworthy or offensive sense, an
effeminate man, and to his nature Mary had felt herself
more and more attracted, as the years had brought her to
maturity. From the stronger masculine natures she had
felt herself repulsed by a force that she had neither the
wish nor the power to resist.

She had grown up self-reliant, courageous, more or less
conversant with hardship and danger, lonely in her thoughts,
and passionate under restraint; and the idea of becoming
the wife of a man to whom she would be obliged, or would
feel it a pleasure, to bend her will, was one which it was
not possible for her to entertain. She wished to choose,
and it was natural for her—the masculine woman—to

choose the feminine man. And as she saw him marching
by with the training band, and watched him as he went
through the exercises of the occasion, every step and
motion seemed to her charged with unutterable grace.

“Dear little fellow!” exclaimed Mary, with a sigh, as
she at last turned away from the window; and she thought
of him tenderly all the day, and dreamed of him at night,
and wondered the next morning whether circumstances
would ever favor her with the means to convey to his mind
the knowledge that she admired him, and could easily love
him.

But days and weeks passed away before the opportunity
for an interview with the object of her interest could, without
a sacrifice of the proprieties of her sex and position, be
obtained.

For a week after training day, Peter was in despair. At
the end of that time he accidentally met Mary in the street,
and, as she gave him an unusually kind smile and bow, he
hastened home immediately, and, going to his little room,
tried, with the aid of a small mirror, to get a side look at
his legs. He walked forth and back across his apartment,
but, with his facilities, he could observe only a small surface
at a time, and relinquished his mirror for an unreflected
survey of his nether proportions—a feat which he accomplished
by stretching his head out from his stooping
shoulder, giving an earnest squint inwards, and arching his
eyebrows, and all the wrinkles above them, in a most
preposterous manner. He saw nothing unusual, unless,
perhaps, a slight increase of size in his locomotive organs.
That, of course, was favorable. Then he looked at his face.
It was certainly not a very handsome face, and it was not
by any means smooth in its details; but, take it at a distance—say
about as far as Mary stood from him when she
met him—and the expression could be called good. He
tried his looking-glass across the room, but, as it would

only take in part of his face at that distance, he had to
come back with it to close quarters.

This little circumstance fed Peter for several days with a
satisfaction that began to grow into pride. Everybody said
that Mary was a smart girl, and under other circumstances,
and with a little less spirit, etc., would make any man a
good wife. He was enough for her. As for her temper,
he would let her know she couldn't play off any of her
tantrums on him; and when the young men in the plantation
really saw what a splendid-looking wife he possessed,
and how pleasant and respectful she was to him, and, more
than all, when old Woodcock's land should come into his
hands, then they would say, “Hang that Peter Trimble!—
what a lucky dog he is!”

After he had made considerable progress in Mary's affections
in this manner, without her knowledge or consent, he
met her in his frequent walks again. Her demeanor on
this occasion was exceedingly gracious, and Peter was more
delighted than ever, and wondered how large a slice of
Woodcock's land, which was every year increasing in value,
it would take to purchase a watch as valuable as Mr. Pynchon's.
If he had a watch he should be a gentleman, and
his wife would be Mrs. Trimble; and he could sit in his
own house, and drawing his time-piece slowly from the fob
say, “Isn't it about time we were having supper, Mrs.
Trimble?” or, “Isn't it about time for the lecture to commence,
Mrs. Trimble?” or, “I'd no idea it was so late;”
or, calling at a neighbor's house in the evening, he would
take the watch modestly out and say, in an off-hand, free-and-easy
way, “Come, Mrs. Trimble, it's time honest folks
was at home and a-bed.” Yes—he was not fully certain,
but—he rather thought he should have the watch.

Very few individuals get in love (or think they do, which
is the same thing to them for the time), and are really very
much pleased with the object of their interest, who have

not a strong desire to give their confidence to some one who
will take it good-naturedly—some one who will patiently
hear of their successes, and listen to the praises of the being
beloved. Peter felt this want very much. In his own
mind he had made such advances in Mary's affections that,
as he did not dare to call upon her for re-assurance, he
found it necessary to brace himself against the assent and
encouragement of some one else. He cast about among his
acquaintances for the proper recipient of his precious secrets.
He found himself afraid to speak of the matter to any
acquaintances of his own age, ashamed to speak of it to
any who were younger, and disinclined to allude to the subject
with those who were his seniors.

There was but one face that came up to his imagination
with a kind and sympathetic aspect, and that belonged to a
young man with whom he had no intimacy. He resolved,
however, to make his acquaintance, and see what he could
do with him, and circumstances soon threw him conveniently
in his way. Before the two parted Peter had invited his
new friend to his room, informing him that there were certain
things he wished to say to him, that he had profound
secrets to impart, and important advice as well as aid to
solicit.

On the following evening, accordingly, the confidant elect
made his appearance at the house where Peter had his
home, and walking into the kitchen found that individual
bent nearly double upon a low bench before the fire, eating
samp and milk.

Peter had about exhausted his supply at the moment of
the arrival, and as he had not been accustomed to receive
calls in the presence of the family, he began to blush with
excessive embarrassment. His first movement was, almost
unconsciously, to throw the remnant of his supper into the
fire. Then rising and uncoiling himself, he set his porringer
upon a side-table, and doubling up his pewter spoon

under the impression that he was closing the blade of his
jack-knife, put it into his pocket. The new comer smiled
amiably upon all, told Peter that he had come according to
promise, and, sitting down, extended his hand and a look
of interest to a little child who stood timidly at a distance.
The little one did not wait for a second invitation, but went
directly to the stranger and was lifted to his knee. The
child's instinct discovered a sympathetic nature, and not
only trusted it at once, but conceived an affection for it at
the same moment. Soon the other and older children
gathered around him as an attractive centre, and without
any apparent effort on his part he became in a few minutes
the monopolist of domestic influence and interest.

At length, Peter had gained the extravagant concession
of a tallow candle from the mistress of the house, and,
lighting it at a coal, with the assistance of a very uncertain
pair of lips, he told his friend, with a nervous wink, that he
was “ready to cut his hair.”

“Ready to cut my hair!” exclaimed the man.

“Yes! Walk right along up stairs,” said Peter, pushing
out of sight as soon as possible.

The visitor looked around upon the family with a curious
smile, and in a quiet way saying, “I'm sure I don't know
what he means,” followed with such speed as half-a-dozen
children clinging to his legs would permit. When both had
landed in Peter's room, Peter sat down on one end of his
chest, and placing his candle on the other, put his face between
his hands, and his hands between his knees, and went
suddenly off into a violent snicker which commenced with
a snort and ended in a cough. As soon as he could speak,
he bade his visitor be seated on a bench, and asked him
“why he didn't take.”

“Take? take what?” inquired the man, slightly nettled
at the idea of being expected to play a game of deception.

“Why, you see,” said Peter, “I'm great on cutting hair.

I don't s'pose when you come right down to the real thing,
there's anybody in the settlement can shingle like me. I
do it for pretty much all of 'em. I reckon you might stuff
a bed with the hair I've cut off in the last five years.”

“I hope you get well paid for it,” remarked his companion,
not knowing at the moment what else to say.

“Land ahead!” said Peter, using a favorite exclamatory
phrase, “you don't s'pose I charge 'em anything, do
you? I do it 'cause I like it. Between you and I, it ain't
everybody that can do it. You see, a great many that cut
hair pull like time, and I've come across several,—now very
likely you won't believe it, but it's a fact—I wouldn't lie to
you, for I think too much of my word, 'pon my honor I do,
—several who had slits in their ears, made by these botches
—I don't think it's any too bad to call 'em botches, that's a
fact. Well, when a man gets his hair pulled every time the
shears comes down—it's done by slipping by, you know—
cutting off some, and taking along the rest—and gets a slit
or two in his ears, he looks out, and doesn't get catched in
the trap again. But I suit 'em, you see. Land ahead! I
guess I do suit 'em; I don't s'pose if I should live here till I
was as old as the hills, but what I should have all the hair
to cut. Do you know how to shingle?”

“I hav'n't the slightest idea how it is done,” replied the
man, with a smile playing about the corners of his eyes, that
showed that he was beginning to enjoy the interview.

“Well, it's a good deal of a knack, ain't it? The fact is
there ain't but a few that's got it in 'em. Just look at my
hair.”

The concluding direction was accompanied with an exhibition
of his head, in every aspect possible with a head still
fastened to a pair of shoulders.

“That,” continued Peter, “is what I do in the night. I
come up here, and nobody to say anything to, and so I sit
down on the old chest, and cut my hair in the dark. I keep

it jest about so all the time. Do you see how smooth 'tis
behind? Don't you call that pretty even trimming? Don't
it look as if it was shaved, now, r'ally?”

After securing a general assent to his separate questions,
Peter took his candle, and set it upon the floor. Then,
lifting the lid of his chest, he took out from the till his
shears and comb, and, holding them up to the amused
visitor, exclaimed, “There's the tools! and if they ain't the
tools, land ahead! there never was any tools. I s'pose, if
the truth was known, there's better stuff in them shears”
(giving them a click) “than there is in any razor this side
of the Bay. I call 'em a little too hard—jest a leetle grain
—but that's a good fault in shears.”

The visitor had begun to tire of the subject, interesting
as Peter had the power to make it; and, shifting uneasily
on his seat, he interrupted that enthusiastic amateur barber
in his attempt to explain the trick of the shingling process,
by saying, “I believe there were some things you wished
to say to me.”

“Land ahead!” exclaimed Peter, dropping his shears
upon the floor, “I come pretty near forgetting that. What
if I had forgot that, now? By the way, don't you want
your hair cut? I don't know how I'm going to get along,
unless you do have it jest shingled a little?”

The visitor could see no direct connexion between his
hair and Peter's secrets, and declined the operation.

“You see,” said Peter, “the folks down stairs will wonder
what in time made you come here; and if I don't cut
your hair, or make believe cut it, perhaps you won't believe
it, but the way they'll pump me will be awful. I guess I
can fix it,” pursued the ingenious fellow, “by coming a
small rig. I'll keep the shears a-going while we get along
with the business, and they'll hear 'em down stairs, and
think it's all right.”

Thus deciding, and thus delivering himself, Peter lifted

the shears from the floor, and, performing half-a-dozen clips
upon an imaginary head before him, reached forward, and
grasping the hand of his companion, said, “You sit there,
and I sit here. You are Hugh Parsons, and I am Peter
Trimble. We understand ourselves, and what we say is
between us.”

“Just as you say,” responded Hugh, with a slight struggle
to drown in a smile a little irritation which sought the
surface; for the study of Peter, while it had been an amusing
one, showed him that there was not an element in his character
with which his own could harmonize.

Peter gave a long tune upon the shears, in order to hold
the people in the kitchen to the delusion to which, in imagination,
he had committed them; then executed a subdued
whistle, and, crossing his hands, and leaning forward with
his elbows on his knees, he said to Hugh, in the slyest possible
manner, “Between you and I, I think of taking a
pullet.”

“Robbing a henroost, in other words?” said Hugh interrogatively,
with a quizzical expression on his handsome
face.

“Land ahead!” exclaimed Peter, “don't you know what
taking a pullet is?”

“I can guess, perhaps.”

“Well, I thought you knew, and now I want to ask you
—it's all between us, you know”—furious clips at the phantom
head of hair, “what you think a pullet looks at most,
when she's picking out a man?”

“His corns?”

“Come now! honest!” exclaimed Peter, beginning to
see that Hugh was making fun of him.

“Well, if pullets are girls,” said Hugh, quietly, “I presume
they look at the man they like the best.”

“That isn't what I mean,” said Peter, “and it wouldn't
be true if it was. I've seen it tried. I remember one

training day,—but”—and Peter suddenly recollected himself,
“but it was a good many years ago—before you come
here, I guess. What I want to find out is whether I'm
right on a man's p'ints.”

“What do you think they are?” said Hugh, becoming
the questioner.

“Well,” responded Peter, squinting at the rafters, and
slashing his shears high into the air, “if you was walking
out some day, and there should come along a darn pretty,
black-eyed girl, and should look you square in the face, and
smile jest as sweet as she could, and say `how do you do?'
and she never had done this before, and you should go
home and think it all over, and couldn't find anything about
you to make her change her mind, but a fair pair of legs
and a face that wasn't very bad (and Peter drew his hand
gently over his own), wouldn't you say that legs and face
was the word?”

“I should think they might be,” replied Hugh, with utter
good-nature.

“Think? Don't you know it?” cried Peter, becoming
vehement so suddenly as to surprise himself; and then,
with the idea that his violence might compromise his interests,
he apologetically added, “but perhaps you never
thought of these things so much as I have. I've thought of
'em any quantity. I don't s'pose you'd believe me, if I
should begin to tell you half of the time I spend in thinking
of them—I don't, that's a fact, now.” And Peter closed
with an expression of entire placability, which said plainer
than words could say, that he should not blame Hugh in
the least were he to be incredulous, in case the real facts
should be divulged.

“We'll call it so, at least,” said Hugh, very positively.
“Now go on.”

“Let's see—where was I?” said Peter, slowly and
thoughtfully snapping his shears. “Oh, yes! I remember

now. Well, s'pose a little while after that you should meet
the same girl again, and as quick as you see her coming
you should straighten up, and brush up your hair, and go
by her something like this” (and Peter strode across his
apartment with a dashing swing and a complacent smirk),
“and she should look sweeter than ever, and kind o' look
at you all over, as if she felt tickled and wanted to say
something and darsn't, and you knew, jest as well as you
wanted to know, that your legs and face was the best part
of you, what should you think then?” And Peter snapped
his shears triumphantly, and reiterated his question—“Say!
what should you think then?”

“Well, what did you think?” inquired Hugh, smiling.

“I didn't say it was me, did I?” said Peter, with a flattered
and half fatuous look of cunning.

“No, but it was you, wasn't it, Peter?”

“Now what made you think so?” inquired Peter, very
much pleased; “what made you think it was me? What
did you guess by? Perhaps, if you'll tell me, I'll tell you
whether you was right.”

“Oh! I knew; I'm not going to flatter you; you're
proud enough now.”

“Hugh Parsons, give us your hand,” exclaimed Peter,
grasping the man's slender and shrinking palm, and shaking
it violently. “You're the best feller I ever see in my life.
It's true now—you needn't say you ain't. I know all the
rest of 'em. They ain't anything. Land ahead! they think
they are, but I've shingled their hair this five years, and I
never found it out, and perhaps you don't think so, but if I
hav'n't found it out, there ain't many fellers that would.”

“Now tell me who the girl was,” said Hugh, as soon as
his aching hand was released, and carefully wiped upon his
handkerchief.

“Between you and I,” replied Peter, “it's the pullet that
I think of taking.”

“Have you said anything to her about it?” inquired
Hugh.

“Land ahead! I hav'n't got to that yet; and between
you and I that's what I want to see you for. Now you see
you've got a smooth tongue, and nobody is afraid of you;
and you can do what I want better than anybody else—
now you needn't say you can't, for I know you can—and
the iron being hot on both sides, all you've got to do is to
strike.”

“But perhaps I don't know the girl,” said Hugh.

“Yes, you do. I guess she kind o' likes you, as a friend,
you know. I don't s'pose you're jest sech a feller as she'd
want for a husband; not that there's any good reason for
it, but she's a large girl, and women have queer ideas about
such things, you know,” said Peter, patronizingly.

Hugh's eye flashed with a sudden contempt, but he was
one who never quarrelled, and so, letting the insult pass, he
said, somewhat impatiently, “Come! give us her name.”

“Well, don't be in a hurry,” responded Peter. “You're
the greatest feller to go off half cocked that ever I see in all
my life.”

“But it's almost bed-time,” said Hugh.

“Land ahead! so 'tis,” said Peter. “We must be getting
along—that's a fact. Now, Hugh, you're first rate at
guessing, and before I tell you, I want you should tell me
what M. W. stands for?”

“Mehitabel Warriner?” said Hugh, interrogatively, and
with a smile of amusement that he did not try to restrain.

“Didn't hit!” said Peter, looking up at the rafters.
“Guess again.”

“My wife?”

“That's it! by the jumping Moses!” exclaimed Peter,
bursting into voiceless convulsions of laughter, and becoming
so far mirthfully excited that he seized Hugh by the
shoulders, and shook him till he laughed in self-defence.

“How come you to think of that? My wife!” And he
stretched up towards the ridge-pole, and swung his shears
three times around his head. “Land ahead!” pursued
Peter, still unable to work off his admiration of Hugh's
inventive powers, and his delight with the pleasantly ominous
coincidence, “I'd no idea you was up to that sort of
thing.”

“My wife—Mary Woodcock,” said Hugh, interrupting
him.

“No—guess again,” said Peter, looking up at the rafters
with one eye, and at Hugh out of the corner of the other.

“Mary Woodcock,” reiterated Hugh.

Peter plunged into a snicker, and came up with, “Hugh
Parsons, you're the greatest feller I ever see in my life.
Now about the business.”

“What do you want?”

“Well, I want you to go to a certain girl,” said Peter,
slowly, and with an extremely sly look of intelligence,
“and tell her that you know of a young man—you can say
what you're a mind to about him—you know me and you
know my p'ints—who has seen her several times, and every
time he sees her he thinks that he has got a friend that
would think everything of her, if she would be kind enough
to take a notion to him, provided she hasn't done it before
this. Tell her she's seen him, and likes his looks, and that
if it wasn't because he was bashful, he would have been to
see her some time ago, and finished up the business. When
she asks you who the young man is that has got the friend
that thinks so much of her, you can tell her it's me—Peter
Trimble.”

“What if she asks who your friend is?” inquired Hugh.

“Well, you must go then by what you see. If she acts
as if she was disappointed, or says she won't have anything
to do with him, you can be pretty sure, you see, that there
ain't anybody in the plantation that she likes besides me,

'cause if there was, she wouldn't know but it was jest the
one I was making believe I was after for her, and she'd be
careful not to tread on her own shoestrings. But if she
acts tickled, which I don't believe she will between you and
I,—I don't now 'pon my word—then it's all day with me,
but you see she won't know then that I'm hit, and no
won't anybody else.”

When Peter closed, Hugh was looking at him in blank
astonishment, for as he talked, his eye grew bright with
an intense cunning, his face seemed to contract to a small,
sharp mass of features, his form was bent earnestly forward,
and his whole expression was so widely different from anything
that he had previously exhibited, that Hugh sat for a
minute wondering and unresponsive, while Peter, without
moving, looked steadily in his eye. The moment that
Peter began to consult his own safety from ridicule and
raillery, a vein of his original nature was struck, and the
old cunning bubbled up as pure and fresh as ever.

“Don't you see?” continued Peter, breaking the silence.
“If you tell her it's me to start with, perhaps she wouldn't
let you know that she liked me, if she did ever so much.
May be she wouldn't like anybody to know it; and then
again, if she didn't happen to like me, she would go and
tell on't, and the boys would raise thunder with me.”

“Then you want to get your head in, and keep your
neck out,” said Hugh, regaining his voice.

“That's it! By George! you've hit it. Now you talk,”
said Peter, with enthusiasm.

“Do you really wish to have me go through with all this
manœuvring for you?” inquired Hugh, seriously.

“Land ahead!” exclaimed Peter, with a disappointed
air, “I thought you'd like it.”

“I'm not one of that kind,” replied Hugh.

“You ain't going to back out now?” said Peter, with an
anxious interrogation.

“I must, positively.”

Peter looked at Hugh, and his lip began to tremble. He
undertook to say something, but he broke down, and putting
his head between his knees, he began to sob like a
baby.

“Peter,” said Hugh, in a kind and relenting mood, “I
didn't suppose you cared so much about it as this. I'll try
to do what I can for you.”

“Will you, though?” said Peter, jumping up and grasping
his hand, the scant tears in his grey eyes changing from
those of disappointment to those of sudden joy. “I was
mighty 'fraid you wan't going to. Between you and I, I
was beginning to feel about as cheap as turnips, 'pon my
word I was. Any feller that had seen me a minute ago,
and should come in now, would think I'd had a rich uncle
die, wouldn't he, Hugh?” and Peter pitched head first into
a snicker, and taking Hugh by the shoulders he shook him
till he cried, “Oh, stop, Peter, for pity's sake.”

“There's great times ahead for us,” continued Peter, and
then remembering that for at least fifteen minutes his shears
had remained idle, he slashed the air forth and back furiously
for awhile, and then subsided into a steady clip, as if
he were shearing a sheep.

“By the way,” continued Peter, changing the subject,
“I want to show you a hone I've got. It come from the
Bay last week, and it's a hone, now, I tell you. Look at it”
(and Peter lifted the lid of his chest, and drew out the
article). “You've no idea of the difference there is in hones.
Some cut away the steel fast, and leave a hair edge, and
some kind o' gum down.”

“What are you going to do with that?” inquired Hugh.

“Perhaps you wont believe it,” said Peter, “but in a year
from this time I shall hone every razor in the plantation. It
ain't everybody that can hone a razor. You see, they don't
carry it even from heel to p'int, and then there ain't half of

'em that knows when it's done. They hone it clear by. If
you'll bring your razor here some rainy day, I'll show you
all about it, and perhaps your hair will want cutting by that
time, and between you and I, though it's none of my business,
I don't think a little shingling would have done it any
hurt to-night. Who in time cut your hair last?”

Before Hugh could answer this question in any way,
Peter gave another furious lunge into a snicker, as if a sudden
thought had visited him with a blow upon the back of
his head, and, pointing to four long poles or rods, bound
with regularly recurring strips of old felt, said, “Did you
ever hear anything about my quilting frames?”

Hugh assured him that he never did.

“Well, you see,” said Peter, “everybody has to do
more or less quilting, but nobody has quilting frames. They
have to send round for 'em, and I r'ally s'pose, if the truth
was known, that there ain't in this settlement such a set as
mine; I don't, now, 'pon my word, if 'twas the last thing I
had to say. Well, everybody comes for mine, and other
people's quilting frames ain't anywhere. I s'pose if the
truth was known there's been quilts enough put together
on them sticks to reach acrost the river.”

“How do you make it pay?” inquired Hugh.

“Land ahead! It's pay enough to have 'em come after
'em, and go right by a house where they keep 'em, for the
sake of getting mine. Four little staddles with the bark off
ain't quilting frames, and the women know it. Besides, between
you and I, they always invite me to the quilting, and
I've been home with three girls since I've had them things,
that, 'pon my word, I believe would have gone home with
other fellers if they hadn't wanted to borrow.”

How much longer Peter would have continued in this
strain had he not been disturbed, it is impossible to tell, but
just as he finished the quilting frames, the chamber door
opened, and two boys whom he kept from quarrelling every

night, by sleeping between them, came growling up
stairs.

“You'd better put your hat on,” said Peter to Hugh
aloud, “you may catch cold after losing such a fleece,” and
then added in an under tone, “the old folks are going to bed
down stairs, but you keep your hat on, and go right
through the room. They'll think it's all right.”

Hugh felt, as the interview closed, extremely irritated in
the position into which his good-nature had led him. He
had been amused with Peter's oddities, but disgusted with
his low cunning and shallowness, and he was vexed with
himself for having agreed to serve him in an enterprise
every way preposterous and hopeless. Peter saw the cloud
upon his brow, but it was too late to attempt its removal
(although he had his hand upon an eight-bladed knife,
which he had intended to exhibit, as it was furnished with
a corkscrew, which several of the neighbors had used with
entire success), and following his visitor down stairs told
him as he passed through the kitchen to be careful about
taking cold. Poor Hugh, as he walked home, felt worse and
worse, and wondered more and more why he had not had
the strength to stand up like a man, and tell the silly coxcomb
the truth in regard to himself and his plans. And then
to think that he was the tool of such a fellow—that he had
agreed to intercede for him as a friend with one who, he
could not help but feel, would despise the mediator for his
office even more than his employer for his impudence, was
too much for his equanimity, and he went home and tossed
nervously upon his bed all night.