University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
HOW TO TRAIN A CAT INTO A TIGER.

We are not sure that all rascals have a like share of sensibility
with Master Pete Blodgit, and exhibit the same degree
of mortification upon detection. We do not, indeed, pretend to
say that Pete's mortification was the result of any peculiar
sense of shame; and are half inclined to suspect that he would
not have cared a button about the exposure of his short-comings,
and dubious reckonings, with his employer, had the other not
shown himself so exacting — so tenacious about his returns, and
so pressing and so punctilious in respect to immediate restoration.
That discovery of the hiding-place of his treasure, held
to be so perfectly secure — that was the crowning misery and
mortification, that sent Pete to his wigwam, almost howling
with fury. A sneaking, cur-like scoundrel naturally, his vexation,
under this affliction, was such as to sublime itself to rage;
and he felt, for a moment, almost disposed to put on the armor
of heroism, and boldly grapple with the insolent assailant who
had so suddenly dispossessed him of his accumulated spoils.

But Pete was not by nature endowed to be a hero. He
might have brained Sinclair with his bludgeon, and probably
would have tried to do so, had the opportunity been allowed
him — as we half suspect was his intention, at the moment
when his secret treasure was discovered; — but, to brave the
enemy boldly, with naked weapon, front to front, and eye
looking into eye, was by no means the course of action which
Pete was prepared either by nature or education to attempt.

But he could rage fiercely, the danger not present — nay, resolve
terribly in the moment of security — and his wrath burst
forth into a perfect yell, when he found himself fairly within
his cabin, with the door fastened behind him. He dashed the
lantern down upon the table, and smote the table itself with a

heavy fist, while groan after groan broke from his breast, the
proof of that terrible avarice which filled his heart, and which
had been thus deprived of all its accumulated provision, “at
one fell swoop!”

His mother, who was naturally wakeful, and whom the previous
communication of the son had rendered anxiously so, now
cried to him from within:—

“Well, Pete, you hain't given up the gould?”

“Hain't I then? Hell! what could I do?”

“What, all? You don't say all?”

“Every copper! I'm dreaned of every button!”

“I'd ha' died first!” responded the venerable rheumatic.
“I'd ha' tried knife and bullet for it, before I'd ha' let myself
be dreaned of all my hard yairnings by any man that ever
broke bread. But I always told you, you was a mean-sperrited
critter! What's a man good for, ef he won't stand a fight for
his yairnings?”

“Oh! hush, I say, mother! You don't know! How em I
to stand up to a fair fight, me a lame pusson, and a small pusson
to boot, with sich a powerful man as Willie Sinclair? You know
it's all nonsense to talk so.”

“Who talks of a fair fight, but your own fool-head? I knows
well enough you'd be nothing in the hands of Willie Sinclair, ef
he know'd what you was a-driving at. But you've had chaince
enough of doing the thing without any fight at all! Whar' was
your eyes, your hand, your knife, when he was a-eating, or
a lying down, or a-counting out the money, or looking over his
papers? Lord! ef it hed been me, I reckon I could ha' found
a hundred chainces for laying him over the head with a hickory,
or driving a sharp knife cl'ar down into his ribs. Thar's
always chainces enough for any man that's got a man's heart in
his buzzom, Pete Blodgit! But you ain't no man at all, as I've
told you a thousand times. Ef you was a man, 'twouldn't all
now stand as it is; and Willie Sinclair wouldn't git off with
that gould, though he's got it in his pocket, as you say. Thar's
many ways for spiling a man's marching, ef thar' was only a
man ready to chock the wheels, or cut the traces.”

“Well, hush, now, mother. 'Tain't all over yit, as you say;
and I'm a-thinking how I shall work it.”

“Oh! much good your thinking will do you, Pete, ef you
does it all by your own self. Come in here to me, and we'll
talk it over together. It makes me strain my throat too much
to talk to you out thar'. Come in, I say! Lord! ef I was
only a man!”

“I wish you was!” sullenly responded the son, as he passed
into the chamber.

“Set down thar' — 'longside of me on the bed, Pete — set
down! And, now, tell me all about it, Pete. You say he tuk'
the whole thirteen guineas, and gin' you nothing?”

“Thirteen guineas! Lord! ef that was all! — it was nigh
on to a hundred guineas that he dreaned out of me! It was!”

“The Lord ha' marsy upon my poor soul! And you let any
man sweep you clean, of nigh on to a hundred guineas, and you
never struck a stroke?”

“Well, you needn't go on a-saying the same foolish thing
over and over ag'in, as ef I had no feelin's!” growled the fellow
impatiently.

“And I wonder what's the sarvice sich feelin's as yours are
a-guine to do any free white man? Ef the right feelin's was in
your buzzum, you'd a dreaned his heart's blood, afore he'd ha'
dreaned your pockets!”

“Oh! you needn't talk, neither; we'll see what you're
a-guine to say and to do, when he comes at you in the morning
for that bag of silver dollars I gin' you to put away.”

“What! you didn't tell him of them dollars, too, did you?”
almost screamed the old woman.

“How could I help it? He know'd all about it! He know'd
everything!”

“And how kim he to know?”

“From the devil himself, I reckon; for I kain't guess how
he found out everything, even to the kag of guineas in the
stable.”

“And a pretty place to hide a kag of guineas! Oh! Pete
Blodgit, ef you was a born ediot you couldn't ha' done a more
foolish thing!”

“Well, we'll see how you'll hide away them dollars when he
comes for 'em in the morning.”

“And you're a-guine to let him see morning shine, you poor-sperrited,

mean critter! You'll let him drean me, too, of all
the leetle bit of money I've put away ag'in bad weather?”

“Well, it's his own money — that is, it's his sister's, which is
the same thing, you know.”

“And what do I care for him, or his sister? What's in my
pocket's mine, I tell you; and I'll hold on to it, as I would to
dear life, I tell you! He's a fool that lets himself be bled to
death, and dreaned of all his yairnings, when there's a way to
stop the drean.”

“Ha! that's it! How will you stop the drean? Jest let me
know what you'll say and do to save them Spanish dollars?”

“Ef you was the right sort of man, you'd be doing without
axing me. But, as you ain't, I'll tell you. Oh! ef I was a
man, I wouldn't waste words on you nor him! I'd do it myself,
and nobody'd be the wiser of what was done till it was too
late to put in with a `stop you thar!' Look you, Pete Blodgit,
I kin hardly lift a leg, therefore 'tain't possible for me to do
nothing; but you — you must pluck up heart, Pete, and jest do
as I tell you.”

“Git on — quick! You're a-burning daylight!”

“Well: you've a gun! Ain't thar' a way to shoot through
the logs?”

“Not easy! Besides, in all them blades, thar's no saying in
jist what place he sleeps.”

“Then you must knife him as he sleeps!”

“Easy enough, ef you could git at him without waking him.
But that's the trouble. While you're a-working your way at
him, he mayn't be taking it easy.”

“And kain't you sneak like a cat, ef you kain't fight like a
tiger. Kain't you git into the stable, boy, without screaking
the lock as it turns, or the door on its hinges? You've got the
key, and you've got the feet and cunning of a cat!”

“Ay, the key's safe” — and he drew it from his pocket —
“and he's safe, too, till morning.”

“Good! And so you git into the stable, and creep up into
the loft, and feel about, softly, as any kitten, and jest you make
sure when you go to stick!”

“He'll wake for sartin! The fodder's all about, and it will
rustle.”

“No! no! he won't wake! He's pretty well tired down by
his riding. I know'd it from his talk, and he said as much.
He'll sleep sound like a bag of feathers, I tell you, the moment
he lays himself down for it. But jest you take your time, and
feel your way, and be up and doing, with a heart that's all the
time a-telling you — `Pete, don't you lose them guineas!'
Giminie! a'most a hundred! And you hed a'most a hundred
guineas, you mean-sperrited critter, and never let your own
mother know a word about it?”

“Oh! hush about all that, mother! The thing now is how
to git 'em back.”

“Hev'nt I told you? Go you now, and set about it. Do it
as I tell you. You were a born sneak, and ought to be able to
crawl up, and feel where his heart beats, and drive your knife
down hard like a hammer.”

“I won't try the knife. I hev' pistols; good ones, too, with
mouths like bulldogs; and a pair half-ounce bullets in 'em both.”

“The knife's safest, Pete! Git your heart up! That's
what you want! Only a leetle more of the tiger, and less of
the cat, and Willie Sinclair wouldn't ha' seen the shine of them
guineas, and won't carry 'em off, now he's got 'em!”

“I'll take both — knife and pistols! But I'm deuced jubous
about it, mother. Ef I miss, and he should wake, he'll chop me
to sausage-meat in a twink!”

“What! and you with two pistols in your gripe?”

“Yes! ef I had twenty! He's got something that I wants,
mother, and what makes a fighting-man.”

“It's the heart, Pete! But you've got a heart for the guineas,
and a man ought to fight for the thing he loves! A'most
a hundred guineas! Pete Blodgit, ef you let's Willie Sinclair
git off with them hundred guineas, I'll cut your heart out! I
will! Go! sneak upon him, and dig into his ribs ontil you hear
the rattle in his throat! Never stop digging till you hear him
gurgle out his last! It's for a hundred guineas, you know!”

And clutching the fellow by the wrist, with a savage energy,
as she spoke, she drew him toward her with one hand, while
with the other she smote him upon the breast, as if to show him
the exact manner in which the deed was to be done. Pete
wondered at the sinewy grasp which the old woman still possessed,

and could not forbear murmuring — an equal acknowledgment
of his own feebleness and her strength of will — “Ah!
mammy, ef I only had sich a heart as your'n in my buzzum!”

“Ah! Pete, but I was a she-tiger one time! Your daddy
know'd it well. He warn't no coward neither, Pete; yet
many a times he said to me — `Polly, you ought to have been
a man and a sodger!' and, the Lord knows, I ought! But
you've got heart enough, Pete, ef you'll only trust to it!
You're afeard of your own heart, now; and that's bad, bekaise
it keeps you from trying! But jest you try now, Pete, and
mind and do it as your old mammy tells you! Snake it into
the stable, and up the loft, and go on snaking it tell you feel
jest where's he's a-lying; then put it to him, quick and hard!
Only be sure and feel first where to stick. Go now, quick, and
do it! Do it, I say! or don't you let me see that face of your'n
ag'in!”

“I'll do it!” exclaimed the son, starting up with a show of
resolution which delighted the old woman, and encouraged the
wretch himself.

“Do it, Pete, like a man! and while you're a-doing it, I'll
be a-praying for you, Pete — your mother will be praying for
you, Pete! Never forgit, when the time comes for you to
strike, that there's a hundred guineas depending upon it, in the
dead man's pocket!”

The promise to pray for him, while he sped on his devout
mission, seemed very much to encourage our young Christian;
since he now began to move with a greatly increased show of
determination and energy. He examined his pistols, felt the
charge with the ramrod, picked the flints, saw to the priming,
then stuck the weapons in his girdle. His couteau de chasse —
for Pete was a hunter, equally of hogs and deer — he subjected
to as careful a scrutiny; and, satisfied with his tools, he threw
open his door in order to proceed to work; but closed it
again, quick as lightning, with an exclamation of surprise, if
not apprehension —

“What'n the name of old Billzebub can that be a-coming!”

Let us leave him for a brief space, while we see to other
parties in this our history, from whom we may also learn the
cause of Master Blodgit's surprise.