University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE SPECULATOR.

In the autumn of 1836, while travelling through a
portion of the interior of the State of Maine, I stopped
at a small new village, between the Kennebec and
Penobscot rivers, nearly a hundred miles from the
sea-board, for the purpose of giving my horse a little
rest and provender, before proceeding some ten miles
farther that evening. It was just after sunset; I was
walking on the piazza, in front of the neat new
tavern, admiring the wildness of the surrounding
country, and watching the gathering shadows of the
grey twilight, as it fell upon the valleys, and crept
softly up the hills, when a light one-horse wagon,
with a single gentleman, drove rapidly into the yard,
and stopped at the stable door.

“Tom,” said the gentleman to the ostler as he
jumped from his wagon, “take my mare out, rub her
down well, and give her four quarts of oats. Be
spry, now, Tom; you need n't give her any water, for

she sweats like fury. I'll give her a little when I am
ready to start.”

Tom sprang with uncommon alacrity to obey the
orders he had received, and the stranger walked
toward the house. He was a tall, middle-aged gentleman,
rather thin, but well proportioned, and well
dressed. It was the season of the year when the
weather began to grow chilly, and the evenings cold;
and the frock-coat of the stranger, trimmed with fur,
and buttoned to the throat, while it insured comfort,
served also to exhibit his fine elastic form to the best
advantage. His little wagon, too, had a marked air
of comfort about it; there were the spring-seat, the
stuffed cushions, and buffalo robes; all seemed to indicate
a gentleman of ease and leisure; while, on the
other hand, his rapid movements and prompt manner,
betokened the man of business. As he stepped on to
the piazza, with his long and handsome driving-whip
in his hand, the tavern-keeper, who was a brisk young
man, and well understood his business, met him with
a hearty shake of the hand, and a familiar “How are
you, Colonel? Come, walk in.”

There was something about the stranger that
strongly attracted my attention, and I followed him
into the bar-room. He stepped up to the bar, laid

his whip on the counter, and called for a glass of
brandy and water, with some small crackers and
cheese.

“But not going to stop to supper, Colonel? Going
farther to-night?” inquired the landlord, as he pushed
forward the brandy bottle.

“Can't stop more than ten minutes,” replied the
stranger; “just long enough to let the mare eat her
oats.”

“Is that the same mare,” asked the host, “that
you had when you were here last?”

“Yes,” answered the colonel: “I've drove her
thirty miles since dinner, and am going forty miles
farther, before I stop.”

“But you'll kill that mare, colonel, as sure as
rates,” said the landlord; “she's too likely a beast to
drive to death.”

“No, no,” was the reply; “she's tough as a pitchknot;
I feed her well; she'll stand it, I guess. I go
to Norridgewock before I sleep to-night.”

With a few more brief remarks, the stranger finished
his brandy, and crackers and cheese; he threw
down some change on the counter, ordered his carriage
brought to the door, and bidding his landlord
good night, jumped into his wagon, cracked his whip

and was off like a bird. After he was gone, I ventured
to exercise the Yankee privilege of asking
“who he might be.”

“That's Colonel Kingston,” said the landlord; “a
queer sort of a chap he is, too; a real go-ahead sort
of a fellow as ever I met with; does more more business
in one day than some folks would do in a year.
He's a right good customer; always full of money,
and pays well.”

“What business or profession does he follow?” I
asked.

“Why, not any particular business,” replied the
landlord; “he kind o' speculates round, and sich
like.”

“But,” said I, “I thought the speculation in timberlands
was over; I did n't know that a single person
could be found, now, to purchase lands.”

“Oh, it is n't exactly that kind of speculation,” said
the landlord; “he's got a knack of buying out folks'
farms; land, house, barn, live stock, hay, and provisions,
all in the lump.”

“Where does he live?” said I.

“Oh, he's lived round in a number of places, since
he's been in these parts. He's been round in these
towns only a year or two, and it's astonishing to see

how much property he's accumulated. He stays in
Monson most of the time, now. That's where he
came from this afternoon. They say he's got a number
of excellent farms in Monson, and I'll warrant he's got
some deeds of some more of 'em with him, now, that
he's going to carry to Norridgewock to-night, to put
on record.”

I bade the landlord good evening, and proceeded on
my journey. What I had seen and heard of Colonel
Kingston, had made an unwonted impression on my
mind; and as Monson lay in my route, and I was
expecting to stop there a few days, my curiosity was
naturally a little excited, to learn something more of
his history. The next day I reached Monson; and as I
rode over its many hills, and along its fine ridges of
arable land, I was struck with the number of fine
farms which I passed, and the evidences of thrift and
good husbandry that surrounded me. As this town
was at that time almost on the extreme verge of the
settlements in that part of the state, I was surprised
to find it so well settled, and under such good cultivation.
My surprise was increased, on arriving at the
centre of the town, to find a flourishing and bright-looking
village, with two or three stores, a variety of
mechanics' shops, a school-house, and a neat little

church, painted white, with green blinds, and surmounted
by a bell. A little to the westward of the
village, was one of those clear and beautiful ponds,
that greet the eye of the traveller in almost every
hour's ride in that section of the country; and on its
outlet, which ran through the village, stood a mill, and
some small manufacturing establishments, that served
to fill up the picture.

“Happy town!” thought I, “that has such a
delightful village for its centre of attraction, and happy
village that is supported by surrounding farmers of
such thrift and industry as those of Monson!” All
this, too, I had found within a dozen or fifteen miles
of Moosehead Lake, the noblest and most extensive
sheet of water in New England, which I had hitherto
considered so far embosomed in the deep, trackless
forest, as to be almost unapproachable, save by the
wild Indian or the daring hunter. A new light seemed
to burst upon me; and it was a pleasant thought that
led me to look forward but a few years, when the rugged
and wild shores of the great Moosehead should
resound with the hum and the song of the husbandman,
and on every side rich farms and lively vilages
should be reflected on its bosom.

I had been quietly seated in the village inn but a

short time, in a room that served both for bar and
sitting-room, when a small man, with a flapped hat,
an old brown “wrapper,” a leather strap buckled
round his waist, and holding a goad-stick in his hand,
entered the room, and took a seat on a bench in the
corner. His bright, restless eye glanced round the
room, and then seemed to be bent thoughtfully toward
the fire, while in the arch expression of his countenance
I thought I beheld the prelude to some important
piece of intelligence, that was struggling for
utterance. At last, said he, addressing the landlord,
“I guess the colonel ain't about home to-day, is he?”

“No,” replied Boniface, “he's been gone since
yesterday morning; he said he was going up into
your neighborhood. Have n't you seen anything of
him?”

“Yes,” said the little man with the goad-stick, “I
see him yesterday afternoon about two o'clock, starting
off like a streak, to go to Norridgewock.”

“Gone to Norridgewock!” said the landlord;
“what for? He did n't say nothing about going
when he went away.”

“More deeds, I guess,” said the little teamster.
“He's worried Deacon Stone out of his farm, at
last.”

“He has n't got Deacon Stone's farm, has he?”
exclaimed the landlord.

“Deacon Stone's farm!” reiterated an elderly,
sober-looking man, drawing a long pipe from his
mouth, which he had until now been quietly smoking
in the opposite corner.

“Deacon Stone's farm!” uttered the landlady, with
upraised hands, as she entered the room just in season
to hear the announcement.

“Deacon Stone's farm!” exclaimed three or four
others, in different parts of the room, all turning an
eager look toward the little man with the goad-stick.
As soon as there was a sufficient pause in these
exclamations, to allow the teamster to put in another
word, he repeated:

“Yes, he's worried the deacon out, at last, and
got hold of his farm, as slick as a whistle. He's been
kind o' edging round the deacon this three weeks, a
little to a time; jest enough to find out how to get
the right side of him; for the deacon was a good
deal offish, and yesterday morning the colonel was up
there by the time the deacon had done breakfast; and
he got them into the deacon's fore room, and shet the
door; and there they staid till dinner was ready, and had
waited for them an hour, before they would come out.

And when they had come out, the job was all done;
and the deed was signed, sealed, and delivered. I'd
been there about eleven o'clock, and the deacon's
wife and the gals were in terrible fidgets for fear of
what was going on in t'other room. They started to
go in, two or three times, but the door was fastened,
so they had to keep out. After dinner I went over
again, and got there just before they were out of the
fore room. The deacon asked the colonel to stop to
dinner, but I guess the colonel see so many sour looks
about the house, that he was afraid of a storm abrewing;
so he only ketched up a piece of bread and
cheese, and said he must be a-goin'. He jumped into
his wagon, and give his mare a cut, and was out of
sight in two minutes.”

“How did poor Mrs. Stone feel?” asked the landlady;
“I should thought she would a-died.”

“She looked as if she'd turn milk sour quicker than
a thunder-shower,” said the teamster: “and Jane
went into the bedroom, and cried as if her heart
would break. I believe they did n't any of 'em make
out to eat any dinner, and I thought the deacon felt
about as bad as any of 'em, after all; for I never see
him look so kind o' riled in my life. `Now Mrs.
Stone,' said he to his wife, `you think I've done

wrong; but after talking along with Colonel Kingston,
I made up my mind it would be for the best.'
She did n't make him any answer, but begun to cry,
and went out of the room. The deacon looked as if
he would sink into the 'arth. He stood a minute or
two, as if he was n't looking at nothing, and then he
took down his pipe off the mantel, and sat down in
the corner, and went to smoking as hard as he could
smoke.

“After a while, he turned round to me, and says he,
`Neighbor, I don't know but I've done wrong.'
`Well,' says I, `in my opinion, that depends upon
what sort of a bargain you've made. If you've got a
good bargain out of the colonel, I don't see why his
money is n't worth as much as anybody's, or why
another farm as good as your'n is n't worth as much.'
`Yes,' said the deacon, `so it seems to me. I've
got a good bargain, I know; it's more than the
farm is worth. I never considered it worth more
than two thousand dollars, stock, and hay, and all;
and he takes the whole jest as 'tis, and gives me three
thousand dollars.' `Is it pay down?' says I. `Yes,'
says he, `it's all pay down. He gives me three
hundred dollars in cash; I've got it in my pocket;
and then he gives me an order on Saunders' store for

two hundred dollars; that's as good as money, you
know; for we are always wanting one thing or
another out of his store. Then he gives me a deed of
five hundred acres, of land, in the upper part of Vermont,
at five dollars an acre. That makes up three
thousand dollars. But that is n't all; he says this
land is richly worth seven dollars an acre; well timbered,
and a good chance to get the timber down;
and he showed me certificates of several respectable
men, that had been all over it, and they said it was
well worth seven dollars. That gives me two dollars
clear profit on an acre, which on five hundred acres
makes a thousand dollars. So that instead of three
thousand dollars, I s'pose I've really got four thousand
for the farm. But then it seems to work up the feelings
of the women folks so, to think of leaving it, after
we've got it so well under way, that I don't know
but I've done wrong.' And his feelings came over
him so, that he begun to smoke away again as hard
as he could draw. I did n't know what to say to him,
for I did n't believe he would ever get five hundred
dollars for his five hundred acres of land, so I got up
and went home.”

As my little goad-stick teamster made a pause here,
the elderly man in the opposite corner, who had sat

all this time knocking his pipe-bowl on the thumbnail
of his left hand, took up the thread of discourse.

“I'm afraid,” says he, looking up at the landlord,
“I'm afraid Deacon Stone has got tricked out of his
farm for a mere song. That Colonel Kingston, in my
opinion, is a dangerous man, and ought to be looked
after.”

“Well, I declare!” said the landlord, “I'd no idee
he would get hold of Deacon Stone's farm. That's
one of the best farms in the town.”

“Yes,” replied the man with the pipe, “and that
makes seven of the “best farms in town that he's got
hold of already; and what 'll be the end of it, I don't
know; but I think something ought to be done about
it.”

“Well, there,” said the landlady, “I do pity Mrs.
Stone from the bottom of my heart; she'll never get
over it the longest day she lives.”

Here the little man with the goad-stick, looking out
the window, saw his team starting off up the road,
and he flew out of the door, screaming “Hush!
whoa! hush!” and that was the last I saw of him.
But my curiosity was now too much excited, with
regard to Colonel Kingston's mysterious operations,
and my sympathies for good Deacon Stone, and his

fellow-sufferers, were too thoroughly awakened, to
allow me to rest without farther inquiries.

During the days that I remained in the neighborhood,
I learned that he came from Vermont; that he
had visited Monson several times within a year or
two, and had made it his home there for the last
few months During that time he had exercised an
influence over some of the honest and sober-minded
farmers of Monson, that was perfectly unaccountable.
He was supposed to be a man of wealth, for he never
seemed to lack money for any operation he chose to
undertake. He had a bold, dashing air, and rather
fascinating manners, and his power over those with
whom he conversed had become so conspicuous, that
it was regarded as an inevitable consequence in
Monson, if a farmer chanced to get shut up in a room
with Colonel Kingston, he was a “gone goose,” and
sure to come out well stripped of his feathers. He
had actually got possession of seven or eight of the
best farms in the town, for about one quarter part of
their real value.

It may be thought unaccountable, that thriving, sensible
farmers could in so many instances be duped;
but there were some extraneous circumstances that
helped to produce the result. The wild spirit of speculation,

which had raged throughout the country for
two or three years, had pervaded almost every mind,
and rendered it restless, and desirous of change. And
then the seasons, for a few years past, had been cold
and unfavorable. The farmer had sowed and had not
reaped, and he was discouraged. If he could sell, he
would go to a warmer climate. These influences,
added to his own powers of adroitness and skill in
making “the worse appear the better reason,” had
enabled Colonel Kingston to inveigle the farmers of
Monson out of their hard-earned property, and turn
them, houseless and poor, upon the world.

The public mind had become much excited upon
the subject, and the case of Deacon Stone added fresh
fuel to the fire. It was in this state of affairs that I
left Monson, and heard no more of Colonel Kingston
until the following summer, when another journey
called me into that neighborhood, and I learned the
sequel to his fortunes. The colonel made but few
more conquests, after his victory over Deacon Stone;
and the experience of a cold and cheerless winter,
which soon overtook them, brought the deluded
farmers to their senses. The trifling sums of money
which they received in hand, were soon exhausted in
providing necessary supplies for their families; and

the property which they had obtained, as principal
payment for their farms, turned out to be of little value,
or was so situated that they could turn it to no profitable
account. Day after day, through the winter, the
excitement increased, and spread, and waxed more
intense, as the unfortunate condition of the sufferers
became more generally known. “Colonel Kingston”
was the great and absorbing topic of discussion, at
the stores, at the tavern, at evening parties, and sleigh-rides,
and even during intermission at church, on the
Sabbath.

The indignation of the people had reached that
pitch which usually leads to acts of violence.
Colonel Kingston was now regarded as a monster,
preying upon the peace and happiness of society, and
various were the expedients proposed to rid the town
of him. The schoolboys, in the several districts,
discussed the matter, and resolved to form a grand
company, to snowball him out of town, and only
waited a nod of approbation from some of their
parents or teachers, to carry their resolutions into
effect. Some reckless young men were for seizing
him, and giving him a public horse-whipping, in
front of the tavern at mid-day, and in presence of the
whole village. Others, equally violent, but less

daring, proposed catching him out, some dark evening,
giving him a good coat of tar-and-feathers, and
riding him out of town on a rail. But the older,
more experienced, and sober-minded men, shook their
heads at these rash projects, and said: “It is a bad
plan for people to take the law into their own hands;
as long as we live under good laws, it is best to be
governed by them. Such kind of squabbles as you
young folks want to get into, most always turn out
bad in the end.”

So reasoned the old folks; but they were nevertheless
as eager and as determined to get rid of Colonel
Kingston, as were the young ones, though more cautious
and circumspect as to the means. At last, after
many consultations and much perplexity, Deacon
Stone declared one day, with much earnestness, to his
neighbors and townsmen, who were assembled at the
village, that “For his part, he believed it was best to
appeal at once to the laws of the land; and if they
would n't give protection to the citizen, he did n't
know what would. For himself, he verily believed
Colonel Kingston might be charged with swindling,
and if a complaint was to be made to the Grand Jury
he did n't believe but they would have him indicated
and tried in Court, and give back the people their

farms again.” The deacon spoke feelingly, on the
subject, and his words found a ready response in the
hearts of all present. It was at once agreed to present
Colonel Kingston to the Grand Jury, when the
Court should next be in session at Norridgewock.
Accordingly, when the next Court was held, Monson
was duly represented before the grand inquest for the
county of Somerset, and such an array of facts and
evidence was exhibited, that the Jury, without hesitation,
found a bill against the colonel for swindling, and
a warrant was immediately issued for his apprehension.

This crisis had been some months maturing, and
the warm summer had now commenced. The forest
trees were now in leaf; and though the ground was
yet wet and muddy, the days began to be hot and
uncomfortable. It was a warm moonlight evening,
when the officer arrived at Monson with the warrant.
He had taken two assistants with him, mounted on
fleet horses, and about a dozen stout young men of
the village were in his train as volunteers. They
approached the tavern where Colonel Kingston
boarded, and just as they were turning from the road
up to the house, the form of a tall, slim person was
seen in the bright moonlight, gliding from the back-door,
and crossing the garden.

“There he goes!” exclaimed a dozen Monson voices
at once; “that's he!—there he goes!”

And sure enough, it was he! Whether he had been
notified of his danger, by some traitor, or had seen
from the window the approach of the party, and suspected
mischief was at hand, was never known. But
the moment he heard these exclamations, he sprang
from the ground as if a bullet had pierced his heart.
He darted across the garden, leaped the fence at a
bound, and flew over the adjacent pasture with the
speed of a race-horse. In a moment the whole party
were in full pursuit; and in five minutes more, a
hundred men and boys, of all ages, roused by the cry
that now rang through the village, were out, and joining
in the race. The fields were rough, and in some
places quite wet, so that running across them was
rather a difficult and hazardous business. The direction
which Kingston at first seemed inclined to take,
would lead him into the main road, beyond the corner,
nearly a half a mile off. But those who were mounted
put spurs to their horses, and reaching the spot before
him, headed him off in another direction. He now
flew from field to field, leaping fence after fence, and
apparently aiming for the deep forest, on the eastern
part of the town. Many of his pursuers were athletic

young men, and they gave him a hot chase. Even
Deacon Stone, who had come to the village that evening
to await the arrival of the officer—even the deacon,
now in the sixty-first year of his age, ran like a
boy. He kept among the foremost of the pursuers, and
once getting within about a dozen rods of the fugitive,
his zeal burst forth into words, and he cried out, in a
tremulous voice: “Stop! you infernal villain!—stop!”
This was the nearest approach he had made to profanity
for forty years; and when the sound of the words
he had uttered fell full on his ear, his nerves received
such a shock that his legs trembled and he was no
longer able to sustain his former speed.

The colonel, however, so far from obeying the
emphatic injunction of the deacon, rather seemed to
be inspired by it to new efforts of flight. Over log,
bog and brook, stumps, stones and fences, he flew like
a wild deer; and after a race of some two miles, during
which he was at no time more than twenty rods from
some of his pursuers, he plunged into a thick dark forest.
Hearing his adversaries close upon him, after he
had entered the wood, and being almost entirely
exhausted, he threw himself under the side of a large
fallen tree, where he was darkly sheltered by a thick
clump of alders. His pursuers rushed furiously on,

many of them within his hearing, and some of them
passing over the very tree under which he lay. After
scouring the forest for a mile round, without finding
any traces of the fugitive, they began to retreat to the
opening, and Kingston heard enough of their remarks,
on their return, to learn that his retreat from the woods
that night would be well guarded against, and that
the next day Monson would pour out all its force, “to
hunt him to the ends of the 'arth, but what they
would have him!”

Under this comfortable assurance, he was little disposed
to take much of a night's rest, where he would
be sure to be discovered and overtaken in the morning.
But what course to take, and what measures to
adopt, was a difficult question for him to answer. To
return to Monson opening, he well knew would be to
throw himself into the hands of his enemies; and if
he remained in the woods till next day, he foresaw
there would be but a small chance of escape from the
hundreds on every side, who would be on the alert to
take him. North of him was the new town of Elliotville,
containing some fifteen or twenty families, and to
the south, lay Guilford, a well-settled farming town;
but he knew he would be no more safe in either of
those settlements than he would in Monson. East of

him lay an unsettled and unincorporated wild township,
near the centre of which, and some three or four
miles to the eastward of where he now lay, dwelt a
solitary individual by the name of Johnson, a singular
being, who, from some unknown cause, had forsaken
social life, and had lived a hermit in that secluded spot
for seven or eight years. He had a little opening in a
fine interval, on the banks of Wilson River, where
he raised his corn and potatoes, and had constructed
a rude hovel for a dwelling. Johnson had made his
appearance occasionally at the village, with a string
of fine trout, a bear-skin, or some other trophy of his
Nimrod propensities, which he would exchange at the
stores for “a little rum, and a little tobacco, and a
little tea, and a jack-knife, and a little more rum,”
when he would plunge into the forest again, return to
his hermitage, and be seen no more for months.

After casting his thoughts about in vain for any
other refuge, Kingston resolved to throw himself upon
the protection of Johnson. Accordingly, as soon as
he was a little rested, and his pursuers were well out
of hearing, he crept from his hiding-place, and taking
his direction by the moon, made the best of his way
eastward, through the rough and thick wood. It is
no easy matter to penetrate such a forest in the daytime;

and in the night, nothing but extreme desperation
could drive a man through it. Here pressing his
way through dark and thick underbrush, that constantly
required both hands to guard his eyes; there
climbing over huge windfalls, wading a bog, or leaping
a brook; and anon working his way, for a quarter
of a mile, through a dismal, tangled cedar-swamp,
where a thousand dry and pointed limbs, shooting out
on every side, clear to the very ground, tear his clothes
from his back, and wound him at every step. Under
these impediments, and in this condition, Kingston
spent the night in pressing on toward Johnson's camp;
and after a period of extreme toil and suffering, just
at daylight, he came out to the opening. But here
another barrier was before him. The Wilson River,
a wild and rapid stream, and now swollen by a recent
freshet, was between him and Johnson's dwelling, and
he had no means of crossing. But cross he must, and
he was reluctant to lose time in deliberation. He
selected the spot that looked most likely to admit of
fording, and waded into the river. He staggered
along from rock to rock, and fought against the current,
until he reached nearly the middle of the stream,
when the water deepened and took him from his feet!
He was but an indifferent swimmer, and the force of
the current carried him rapidly down the stream. At
last, however, after severe struggles, and not without
imminent peril of his life, he made out to reach the
bank, so much exhausted, that it was with difficulty
he could walk to Johnson's camp. When he reached
it, he found its lonely inmate yet asleep. He roused
him, made his case known to him, and begged his
protection.

Johnson was naturally benevolent, and the forlorn,
exhausted, ragged, and altogether wretched appearance
of the fugitive, at once touched his heart. There
was now.—

but fear and trembling blanched his countenance, and
palsied his limbs. Possibly the hermit's benevolence
might have been quickened by a portion of the contents
of the colonel's purse; but be that as it may, he
was soon administering to the comfort of his guest.
In a few minutes he had a good fire, and the exhausted
wanderer took off his clothes and dried them, and tried
to fasten some of the flying pieces that had been torn
loose by the hatchel-teeth limbs in the cedar-swamps.
In the meantime Johnson had provided some roasted
potatoes, and a bit of fried bear-meat, which he
served up, with a tin dipper of strong tea, and Kingston
ate and drank, and was greatly refreshed.

They now set themselves earnestly to work to devise
means of retreat and security against the pursuit of
the enraged Monsonites, “who,” Kingston said, “he
was sure would visit the camp before noon.” Under a
part of the floor, was a small excavation in the earth,
which his host called his potato-hole, since, being near
the fire, it served in winter to keep his potatoes from
freezing. This portion of the floor was now entirely
covered over with two or three barrels, a water-pail, a
bench, and sundry articles of iron and tin-ware. It
was Johnson's advice, that the colonel should be
secreted in this potato-hole. He was afraid, however,
that they would search so close as to discover his retreat.
Yet the only alternative seemed between the
plan proposed and betaking himself again to the woods,
exposed to toil and starvation, and the chance of arrest
by some of the hundreds who would be scouring the
woods that day, eager as bloodhounds for their prey.
Something must be done immediately, for he was
expecting every hour to hear the cry of his pursuers;
and relying on Johnson's ingenuity and skill to send
them off on another scent should they come to his
camp, he concluded to retreat to the potato-hole.

Accordingly, the superincumbent articles were hastily
removed, a board was taken up from the floor,
and the gallant colonel descended to his new quarters.
They were small to be sure, but under the circumstances
very acceptable. The cell was barely deep enough
to receive him in a sitting posture, with his neck a
little bent, while under him was a little straw, upon
which he could stretch his limbs to rest. Johnson
replaced all the articles with such care that no one
would have supposed they had been removed for
months.

This labor had just been completed, when he heard
shouts at a distance, and beheld ten or a dozen people
rushing out of the woods, and making toward his
camp. He was prepared for them; and when they
came in, they found him seated quietly on his bench,
mending his clothes.

“Have you seen anything of Colonel Kingston?”
inquired the foremost of the company with panting
eagerness.

“Colonel Kingston?” asked Johnson, looking up
with a sort of vacant, honest stare.

“Yes—he's run for't,” replied the other, “and we
are after him. The Grand Jury has indicted him,
and the Sheriff's got a warrant, and all Monson, and

one half of Guilford, is out a hunting for him. Last
night, just as they were going to take him, he run
into the woods this way. Ha'n't you seen nothin' of
him?”

Johnson sat with his mouth wide open, and listened
with such an inquiring look that any one would have
sworn it was all news to him. At last he exclaimed
with the earnestness inspired by a new thought,
“Well, there! I'll bet that was what my dog was
barking at, an hour or so ago! I heard him barking
as fierce as a tiger, about half a mile down the river.
I was busy mending my trowsers, or I should have
gone down to see what he'd got track of.”

The company unanimously agreed that it must
have been Kingston the dog was after; and in the
hope of getting upon his track, they hurried off in
the direction indicated, leaving Johnson as busily
engaged as if, like

until he had finished repairing his tattered inexpressibles.

The fugitive now breathed freely again; but while
his pursuers were talking with his host, his respiration
had hardly been sufficient to sustain life, and

“cold drops of sweat stood on his trembling flesh.”
He did not venture to leave his retreat for two days;
for during that day and most of the next, the woods
were scoured from one end of the township to the
other, and several parties successively visited the
camp, who were all again successively despatched to
the woods by the adroitness of its occupant.

After two days the pursuers principally left the
woods and contented themselves with posting sentinels
at short intervals on the roads that surrounded
the forest, and in the neighboring towns, hoping to
arrest their victim, when hunger should drive him
forth to some of the settlements. Kingston felt that
it was unsafe for him to remain any longer under the
protection of Johnson, and he knew it would be
exceedingly difficult to make his escape through any
of the settlements of Maine. Upon due reflection he
concluded that the only chance left for him was to
endeavor to make his way to Canada.

He was now a dozen or fifteen miles from the foot
of Moosehead lake. There was a foot-path to Elliottville,
where there were a few inhabitants. Through
this settlement he thought he might venture to pass
in the night; and he could then go a few miles to the
westward, and meet the road leading from Monson to

the lake. Once across or around the foot of the lake,
he believed he could make his way into the Canada
road, and escape with safety. Having matured his
plan he communicated it to Johnson, who aided it in
the best manner he could by providing him with a
pack of potatoes and fried bear-meat, accompanied
with an extra Indian “johnny-cake,” a jack-knife, and
a flint and tinder for striking fire.

It was late in the night, when all things were prepared
for the journey, and Kingston bade an affectionate
adieu to his host, declaring that he should
never forget him, and adding, with much originality
of thought and expression, that “a friend in need
was a friend indeed.” He had nearly a mile to go
through the woods, before reaching the path that led
through the township of Elliotville; and when he
passed the Elliottville settlement the day began to
dawn. A stirring young man, who was out at that
early hour, saw him cross the road at a distance and
strike into the woods. Satisfied at once who he was,
and suspecting his object, he hastened to rouse his
two or three neighbors, and then started toward Monson
village with all the speed his legs could give him.
Kingston, observing this movement from a hill-top
in the woods, was convinced that he should be

pursued, and redoubled his exertions to reach the
lake.

When the messenger reached Monson and communicated
his intelligence, the whole village was roused
like an encamped army at the battle-call; and in
twenty minutes every horse in the village was mounted
and the riders were spurring with all speed toward the
lake, and Deacon Stone among the foremost. As
they came in sight of the Moosehead, the sun, which
was about an hour high, was pouring a flood of warm
rays across the calm, still waters, and some half a mile
from land, they beheld a tall, slim man, alone in a
canoe, paddling toward the opposite shore.

For a moment the party stood speechless, and then
vent was given to such oaths and execrations as habit
had made familiar. Something was even swelling in
Deacon Stone's throat, well-nigh as sinful as he had
uttered on a former occasion, but he coughed, and
checked it before it found utterance. They looked
around, and ran on every side, to see if another boat,
or any other means of crossing the lake could be
found; but all in vain. The only skiff on that arm
of the lake had been seized by the colonel in his
flight. His pursuers were completely baffled. Some
were for crossing the woods, and going round the

southwest bay of the lake over the head waters of
the Kennebec River, and so into the great wilderness
on the western side of the lake. But others said,
“No; it's no use; if he once gets over among them
swamps and mountains, you might as well look for a
needle in a hay-mow!”

This sentiment accorded with the better judgment
of the party, and they turned about and rode quietly
back to Monson—Deacon Stone consoling himself on
the way by occasionally remarking: “Well, if the
heathen is driven out of the land, thanks to a kind
Providence, he has n't carried the land with him!”