Читать книгу Judge Haliburton's Yankee Stories (Part 1 of 2) - Thomas Chandler Haliburton - Страница 8

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As we mounted our horses to proceed to Amherst, groups of country people were to be seen standing about Pugnose’s inn, talking over the events of the morning, while others were dispersing to their several homes.

A pretty prime, superfine scoundrel, that Pettifog, said the Clockmaker; he and his constable are well mated, and they’ve travelled in the same geer so long together, that they make about as nice a yoke of rascals, as you’ll meet in a day’s ride. They pull together like one rope reeved through two blocks. That are constable was een almost strangled t’uther day; and if he hadn’t had a little grain more wit than his master, I guess he’d had his wind-pipe stopped as tight as a bladder. There is an outlaw of a feller here, for all the world like one of our Kentucky Squatters, one Bill Smith—a critter that neither fears man nor devil. Sheriff and constable can make no hand of him—they can’t catch him no how; and if they do come up with him, he slips through their fingers like an eel: and then, he goes armed, and he can knock the eye out of a squirrel with a ball, at fifty yards hand running—a regular ugly customer.

Well, Nabb, the constable, had a writ agin him, and he was cyphering a good while how he should catch him; at last he hit on a plan that he thought was pretty clever, and he scheemed for a chance to try it. So one day he heard that Bill was up at Pugnose’s Inn, a settling some business, and was likely to be there all night. Nabb waits till it was considerable late in the evening, and then he takes his horse and rides down to the inn, and hitches his beast behind the hay stack. Then he crawls up to the window and peeps in and watches there till Bill should go to bed, thinking the best way to catch them are sort of animals is to catch them asleep. Well, he kept Nabb a waiting outside so long, with his talking and singing, that he well nigh fell asleep first himself; at last Bill began to strip for bed. First he takes out a long pocket pistol, examines the priming, and lays it down on the table near the head of the bed.

When Nabb sees this, he begins to creep like all over, and feel kinder ugly, and rather sick of his job; but when he seed him jump into bed, and heerd him snore out a noise like a man driving pigs to market, he plucked up courage, and thought he might do it easy arter all if he was to open the door softly, and make one spring on him afore he could wake. So round he goes, lifts up the latch of his door as soft as soap, and makes a jump right atop of him, as he lay on the bed. I guess I got you this time, said Nabb. I guess so too, said Bill, but I wish you wouldn’t lay so plaguy heavy on me—jist turn over, that’s a good fellow, will you? With that, Bill lays his arm on him to raise him up, for he said he was squeezed as flat as a pancake, and afore Nabb knew where he was, Bill rolled him right over, and was atop of him. Then he seized him by the throat, and twisted his pipe, till his eyes were as big as saucers, and his tongue grew six inches longer, while he kept making faces, for all the world like the pirate that was hanged on Monument Hill, at Boston. It was pretty near over with him, when Nabb thought of his spurs; so he just curled up both heels, and drove the spurs right into him; he let him have it jist below his cruper; as Bill was naked, he had a fair chance, and he ragged him like the leaf of a book cut open with your finger. At last, Bill could stand it no longer; he let go his hold, and roared like a bull, and clapping both hands ahind him, he out of the door like a shot. If it hadn’t been for them are spurs, I guess Bill would have saved the hangman a job of Nabb that time.

The Clockmaker was an observing man, and equally communicative. Nothing escaped his notice; he knew every body’s genealogy, history, and means, and like a driver of an English Stage Coach, was not unwilling to impart what he knew. Do you see that snug looking house there, said he, with a short sarce garden afore it? that belongs to Elder Thomson. The elder is pretty close-fisted, and holds special fast to all he gets. He is a just man and very pious, but I have observed when a man becomes near about too good, he is apt, sometimes, to slip ahead into avarice, unless he looks sharper arter his girths. A friend of mine in Connecticut, an old sea captain, who was once let in for it pretty deep, by a man with a broader brim than common, said to me “friend Sam,” says he, “I don’t like those folks who are too d—n good.” There is, I expect, some truth in it, tho’ he needn’t have swore at all, but he was an awful hand to swear. Howsomever that may be, there is a story about the Elder that’s not so coarse neither.

It appears an old Minister came there once, to hold a meetin’ at his house—well, after meetin’ was over, the Elder took the minister all over his farm, which is pretty tidy, I tell you; and he showed him a great Ox he had, and a swingeing big Pig, that weighed some six or seven hundred weight, that he was plaguy proud of, but he never offered the old minister any thing to eat or drink. The preacher was pretty tired of all this, and seeing no prospect of being asked to partake with the family, and tolerably sharp set, he asked one of the boys to fetch him his horse out of the barn. When he was taking leave of the Elder (there were several folks by at the time), says he, Elder Thomson, you have a fine farm here, a very fine farm, indeed; you have a large Ox too, a very large Ox; and I think, said he, I’ve seen to day, (turning and looking him full in the face, for he intended to hit him pretty hard,) I think I have seen to-day the greatest Hog I ever saw in my life. The neighbours snickered a good deal, and the Elder felt pretty streaked. I guess he’d give his great Pig or his great Ox either, if that story hadn’t got wind.