The Attache; Or, Sam Slick In England(Fiscle Part-3), Thomas Chandler Haliburton [best ereader for pdf TXT] 📗

Pair Of

Silver Mounted Spurs,  And A Beautiful White Cravat,  Tied

Behind,  So As To Have No Bows To It,  And Look Meek. If

There Was A Good Man On Airth,  You'd A Said It Was Him.

And He Seemed To Feel It,  And Know It Too,  For There Was

A Kind Of Look O' Triumph About Him,  As If He Had Conquered

The Evil One,  And Was Considerable Well Satisfied With

Himself.

 

"'H'are You,' Sais I,  'Elder,  To-Day? Which Way Are You

From?"

 

"'From The General Christian Assembly,  Sais He,  'To Goose

Creek. We Had A "_Most Refreshin' Time On't_." There Was

A Great "_Outpourin' Of The Spirit_."'

 

"'Well,  That's Awful,' Says I,  'Too. The Magistrates

Ought To See To That; It Ain't Right,  When Folks Assemble

That Way To Worship,  To Be A-Sellin' Of Rum; And Gin,

And Brandy,  And Spirits,  Is It?'

 

"'I Don't Mean That,' Sais He,  'Although,  P'rhaps,  There

Was Too Much Of That Wicked Traffic Too,  I Mean The

Preachin'. It Was Very Peeowerful; There Was "_Many

Sinners Saved_."

 

"'I Guess There Was Plenty Of Room For It,' Sais I,

'Onless That Neighbourhood Has Much Improved Since I

Knowed It Last.'

 

"'It's A Sweet Thing,' Sais He. 'Have You Ever "_Made

Profession_," Mr. Slick?'

 

"'Come,' Sais I To Myself,  'This Is Cuttin' It Rather

Too Fat. I Must Put A Stop To This. This Ain't A Subject

For Conversation With Such A Cheatin',  Cantin',

Hippocrytical Skunk As This Is. Yes,' Sais I,  'Long Ago.

My Profession Is That Of A Clockmaker,  And I Make No

Pretension To Nothin' Else. But Come,  Let's Water Our

Hosses Here And Liquor Ourselves.'

 

"And We Dismounted,  And Gave 'Em A Drop To Wet Their

Volume 2 Chapter 12 (Tattersall's Or, The Elder And The Grave Digger) Pg 162

Mouths.

 

"'Now,' Sais I,  A-Takin' Out Of A Pocket-Pistol That I

Generally Travelled With,  'I Think I'll Take A Drop Of

Grog;' And Arter Helpin' Myself,  I Gives The Silver Cover

Of The Flask A Dip In The Brook,  (For A Clean Rinse Is

Better Than A Dirty Wipe,  Any Time),  And Sais I,  'Will

You Have A Little Of The "_Outpourin' Of The Spirit?_"

What Do You Say,  Elder?'

 

"'Thank You,' Sais He,  'Friend Slick. I Never Touch

Liquor,  It's Agin Our Rules.'

 

"And He Stooped Down And Filled It With Water,  And Took

A Mouthful,  And Then Makin' A Face Like A Frog Afore He

Goes To Sing,  And Swellin' His Cheeks Out Like A Scotch

Bagpiper,  Be Spit It All Out. Sais He,  'That Is So Warm,

It Makes Me Sick; And As I Ain't Otherwise Well,  From

The Celestial Exhaustion Of A Protracted Meetin',  I

Believe I Will Take A Little Drop,  As Medicine.'

 

"Confound Him! If He'd A Said He'd Only Leave A Little

Drop,  It Would A Been More Like The Thing; For He E'en

A'most Emptied The Whole Into The Cup,  And Drank It Off

Clean,  Without Winkin'.

 

"'It's A "_Very Refreshin' Time_,"' Sais I,  'Ain't' It?'

But He Didn't Make No Answer. Sais I,  'That's A Likely

Beast Of Yourn,  Elder,' And I Opened Her Mouth,  And Took

A Look At Her,  And No Easy Matter Nother,  I Tell You,

For She Held On Like A Bear Trap,  With Her Jaws. "'She

Won't Suit You,' Sais He,  "With A Smile,  'Mr. Slick.'

 

"'I Guess Not,' Sais I.

 

"'But She'll Jist Suit The French,' Sais He.

 

"'It's Lucky She Don't Speak French Then,' Sais I,  'Or

They'd Soon Find Her Tongue Was Too Big For Her Mouth.

That Critter Will Never See Five-And-Twenty,  And I'm A

Thinkin',  She's Thirty Year Old,  If She Is A Day.'

 

"'I Was A Thinkin',  Said He,  With A Sly Look Out O' The

Corner Of His Eye,  As If Her Age Warn't No Secret To Him.

'I Was A Thinkin' It's Time To Put Her Off,  And She'll

Jist Suit The French. They Hante Much For Hosses To Do,

In A Giniral Way,  But To Ride About; And You Won't Say

Nothin' About Her Age,  Will You? It Might Endamnify A

Sale.'

 

"'Not I,' Sais I,  'I Skin My Own Foxes,  And Let Other

Folks Skin Their'n. I Have Enough To Do To Mind My Own

Business,  Without Interferin' With Other People's.'

Volume 2 Chapter 12 (Tattersall's Or, The Elder And The Grave Digger) Pg 163

"'She'll Jist Suit The French,' Sais He; 'They Don't Know

Nothin' About Hosses,  Or Any Thing Else. They Are A Simple

People,  And Always Will Be,  For Their Priests Keep 'Em

In Ignorance. It's An Awful Thing To See Them Kept In

The Outer Porch Of Darkness That Way,  Ain't It?'

 

"'I Guess You'll Put A New Pane O' Glass In Their Porch,'

Sais I,  'And Help Some O' Them To See Better; For Whoever

Gets That Mare,  Will Have His Eyes Opened,  Sooner Nor He

Bargains For,  I Know.'

 

"Sais He,  'She Ain't A Bad Mare; And If She Could Eat

Bay,  Might Do A Good Deal Of Work Yet,' And Be Gave A

Kinder Chuckle Laugh At His Own Joke,  That Sounded Like

The Rattles In His Throat,  It Was So Dismal And Deep,

For He Was One O' Them Kind Of Fellers That's Too Good

To Larf,  Was Steve.

 

"Well,  The Horn O' Grog He Took,  Began To Onloosen His

Tongue; And I Got Out Of Him,  That She Come Near Dyin'

The Winter Afore,  Her Teeth Was So Bad,  And That He Had

Kept Her All Summer In A Dyke Pasture Up To Her Fetlocks

In White Clover,  And Ginn' Her Ground Oats,  And Indgian

Meal,  And Nothin' To Do All Summer; And In The Fore Part

Of The Fall,  Biled Potatoes,  And He'd Got Her As Fat As

A Seal,  And Her Skin As Slick As An Otter's. She Fairly

Shined Agin,  In The Sun.

 

"'She'll Jist Suit The French',  Said He,  'They Are A

Simple People And Don't Know Nothin',  And If They Don't

Like The Mare,  They Must Blame Their Priests For Not

Teachin' 'Em Better. I Shall Keep Within The Strict Line

Of Truth,  As Becomes A Christian Man. I Scorn To Take A

Man In.'

 

"Well,  We Chatted Away Arter This Fashion,  He A Openin'

Of Himself And Me A Walk In' Into Him; And We Jogged

Along Till We Came To Charles Tarrio's To Montagon,  And

There Was The Matter Of A Thousand French People Gathered

There,  A Chatterin',  And Laughin',  And Jawin',  And

Quarrellin',  And Racin',  And Wrastlin',  And All A Givin'

Tongue,  Like A Pack Of Village Dogs,  When An Indgian

Comes To Town. It Was Town Meetin' Day.

 

"Well,  There Was A Critter There,  Called By Nickname,

'Goodish Greevoy,' A Mounted On A White Pony,  One O' The

Scariest Little Screamers,  You Ever See Since You Was

Born. He Was A Tryin' To Get Up A Race,  Was Goodish,  And

Banterin' Every One That Had A Hoss To Run With Him.

 

"His Face Was A Fortin' To A Painter. His Forehead Was

High And Narrer,  Shewin' Only A Long Strip O' Tawny Skin,

In A Line With His Nose,  The Rest Bein' Covered With

Hair,  As Black As Ink,  And As Iley As A Seal's Mane. His

Volume 2 Chapter 12 (Tattersall's Or, The Elder And The Grave Digger) Pg 164

Brows Was Thick,  Bushy And Overhangin',  Like Young

Brush-Wood On A Cliff,  And Onderneath,  Was Two Black

Peerin' Little Eyes,  That Kept A-Movin' About,  Keen,

Good-Natured,  And Roguish,  But Sot Far Into His Skull,

And Looked Like The Eyes Of A Fox Peepin' Out Of His Den,

When He Warn't To Home To Company Hisself. His Nose Was

High,  Sharp,  And Crooked,  Like The Back Of A Reapin'

Hook,  And Gave A Plaguy Sight Of Character To His Face,

While His Thinnish Lips,  That Closed On A Straight Line,

Curlin' Up At One Eend,  And Down At The Other,  Shewed,

If His Dander Was Raised,  He Could Be A Jumpin',  Tarin',

Rampagenous Devil If He Chose. The Pint Of His Chin

Projected And Turned Up Gently,  As If It Expected,  When

Goodish Lost His Teeth,  To Rise In The World In Rank Next

To The Nose. When Good Natur' Sat On The Box,  And Drove,

It Warn't A Bad Face; When Old Nick Was Coachman,  I Guess

It Would Be As Well To Give Master Frenchman The Road.

 

"He Had A Red Cap On His Head,  His Beard Hadn't Been Cut

Since Last Sheep Shearin',  And He Looked As Hairy As A

Tarrier; His Shirt Collar,  'Which Was Of Yaller Flannel,

Fell On His Shoulders Loose,  And A Black Hankercher Was

Tied Round His Neck,  Slack Like A Sailor's. He Wore A

Round Jacket And Loose Trowsers Of Homespun With No

Waistcoat,  And His Trowsers Was Held Up By A Gallus Of

Leather On One Side,  And Of Old Cord On The Other. Either

Goodish Had Growed Since His Clothes Was Made,  Or His

Jacket And Trowsers Warn't On Speakin' Tarms,  For They

Didn't Meet By Three Or Four Inches,  And The Shirt Shewed

Atween Them Like A Yaller Militia Sash Round Him. His

Feet Was Covered With Moccasins Of Ontanned Moose Hide,

And One Heel Was Sot Off With An Old Spur And Looked Sly

And Wicked. He Was A Sneezer That,  And When He Flourished

His Great Long Withe Of A Whip Stick,  That Looked Like

A Fishin' Rod,  Over His Head,  And Yelled Like All Possessed,

He Was A Caution,  That's A Fact.

 

"A Knowin' Lookin' Little Hoss,  It Was Too,  That He Was

Mounted On. Its Tail Was Cut Close Off To The Stump,

Which Squared Up His Rump,  And Made Him Look Awful Strong

In The Hind Quarters. His Mane Was "Hogged" Which Fulled

Out The Swell And Crest Of The Neck,  And His Ears Being

Cropped,  The Critter Had A Game Look About Him. There

Was A Proper Good Onderstandin' Between Him And His Rider:

They Looked As If They Had Growed Together,  And Made One

Critter--Half Hoss,  Half Man With A Touch Of The Devil.

 

"Goodish Was All Up On Eend By What He Drank,  And Dashed

In And Out Of The Crowd Arter A Fashion,  That Was Quite

Cautionary,  Callin' Out,  'Here Comes "The Grave-Digger."

Don't Be Skeered,  If Any Of You Get Killed,  Here Is The

Hoss That Will Dig His Grave For Nothin'. Who'll Run A

Lick Of A Quarter Of A Mile,  For A Pint Of Rum. Will You

Run?' Said He,  A Spunkin' Up To The Elder,  'Come,  Let's