The Humors of Falconbridge Part 54

"Dogs," echoes the old one.

"Why, yes, daddy, we are talking about dogs."

"What do you know about _dogs?_" says a full-blown _Jakey_, looking sharply at the old fellow.

"Know about _dogs?_"

"A' yes-s," says _Jakey_. "I bet dis five dollars, ole feller, you don't know a Spaniel from a butcher's _cur!_"

"Well," responds the old one, transposing his legs, "may be I _don't_, but it's _my_ 'pinion you'd make a sorry _fiste_ at best, if you had tail and ears a little longer!"

This _sally_ amused all but the young gentleman who "run wid de machine," and attracted general attention towards the old man, in whose eyes and wrinkles lurked a goodly share of mother wit and shrewdness.

_Jakey_ backing down, another of the by-standers put in.

"Poppy, I expect you know what a good dog is?"

"I reckon, boys, I orter. But I'm plaguy dry listening to your dog talk--confounded dry!"

"What'll you drink, daddy?" said half a dozen of the dog fanciers, thinking to wet the old man's whistle to get some fun out of him.

"What'll you drink?--come up, daddy."

"Sperrets, boys, good old sperrets," and the old codger drank; then giving his lips a wipe with the back of his hand, and drawing out a long, deep "ah-h-h-h!" he again took his seat, observing, as he partially aroused his ugly and cross-grained mongrel--

"Here's a _dog_, boys."

"That your dog, dad?" asked several.

"That's my dog, boys. He _is_ a dog."

"Ain't he, tho'?" jocularly responded the dog men.

"What breed, daddy, do you call that dog of yours?" asked one.

"Breed? He ain't any breed, _he_ ain't. Stand up, Barney, (jerking up the sneaking-looking thing.) He's no breed, boys; look at him--see his tushes; growl, Barney, growl!--Ain't them tushes, boys? He's no breed, boys; _he's original stock!_"

"Well, so I was going to say," says one.

"That dog," says another, "must be valuable."

"Waluable?" re-echoes the old man; "he is all that, boys; I wouldn't sell him; but, boys, I'm dry, dry as a powder horn--so much talkin'

makes one dry."

"Well, come up, poppy; what'll you take?" said the boys.

"Sperrets, boys; good old sperrets. I do like good sperrets, boys, and that sperrets, Mister (to the ruffled-bosomed bar-keeper), o' your'n is like my dog--_can't be beat!_"

"Well, daddy," continued the dog men, "where'd you get your dog?"

"That dog," said the old fellow, again giving his mouth a back-hander, and his "ah-h-h!" accompaniment; "well, I'll tell you, boys, all about it."

"Do, poppy, that's right; now, tell us all about it," they cried.

"Well, boys, 'd any you know Ben. McConachy, out here at the Risin' Sun Tavern?"

"We've heard of him, daddy--go on," says they.

"Well, I worked for Ben. McConachy, one winter; he was a pizen mean man, but his wife--wasn't she mean? Why, boys, she'd spread all the bread with b.u.t.ter afore we sat down to breakfast; she'd begin with a quarter pound of b.u.t.ter, and when she'd got through, she had twice as much left."

"But how about the dog, daddy? Come, tell us about your _dog_."

"Well, yes, I'll tell you, boys. You see, Ben. McConachy owned this dog; set up, Barney--look at his ears, boys--great, ain't they? Well, Ben's wife was mean--meaner than pizen. She hated this dog; she hated any thing that _et_; she considered any body, except her and her daughter (a pizen ugly gal), that et three pieces of bread and two cups of coffee at a meal, _awful!_"

"Blow the old woman; tell us about the _dog_, poppy," said they.

"Now, I'm coming to the pint--but, Lord! boys, I never was so dry in my life. I am dry--plaguy dry," said the old one.

"Well, daddy, step up and take something; come," said the dog men; "now let her slide. How about the _dog?_"

"Ah-h-h-h! that's great sperrets, boys. Mister (to the bar-keeper), I don't find such sperrets as that _often_. Well, boys, as you're anxious to hear about the dog, I'll tell you all about him. You see, the old woman and Ben. was allers spatten 'bout one thing or t'other, and 'specially about this dog. So one day Ben. McConachy hears a feller wanted to buy a good dog, down to the _drove yard_, and he takes Barney--stand up, Barney--see that, boys; how quick he minds! Great dog, he is. Well, Ben. takes Barney, and down he goes to the _drove yard_. He met the feller; the feller looked at the dog; he saw Barney _was_ a dog--he looked at him, asked how old he was; if that was all the dog Ben. owned, and he seemed to like the dog--but, boys, I'm gittin'

dry--_rotted dry_--"

"Go on, tell us all about the dog, then we'll drink," says the boys.

"'Well,' says Ben. McConachy to the feller, 'now, make us an offer for him.' Now, what do you suppose, boys, that feller's first offer was?"

The boys couldn't guess it; they guessed and guessed; some one price, some another, all the way from five to fifty dollars--the old fellow continuing to say "No," until they gave it up.

"Well, boys, I'll tell you--that feller, after looking and looking at Ben. McConachy's dog, tail to snout, half an hour--_didn't offer a red cent for him!_ Ben. come home in disgust and give the dog to me--there he is. Now, boys, we'll have that sperrets."

But on looking around, the boys had cut the pit--_mizzled!_

The Perils of Wealth

Money is admitted to be--there is no earthly use of dodging the fact--the lever of the whole world, by which it and its multifarious cargo of men and matters, mountains and mole hills, wit, wisdom, weal, woe, warfare and women, are kept in motion, in season and out of season.

It is the arbiter of our fates, our health, happiness, life and death.

Where it makes one man a happy _Christian_, it makes ten thousand miserable _devils_. It is no use to argufy the matter, for money is the "root of all evil," more or less, and--as Patricus Hibernicus is supposed to have said of a single feather he reposed on--if a dollar gives some men so much uneasiness, what must a million do? Money has formed the basis of many a long and short story, and we only wish that they were all imbued, as our present story is, with--more irresistible mirth than misery. Lend us your ears.

Not long ago, one of our present well-known--or ought to be, for he is a man of parts--business men of Boston, resided and carried on a small "trade and d.i.c.ker" in the city of Portland. By frugal care and small profits, he had managed to save up some six hundred dollars, all in _halves_, finding himself in possession of this vast sum of hard cash, he began to conceive a rather insignificant notion of _small cities_; and he concluded that Portland was hardly big enough for a man of his pecuniary heft! In short, he began to feel the importance of his position in the world of finance, and conceived the idea that it would be a sheer waste of time and energy to stay in Portland, while with _his_ capital, he could go to Boston, and spread himself among the millionaires and hundred thousand dollar men!

"Yes," said B----, "I'll go to Boston; I'd be a fool to stay here any longer; I'll leave for bigger timber. But what will I do with my money?

How will I invest it? Hadn't I better go and take a look around, before I conclude to move? My wife don't know I've got this money," he continued, as he mused over matters one evening, in his sanctum; "I'll not tell her of it yet, but say I'm just going to Boston to see how business is there in my line; and my money I'll put in an old cigar box, and--"

B---- was all ready with his valise and umbrella in his hand. His "good-bye" and all that, to his wife, was uttered, and for the tenth time he charged his better half to be careful of the fire, (he occupied a frame house,) see that the doors were all locked at night, and "be sure and fasten the cellar doors."