Part 7 (1/2)
”Why, y-e-e-s, of course. Didn't he skin me out of my watch last winter, playing poker, at Willard's?”
”Well,” continued the fat farmer-looking man, ”I didn't know Duncan _gambled_?”
”Mum, not a word out of school; ha, ha! Let's drink, gents. Gamble? Lord bless you, it's common as dish-water down there--I've played euchre for hours with old Tom Benton, Harry Clay and Gen. Scott, _right behind the speaker's chair!_”
_Then_ they all _drank_, of course, and some of the party liked to have choked. The company now proposed to adjourn to the smoking room, and they arose and left the table accordingly. The man of all talk promenaded out on to the steps, and in course of half an hour, says the leading spirit of the late dinner, or wine party, to him:--
”Mr. ----a--a--?”
”Ferguson, sir; George Adolphus Ferguson is my address, sir,” responded the victim.
”Mr. Ferguson, did you know that your friend Benton was in town?”
inquired the wag.
”What, Tom Benton here?”
”And Allen,” continued the wag.
”What, Bill Allen, too?” says the victim.
”And Doctor Duncan.”
”You don't tell me all them fellows are here?”
”Yes, sir, your friends are all here. Come in and see them; your friends will be delighted,” says the wag, taking Mister Ferguson by the arm, to lead him in.
”Ha, ha! I'm a--a--ha, ha! _won't_ we have a time? But you just step in--I a--I'll be in in one moment,” but in less than half the time, Mr.
Ferguson mizzled, no one knew whither!
The gentlemen at the table, it is almost needless to say, were no others than Benton, Allen, Duncan, and some three or four other arbiters of the fate of our immense and glorious nation, in her councils, and fresh from the capital.
Ferguson has not been heard of since.
A Severe Spell of Sickness.
It is the easiest thing under heaven to be sick, if you can afford it.
What it costs some rich men for family sickness per annum, would keep all the children in ”a poor neighborhood” in ”vittels” and clothes the year round. When old Cauliflower took sick, once in a long life-time, he was prevailed upon to send for Dr. Borax, and it was some weeks before Cauliflower got down stairs again. At the end of the year Dr. Borax sent in his bill; the amount gave Cauliflower spasms in his pocket-book, and threatened a whole year's profits with strangulation.
”Doctor,” says Cauliflower, ”that bill of yours is all-fired steep, isn't it?”
”No, sir,” says Borax; ”your case was a dangerous case--I never raised a man from the grave with such difficulty, in all my practice!”
”But, fifty-three _calls_, doctor, one hundred and six dollars.”
”Exactly--two dollars a visit, sir,” said the urbane doctor.