"Hel-lo! hos-e-lair? Landlord?"

Leisurely stalking down the steps, the Dutch hostler advanced towards the queer and questionable travelling equipage.

"Vel, vot you vont, ah?"

"Vat sal I vant? I sal vant to put oup my hoss, vis-ze stab'l, viz two pecks of oats and plenty of hay, hos-e-lair."

"Yaw," was the laconic grunt of the hostler, as he proceeded to unhitch old bald-face from his rigging.

"Stop one little," said the traveller. "I see 'tis very mosh like to rain, to-night; put up my gig in ze stab'l, too."

"Boosh, tonner and blitzen, der rain not hurt yer ole gig!"

"I pay you for vat you sal do for me, mind vat I sal say, sair, if you pleaze."

The hostler, very surlily, led the traveller's weary old brute to the stable; but, prior to carrying out the orders of the traveller, he sought the landlord, to know if it would _pay_ to put up the shabby concern, and treat the old horse to a real feed of hay and oats, without making some inquiries into the financial situation of the old Frenchman.

The landlord, with a country lawyer and a neighboring farmer, were at the _Bar_, one of those old-fashioned _slatted_ coops, in a corner, peculiar to Pennsylvania, discussing the merits of a law suit, seizure of the property, &c., of a deceased tiller of the soil, in the vicinity.

Busily chatting, and quaffing their _toddy_, the entrance of the poor old traveller was scarcely noticed, until he had divested himself of his old, many-caped cloak, and demurely taken a seat in the room. The hostler having reappeared, and talked a little Dutch to the host, that worthy turned to the traveller--

"Good even'ns, thravel'r!"

"Yes, sair;" pleasantly responded the Frenchman, "a little."

"You got a hoss, eh?" continued the landlord.

"Yes, sair, I vish ze hostlair to give mine hoss plenty to eat--plenty hay, plenty oats, plenty watair, sair."

"Yaw," responded the landlord, "den, Jacob, give'm der oats, and der hay, and der water;" and, with this brief direction to his subordinate, the landlord turned away from the way-worn traveller to resume his conversation with his more, apparently, influential friends. The old Frenchman very patiently waited until the discussion should cease, and the landlord's ear be disengaged, that he might be apprized of the fact that travellers had stomachs, and that of the old French gentleman was highly _incensed_ by long delay, and more particularly by the odorous fumes of roast fowls, ham and eggs, &c., issuing from the inner portion of the tavern.

"Landlord, I vil take suppair, if you please," said he.

"Yaw; after dese gentlemans shall eat der suppers, den somesing will be prepared for you."

"Sair!" said the old Frenchman, firing up; "I vill not vait for ze shentilmen; I vant my suppair now, directly--right away; I not vait for n.o.body, sair!"

"If you no like 'em, den you go off, out mine house," answered the old sour krout, "you old barber!"

"Bar-bair!" gasped the old Frenchman, in suppressed rage. "Sair, I vill go no where, I vill stay here so long, by gar, as--as--as I please, sair!"

"Are you aware, sir," interposed the legal gentleman, "that you are rendering gross and offensive, malicious and libellous, scandalous and burglarious language to this gentleman, in his own domicile, with malice prepense and aforethought, and a ----"

"Pooh! pooh! _pooh!_ for you, sair!" testily replied the Frenchman.

"Pooh? To me, sir? _Me, sir?_" bullyingly echoed Blackstone.

"Yes, sair--pooh--_pooh!_ von geese, sair!"

It were vain to try to depict the rage of wounded pride, the insolence of a travelling _barber_ had stirred up in the very face of the man of law, logic, and legal lore. He swelled up, blowed and strutted about like a _miffed_ gobbler in a barn yard! He tried to cork down his rage, but it bursted forth--

"You--you--you infernal old frog-eating, soap and lather, you--you--you smoke-dried, one-eyed,* poor old wretch, you, if it wasn't for pity's sake, I'd have you taken up and put in the county jail, for vagrancy, I would, you poverty-stricken old rascal!"

[*] Girard, it will be remembered, had but one eye. With that, however, he saw as much as many do with a full pair of eyes.

"Jacob!" bawled the landlord, to his sub., "bring out der ole hoss again, pefore he die mit de crows, in mine stable; now, you ole fool, you shall go vay pout your bishenish mit nossin to eat, mit yer hoss too!" said the landlord, with an evident rush of blood and beer to his head!

"Oh, veri well," patiently answered the old Frenchman, "veri well, sair, I sal go--but,"--shaking his finger very significantly at the landlord and lawyer, "I com' back to-morrow morning, I buy dis prop-er-tee; you, sir, sal make de deed in my name--I kick you out, sair, (to the landlord,) and to you (the lawyer), I sal like de goose. Booh!"

With this, the poor old Frenchman started for his gig, amid the "Haw!

haw! haw! and ha! ha! he! he!" of the landlord and lawyer. "That for you," said the Frenchman, as he gave the surly Dutchman-hostler a real half-dollar, took the dirty "ribbons" and drove off. Now, the farmer, one of the three spectators present, had quietly watched the proceedings, and being _gifted_ with enough insight into human nature to see something more than "an old French barber" in the person and manner of the traveller; and, moreover, being interested in the Tavern property, followed the Frenchman; overtaking him, he at once offered him the hospitalities of his domicile, not far distant, where the traveller pa.s.sed a most comfortable night, and where his host found out that he was entertaining no less a pecuniary miracle of his time--_than Stephen Girard_.

Early next morning, old Stephy, in his old and _shady_ gig, accompanied by his entertainer, rode over to the two owners of the Tavern property, and with them sought the _lawyer_, the deeds were made out, the old Frenchman _drew_ on his own Bank for the $13,000, gave the farmer a ten years' _lease_ upon the place, paid the lawyer for his trouble, and as that worthy accompanied the millionaire to the door, and was very obsequiously bowing him out, old Stephy turned around on the steps, and looking sharp--with his one eye upon the lawyer, says he--

"Sair! Pooh! pooh!--_Booh!_" off he rode for the Tavern, where he and the landlord had a _haze_, the landlord was notified to _leave_, short metre; and being fully revenged for the insult paid his millions, old Stephen Girard, the great Philadelphia financier, rode back to where he was better used for his money, and evidently better satisfied than ever, that money is mighty when brought to bear upon an object!

A Circ.u.mlocutory Egg Pedler.

We have been, frequently, much amused with the man[oe]uvring of some folks in trade. It's not your cute folks, who screw, twist and twirl over a smooth fourpence, or skin a flea for its hide and tallow, and spoil a knife that cost a shilling,--that come out first best in the long run. Some folks have a weakness for beating down shop-keepers, or anybody else they deal with, and so far have we seen this _infirmity_ carried, that we candidly believe we've known persons that would not stop short of cheapening the pa.s.sage to kingdom come, if they thought a dollar and two cents might be saved in the fare! Now the _rationale_ of the matter is this:--as soon as persons establish a reputation for meanness--beating down folks, they fall victims to all sorts of shaves and short commons, and have the fine Saxony drawn over their eyes--from the nose to the occiput; they get the meanest "bargains," offals, &c., that others would hardly have, even at a heavy discount. Then some folks are so wonderful sharp, too, that we wonder their very shadow does not often cut somebody. A friend of ours went to buy his wife a pair of gaiters; he brought them home; she found all manner of fault with them; among other drawbacks, she declared that for the price her better half had given for the gaiters, _she_ could have got the best article in Waxend's entire shop! _He_ said _she_ had better take them back and try.

So she did, and poor Mr. Waxend had an hour of his precious time used up by the lady's attempt to get a more expensive pair of gaiters at a less price than those purchased by her husband. Waxend saw how matters stood, so he consented to adopt the maxim of--when Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war!

"Now, marm," said he, "here is a pair of gaiters I have made for Mrs.

Heavypurse; they are just your fit, most expensive material, the best article in the shop; Mrs. Heavypurse will not expect them for a few days, and rather than _you_ should be disappointed, I will let _you_ have them for the same price your husband paid for those common ones!"

Of course Mrs. ---- took them, went home in great glee, and told her better half she'd never trust him to go shopping for her again--for they always cheated him. When the husband came to scrutinize his wife's bargain, lo! he detected the self-same gaiters--merely with a different quality of lacings in them! He, like a philosopher, grinned and said nothing. That ill.u.s.trates one phase in the character of some people who "go it blind" on "bargains" and now, for the pith of our story--the way some folks have of going round "Robin Hood's barn" to come at a thing.

The other day we stopped into a friend's store to see how he was getting along, and presently in came a rural-district-looking customer.

"How'd do?" says he, to the storekeeper, who was busy, keeping the stove warm.

"Pretty well; how is it with you?"

"Well, so, so; how's all the folks?"

"Middling--middling, sir. How's all your folks?"

"Tolerable--yes, tolerable," says the rural gent. "How's trade?" he ventured to inquire.

"Dull, ray-ther dull," responded the storekeeper. "Come take a seat by the stove, Mr. Smallpotatoes."

"Thank you, I guess not," says the ruralite. "Your folks are all stirring, eh?" he added.

"Yes, stirring around a little, sir. How's your mother got?" the storekeeper inquired, for it appeared he knew the man.

"Poorly, dreadful poorly, yet," was the reply. "Cold weather, you see, sort o' sets the old lady back."