know much about hats,” said the old lady, “but I will call my daughter.”
Passing into another room where “Rushia” the younger was at work, she informed her that a man wanted her to make hats.
“Oh, he means sister Mary; probably. I suppose he wants some ladies’ hats,” replied Rushia, as she went into the parlor.
“This is my daughter,” said the old lady.
“I want to get your Russia,” said he, addressing the young lady.
“I suppose you wish to see my sister Mary; she is our milliner,” said young Rushia.
“I wish to see whoever owns the property,” said the hatter.
Sister Mary was sent for, and as she was introduced, the hatter informed her that he wished to buy her “Russia.”
“Buy Rushia!” exclaimed Mary in surprise; “I don’t understand you.”
“Your name is Miss Wheeler, I believe,” said the hatter, who was annoyed by the difficulty he met with in being understood.
“It is, sir.”
“Ah! very well. Is there old and young Russia in the house?”
“I believe there is,” said Mary, surprised at the familiar manner in which he spoke of her mother and sister, who were present.
“What is the price of old Russia per pound?” asked the hatter.
“I believe, sir, that old Rushia is not for sale,” replied Mary indignantly.
“Well, what do you ask for young Russia?” pursued the hatter.
“Sir,” said Miss Rushia the younger, springing to her feet, “do you come here to insult defenceless females? If you do, sir, we will soon call our brother, who is in the garden, and he will punish you as you deserve.”
“Ladies!” exclaimed the hatter, in astonishment, “what on earth have I done to offend you? I came here on a business matter. I want to buy some Russia. I was told you had old and young Russia in the house. Indeed, this young lady just stated such to be the fact, but she says the old Russia is not for sale. Now, if I can buy the young Russia I want to do so – but if that can’t be done, please to say so and I will trouble you no further.”
“Mother, open the door and let this man go out; he is undoubtedly crazy,” said Miss Mary.
“By thunder! I believe I shall be if I remain here long,” exclaimed the hatter, considerably excited. “I wonder if folks never do business in these parts, that you think a man is crazy if he attempts such a thing?”
“Business! poor man!” said Mary soothingly, approaching the door.
“I am not a poor man, madam,” replied the hatter. “My name is Walter Dibble; I carry on hatting extensively in Danbury; I came to Grassy Plains to buy fur, and have purchased some ‘beaver’ and ‘cony,’ and now it seems I am to be called ‘crazy’ and a ‘poor man,’ because I want to buy a little ‘Russia’ to make up my assortment.”
The ladies began to open their eyes; they saw that Mr. Dibble was quite in earnest, and his explanation threw considerable light upon the subject.
“Who sent you here?” asked sister Mary.
“The clerk at the opposite store,” was the reply.
“He is a wicked young fellow for making all this trouble,” said the old lady; “he has been doing this for a joke.”
“A joke!” exclaimed Dibble, in surprise. “Have you no Russia, then?”
“My name is Jerusha, and so is my daughter’s,” said Mrs. Wheeler, “and that, I suppose, is what he meant by telling you about old and young Rushia.”
Mr. Dibble bolted through the door without another word and made directly for our store. “You young scamp!” said he as he entered; “what did you mean by sending me over there to buy Russia?”
“I did not send you to buy Rushia; I supposed you were either a bachelor or widower and wanted to marry Rushia,” I replied, with a serious countenance.
“You lie, you young dog, and you know it; but never mind, I’ll pay you off some day”; and taking his furs, he departed with less ill-humor than could have been expected under the circumstances.
Among our customers were three or four old Revolutionary pensioners, who traded out the amounts of their pensions before they were due, leaving their papers as security. One of these pensioners was old Bevans, commonly known as “Uncle Bibbins,” a man who loved his glass and was very prone to relate romantic Revolutionary anecdotes and adventures, in which he, of course, was conspicuous. At one time he was in our debt, and though we held his pension papers, it would be three months before the money could be drawn. It was desirable to get him away for that length of time, and we hinted to him that it would be pleasant to make a visit to Guilford, where he had relations, but he would not go. Finally, I hit upon a plan which “moved” him.
A journeyman hatter, named Benton, who was fond of a practical joke, was let into the secret, and was persuaded to call “Uncle Bibbins” a coward, to tell him that he had been wounded in the back, and thus to provoke a duel, which he did, and at my suggestion “Uncle Bibbins” challenged Benton to fight him with musket and ball at a distance of twenty yards. The challenge was accepted, I was chosen second by “Uncle Bibbins,” and the duel was to come off immediately. My principal, taking me aside, begged me to put nothing in the guns but blank cartridges. I assured him it should be so, and therefore that he might feel perfectly safe. This gave the old man extra courage; he declared that he had not been so long in bloody battles “for nothing,” and that he would put a bullet through Benton’s heart at the first shot.
The ground was measured in the lot at the rear of our store, and the principals and seconds took their places. At the word given both parties fired. “Uncle Bibbins,” of course, escaped unhurt, but Benton leaped several feet into the air, and fell upon the ground with a dreadful yell, as if he had been really shot. “Uncle Bibbins” was frightened. As his second, I ran to him, told him I had neglected to extract the bullet from his gun (which was literally true, as there was no bullet in it to extract), and he supposed, of course, he had killed his adversary. I then whispered to him to go immediately to Guilford, to keep quiet, and he should hear from me as soon as it would be safe to do so. He started up the street on a run, and immediately quit the town for Guilford, where he kept himself quiet until it was time for him to return and sign his papers. I then wrote him that “he could return in safety; that his adversary had recovered from his wound, and now forgave him all, as he felt himself much to blame for having insulted a man of his known courage.”
“Uncle Bibbins” returned, signed the papers, and we obtained the pension money. A few days thereafter he met Benton.
“My brave old friend,” said Benton, “I forgive you my terrible wound and long confinement on the brink of the grave, and I beg you to forgive me also. I insulted you without a cause.”
“I forgive you freely,” said “Uncle Bibbins”; “but,” he added, “you must be careful next time how you insult a dead shot.”
Benton promised to be more circumspect in future, and “Uncle Bibbins” supposed to the day of his death that the duel, wound, danger, and all, were matters of fact.
