Chapter II

Jim had been cleaning out the pig pen, and as the operation was a rather disagreeable one, he had fortified his olfactories by drinking an inordinate quantity of vile New England rum.

The filthy stuff happily did not take effect on his brains till the job was done. The pig pen was cleaned out, but Jim was in a condition which better fitted him to occupy it, than the neat white-floored kitchen of his cottage. But Jim did not realize this unpleasant truth, and leaving his shovel and hoe in the sty, staggered into the house.

“He was a sight to behold,” as Mrs. Scroggins told the minister. The job he had just completed was eminently a nasty one, and Jim, as we have before remarked, being a prudent man, had prepared himself to perform it, without any detriment to the neat garments he ordinarily wore.

He was dressed in a suit of ragged clothes, and on his head rested a “shocking bad hat,” with the crown stove in, and the brim half torn off. As the liquor began to fuddle him, he had moved it over from its perpendicular position, so that it rested jauntily on one side of his head.

Jim settled himself heavily in a chair by the cooking stove, looked silly, and seemed disposed to address himself to slumber, his usual resort when inebriated.

Mrs. Scroggins was mad at first; for it was only the day before that Jim, for the hundred and first time, had promised never to drink another drop, not even in case of sickness.

But what was the use of being mad with such a poor, silly, imbecile being as he was at that moment? He was not in a condition to appreciate a regular matrimonial “blow up,” and she wisely resolved to reserve the vials of her wrath to be poured out at a more convenient season.

She looked at him, and thought of losing the little place, of penury, degradation, misery, and the poorhouse. A lucky thought rose, like the phœnix from the flames, out of the contemplation of the dark picture; and after a few minutes deliberation, she put on her bonnet and cloak, and hurried over to the village, not half a mile distant.

During the previous week, a young daguerreotypist, with a portable saloon—a kind of overgrown omnibus—had been delighting the villagers by giving them the semblance of their faces at prices varying from nine shillings to three dollars a head, depending upon the value of the case.

All the people in town had been daguerreotyped, and the omnibus man was the most popular person in the village. All the dames and maidens were taken, and every Jonathan and Jehiel who could boast of a Susan, a Ruth, or a Sally, was taken, with her by his side in the picture, his arm thrown lovingly round her neck, and both looking unutterably affectionate.

But Mrs. Scroggins was not sentimental; she had gotten over all that, long before Jim took to drinking. She proposed to put the skill of the daguerreotypist to a more practical use than that of propitiating a lover.

She entered the saloon, and though her heart did beat a little at the degradation of exposing her domestic matters to an entire stranger, she demeaned herself with all the firmness necessary for the trying occasion.

Fortunately for her, all the people in town “had been taken,” and it was a dry time with the artist. In as few words as possible, she stated the case to him, and the young man readily promised his coöperation.

Taking his apparatus under his arm, he accompanied Mrs. Scroggins to the cottage, where Jim was sleeping off the effects of the villainous “New England.”

The inebriate sat in precisely the same position in which his wife had left him. He was asleep in a high back chair, which kept his head up so that every thing was favorable for the sitting.

In a trice Jim Scroggins, old hat, ragged clothes, long beard, dozy, drunken expression and all, were transferred to the plate.

But the picture did not suit the artist; he thought one taken when the sitter was awake would be a more correct representation. Mrs. Scroggins thought so too, and after the daguerreotypist had put in a new plate, she waked him up.

“What d’ye want?” growled Jim.

“Wake up!” and the lady gave him a smart pinch, which opened his eyes, thus completing the expression of the drunkard.

The artist was prompt, and in an instant the second edition of Jim Scroggins was on the plate.

The original, not being required for further use, was suffered to sink away and complete his nap.

The pictures were put in a frame, and Mrs. Scroggins produced her money.

“Nothing, ma’am; I shall not charge you any thing.”

“But, sir, I am able to pay.”

The artist shook his head, and resolutely refused to touch her money.

Of course Mrs. Scroggins was grateful, and gave the young artist an invitation to take tea with her, which he accepted. In the course of the meal—the table being laid in the little front room—the daguerreotypist told the story of his own life; how he had been brought up in the midst of intemperance, and knew all about it. His father had died a drunkard, leaving his mother penniless, and he supported her by the profits of his portable saloon. Mrs. Scroggins, of course, sympathized with the young man, and readily understood why he would not take pay for the pictures, but what was better than all, the young artist took quite a fancy to Jim’s only daughter, a pretty little girl of eighteen, and after tea insisted upon taking her daguerreotype. And the sly rogue pretended that the first was not a good one, and took another, which he carried away with him, professedly for a show specimen, though, to my certain knowledge, he never exhibited it.

The tea things were cleared away, and still the young gentleman lingered, and talked a great deal with the pretty little Susan. But when he did go, the poor girl’s heart followed him, and half the night she lay awake to think of him.