I. THE THIMBLE GAME.

Forty years ago, Augusta, Ga., presented a very different appearance from the busy and beautiful city of the present day. Its groceries, stores, and extensive warehouses were few in number, and the large quantities of cotton and other produce, which are still conveyed thither, were transported entirely by waggons. The substantial railroad, which links it with the richest and most beautiful regions of the empire state of the South, was a chimera, not yet conceived in the wild brain of Fancy herself; and many of the improvements, luxuries and refinements, which now make it the second city in the state, were then “in the shell.” Yet, by the honest yeomanry of forty years ago, Augusta was looked upon as Paris and London are now viewed by us. The man who had never been there was a cipher in the community—nothing killed an opinion more surely, nothing stopped the mouth of “argyment” sooner, than the sneering taunt: “Pshaw! you ha’n’t been to Augusty.”

The atmosphere of this favoured place was supposed to impart knowledge and wisdom to all who breathed it, and the veriest ass was a Solon, and an umpire, if he could discourse fluently of the different localities, and various wonders, of Augusty.

The farmers of the surrounding country paid a yearly visit to Augusta, and having sold their “crap” of the great Southern staple, and laid in their stock of winter necessaries, returned home with something of that holy satisfaction with which the pious Mohammedan turns his face homeward from Mecca. The first step upon arriving in the city was to lay aside their “copperas-coloured,” fabrics of the wife’s or daughter’s loom, and purchase a new suit of “store-clothes.”

These were immediately donned, and upon returning home were carefully embalmed, nor again permitted to see the light until the next Sunday at “meetin’,” when the farmer, with head erect and ample shirt-collar, strutted up the aisle, the lion of the occasion, the “observed of all observers” till the next Sabbath, when his neighbour returning with his new suit, plucked off his laurels and twined them green and blooming upon the crown of his own shilling beaver.

These annual trips were the event and era of the year, and the farmer returned to his home big with importance and news. The dishonesty and shrewdness of “them Gimblit fellers,” (Cotton-Buyers,) the extortions of hotel-keepers, the singular failures of warehouse steelyards to make cotton-bales weigh as much in Augusta as at home, the elegant apparel of the city belles and beaux, and the sights and scenes which greeted their astonished gaze, formed the year’s staple of conversation and discussion; and it would be difficult to say who experienced the greater delight—the farmer in relating his wondrous adventures, or his wife and daughters in listening to them with open mouths, uplifted hands, and occasional breathless ejaculations of “Good Lord, look down!” “Oh! go away!” or, “Shut up!” “You don’t ses so!”

Early in the fall of 18–, Farmer Wilkins announced to his son Peter, that as he, “his daddy,” would be too busy to make the usual trip in propria persona, he, Peter, must get ready to go down to Augusty, and sell the “first load.” Now Peter Wilkins, jun., a young man just grown, was one of the celebrities of which his settlement (neighbourhood) boasted. He was supposed to have cut his eye-teeth—to have shaken off that verdancy so common to young men; and while he filled up more than half his father’s capacious heart, to the discomfiture of Mahaly (his mother), and Suke and Poll (his sisters), he was the pet and darling of the whole neighbourhood. An only son, the old man doted upon him as a chip of the old block, and was confident that Peter, in any emergency of trade, traffic, or otherwise, would display that admirable tact, and that attentive consideration for “No. One,” for which Mr. P. Wilkins, sen., was noted. A horse-swap with a Yankee, in which Peter, after half an hour’s higgling, found himself the undisputed owner of both horses and ten dollars boot, was the corner-stone of his fame. Every trip to Augusta added another block; and by the time Peter arrived at the years of discretion, he stood upon a lofty structure with all the green rubbed off, the pride of his family and the universal favourite of his acquaintances.

The night before his departure the family were all gathered around the roaring fire, Mrs. and the Misses Wilkins engaged in ironing and mending our hero’s Sunday apparel, the old man smoking his pipe, and occasionally preparing Peter for the ordeal in Augusta, by wholesome advice, or testing his claim to the tremendous confidence about to be reposed in him, by searching questions, as to how he would do in case so-and-so was to turn up. To this counsel, however, our hero paid less attention than to the preparations making around him for his comely appearance in the city. Nor, until he got upon the road, did he revolve in his mind the numerous directions of his father, or resolve to follow to the letter his solemn parting injunction to “bewar of them gimblit fellers down to Augusty.”

“Durn it,” said he to himself, as the thought of being “sold” crossed his mind, “durn it, they’ll never make gourds out o’ me. I’ve bin to Augusty before, and ef I don’t git as much fur that thur cotton as anybody else does for thurn, then my name ain’t Peter Wilkins, and that’s what the old ’oman’s slam book says it is.”

Arrived in the city, he drove around to one of the warehouses, and stood against the brick wall, awaiting a purchaser. Presently a little man with a long gimblet in his hand came out, and bade our hero a polite “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” said Peter, with admirable coolness, as he deliberately surveyed the little man from head to foot, and withdrew his eyes as if not pleased with his appearance.

The little man was dressed in the “shabby-genteel” style, a costume much in vogue at that day among men of his cloth, as combining plainness enough for the country-folk, with sufficient gentility to keep them on speaking terms with the more fashionable denizens of the then metropolis. The little man seemed in no way disconcerted by Peter’s searching gaze, and a close observer might have perceived a slight smile on his lip, as he read the thoughts of our hero’s bosom. His self-confidence, his pride, his affected ease and knowing air, were all comprehended, and ere a word had passed the lion knew well the character of his prey. In the purchase of the cotton, however, the little man sought no advantage, and even offered our hero a better price than any one else in the city would have given him. To our hero’s credit, be it said, he was not loth to accept the offer; 15 1/2 cents was above the market, by at least a quarter, and the old man had told him to let it slide at fifteen rather than not sell, so the bargain was closed, and our hero and the “Gimblit-man” went out into the yard to settle.

Seating himself on a cotton-bale, the buyer counted out the money, which our hero made safe in his pocket, after seeing that it was “giniwine,” and tallied with the amount stated in the bill of sale. A few sweet pills of flattery administered to our hero, soon made him and the Gimblit-man sworn friends; and it was in consideration of his high regard, that the Gimblit-man consented to initiate him into the mysteries of a certain game, yclept “Thimble Rig,” a game which, our hero was told, would yield him much sport, if successfully played up at home among the boys; and would, when properly managed, be to him a never-failing source of that desirable article, “pocket-change.” To this proposition our hero readily assented, delighted with the idea of playing off upon the boys up at home, who hadn’t been to Augusty; and already began to revel in the visions of full pockets, when, to his silent horror, the little man took from his pocket a hundred-dollar bill, and very irreverently rolled it into a small round ball.

Three thimbles were next produced, and the game began.

“Now,” said the little man, “I am going to hide this little ball under one of these thimbles, all before your eyes, and I want you to guess where it is.”

“Well,” said Peter, “go it—I’m ready,” and the shifting game begun.

To the apparent astonishment of the little man, our hero guessed right every time. No matter how rapid the changes, Peter invariably lifted the thimble from the ball, and had begun to grow disgusted with the game, little dreaming how soon he was to prove its efficacy as a source of revenue, when the little man suddenly checked his hand.

“Wrong,” said he, with a friendly smile; “the ball is not under the middle thimble, but under that next you.”

“Darned ef it is though!” responded Peter; “I ain’t as green as you ’Gusty folks thinks. Blamed ef I don’t know whar that ball is jist as well as you does, and dod-drapped ef I don’t bet four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents (the price of the cotton) agin the load o’ cotton, that it’s under the middle thimble.”

“No, Sir,” said the little man, with another smile, “you are wrong, and I’d hate to win your money.”

That smile deceived Peter—it manifested a friendly consideration for his welfare, which he felt he did not need, and after bullying the “Gimblit-man” for a few minutes, he succeeded in inveigling him (as he thought) into a bet, which was duly closed and sealed, to the entire satisfaction of his friend! Alas for poor Peter! he had awakened the wrong passenger. But the idea of being too smart for an Augusty feller, and he was sure he had cornered one this time, was too great a temptation for him to withstand.

“Drot it,” said he to himself, “I seen him put it under that ere middle thimble, I seen it myself, and I know it’s thar, and why not win the old man’s cotton back when it’s jest as easy as nothin’? And ef I do win it, why in course the old man can’t claim more’n four hundred and fifty-one dollars no how.” (Peter forgot that the profits to be realized ought of course to belong to the owner of the capital invested.) “The time me and that Yankee swapped critters, warn’t I thar? Hain’t I cut my gums? Don’t the old man, yes, and all the settlement, say I’m smart, and then thar’s Kitty Brown, I reckon she ort to know, and don’t she say I’m the peertest feller in our parts? I’ve bin to Augusty, and this time, dod-drapped ef I don’t leave my mark.”

The result we need hardly relate. Peter was tempted—tempted sorely, and he fell. Sick at heart, he ordered Bob, the driver, to turn his mules homeward, and late on Saturday evening he entered the lane which led to his father’s house. The blow was now to come; and some time before the waggon got to the house, Peter saw his father, and mother, and sisters coming out to meet him. At last they met.

“Well, son,” said the old man, “I s’pose you’ve been well?”

Here Mrs. Wilkins and the gals commenced hugging and kissing Peter, which he took very coldly, and with the air of a man who felt he was getting a favour which he didn’t deserve.

“Reasonably well,” said Peter, in reply to his father’s question; “but I’ve lost it.”

“Lost what?” said his father.

“Lost it.”

“Lost the dockyments?” said the old man.

“No, here they are,” said Peter, handing the papers containing the weights of his cotton, to his father, who began to read, partly aloud, and partly to himself:

“ ‘Eight bags of cotton—350—400—348—550—317—15½ cents a pound—sold to Jonathan Barker.’ Very good sale,” said he; “I knowed you’d fix things rite, Peter.”

The waggon by this time had reached the house, and turning to Bob, the old man told him to put the molasses in the cellar, and the sugar and coffee in the house.

“Ain’t got no ’lasses, Massa,” said Bob, grinning from ear to ear.

“No,” said Peter, “we havn’t got none; we lost it.”

“Lost it! How on airth could you lose a barrel of molasses?”

“We never had it,” said Bob.

“Heavens and airth!” said the old man, turning first to Bob, and then to Peter, “what do you mean? What do you mean? What, what, w-h-a-t in the d-e-v-i-l do you mean?”

“Gracious, Marster! Mr. Wilkins, don’t swar, so,” said his wife, by way of helping Peter out.

“Swar!” said the farmer, “do you call that swarring? Darned ef I don’t say wussin that d’recley, ef they don’t tell me what they mean.”

“Why, father,” said Peter, “I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the money.”

“Well, and couldn’t you find it?”

“I didn’t lose it that way,” said Peter.

“You ain’t been a gamblin’ I hopes,” said the old man; “you ain’t been runnin’ agin none of them Pharo banks down to Augusty, is you?”

“Bring me three thimbles,” said Peter, “and I’ll show you how I lost it.”

The thimbles were brought, and Peter sat down to explain. It was a scene for a painter: there sat our hero, fumbling with the thimbles and the ball, but too much frightened to have performed the trick if he had known how; his father sat next him, with his chin upon his hands, looking as if undecided whether to reprimand him at once, or to give him a “fair showin’.” Mrs. Wilkins stood just behind her husband, winking and smiling, gesturing and hemming, in order to attract Peter’s attention, and indicate to him her willingness to stand between him and his father. The girls, who always sided with their mother, followed her example in this case. But their efforts to attract his attention were useless; they could not even catch his eye, so busy was he in trying to arrange the ball and thimbles; but every time he got them fixed, and told his father to guess, the old man would guess right, which, while it astonished Peter, incensed the old man against him. It looked so easy to him, that he could not help “blaming Pete fur bein’ sich a fool.”

“Shorely,” said the farmer, after Peter had finished his explanation—“shorely it ain’t possible that you’ve bin to Augusty so often, and didn’t know no better. Didn’t I tell you not to have nothin’ to do with them Gimblit Fellers? Ther ain’t one of ’em honest, not one. Like a fool, you’ve gone and lost jest four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents. It ain’t the munny that I keers for, Peter, it’s you bein’ sich a fool—four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents. I’ll go rite down to Augusty next Monday, and find this here Barker, and ef he don’t give up the munny, I’ll have a say so (ca. sa.) taken agin him, and march him rite off to gaol—no deaf-allication about that. The theavin’ rascal, gwine about cheetin’ people’s sons outin four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents? How often is you bin to Augusty, Peter?”

“Sixteen times,” said Peter.

“Well, I declare,” said the old man; “bin to Augusty sixteen times, and didn’t know no better than to go thar agin and lose four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents!”

Early on Monday morning the old man started to Augusta with another load of cotton; Bob driving as before, and his master riding his gray mare “Bets.” Mr. Wilkins had a great many little commissions to execute for his wife and the gals. The old lady wanted a pair of spectacles, and the gals a bonnet each—ribbons and flowers, thread, buttons, &c., had to be purchased, and the good farmer was nearly crazed by the loss he had met with, and the multiplicity of things to be attended to. Ever and anon, as he trotted along the road, he would mutter to himself something as follows:

“Leghorn bonnet for Sal—12 skeins of flax thread—2 dozen pearl buttons for pants—one gross horn buttons for shirts—5 grass petticoats—100 pounds coffee—451 dollars no cents—Jonathan Barker—bin to Augusty sixteen times—1 bolt kaliker—Pete’s a fool—lost one barrel of molasses and 451 dollars no cents.”

With such words as these he would while away the time, apparently unconscious of the presence of Bob, who was much diverted by his master’s soliloquy. As they approached Augusta, his wrath seemed to increase, and he vented his spleen on his old mare and Bob.

“Bob,” said he, “you dad-dratted rascal, why don’t you drive up? you don’t do nothin’ but set thar and sleep.

“Take that, and that, and that,” he would say to his mare, accompanying each word with a blow; “git up, Miss, and go long to Augusty.”

When they had come in sight of Augusta, Bob struck a camp, and his master rode on into town. Having eaten his supper, and put up his horse, he retired for the night, and early in the morning started out to look for Jonathan Barker. He caused not a little laughter as he walked along the streets, relating his troubles, and inquiring of everybody for Jonathan Barker.

“Where’s Jonathan Barker,” he would cry out, “the Gimblit Feller what cheeted Pete out’n 451 dollars no cents. Jes show me Jonathan Barker.”

As a last hope, he went around to the warehouse, where his son had lost the cotton. Walking out into the yard, he bawled out the name of Jonathan Barker. A little man, with a long gimlet in his hand, answered to the name, and our farmer attacked him as follows:

“Look a here, Mr. Barker, I wants that money.”

“What money?” said Barker, who had no acquaintance whatever with the farmer; “what money is it, Sir?”

“Oh no,” said the old man, perfectly furious at such barefaced assurance. “Oh no! you don’t know nuthin’ now. Blame your picter, you’re as innersent as a lam’. Don’t know what munny I meen? It’s that four hundred and fifty-one dollars, and no cents, what you cheeted Pete out’n.”

“I recollect now,” said Barker, “that was fairly done, Sir; if you’ll just step this way, I’ll show you how I got it, Sir.”

A bright idea struck the old man.

“I’ve seen Pete play it,” thought he to himself, “and I guessed rite every time.

“Well,” said he, “I’ll go and see how it was dun, ennyhow.”

The two walked along to the same bale of cotton which had witnessed the game before, and the gimlet man took the identical thimbles and ball which had served him before, from his pocket, and sat down, requesting the farmer to be seated also.

“Now, Sir,” said Barker, “when your son was here, I bought his cotton, and paid him for it: just as he was going away, I proposed showing him a trick worth seeing. I took this little ball, and put it under this middle thimble.

“ ‘Now,’ said I to him, ‘you see it, and now you don’t see it; and I’ll bet you you can’t tell where the little joker is.’ ”

“Well,” said the farmer, “all’s rite—the ball’s now under the middle thimble.”

“When I had put it under there,” continued Barker, “your son wanted to bet me that it was under the middle thimble.”

“So it is,” said the old man, interrupting him.

“No,” returned Barker, “it’s under the one next you.”

“I tell you it ain’t,” said Mr. Wilkins, who strongly advocated the doctrine that “seeing is believing.”

He was sure he was right, and now a chance presented itself of regaining his former load of cotton.

“I tell you it ain’t. I’m harder to head than Pete wus, and blamed ef I don’t bet another load o’ cotton, that’s at the dore by this time.”

“You are mistaken,” said Barker, smiling; “but if you wish it, I’ll bet.”

“Let’s understand one nuther fust,” said the farmer. “You say that ere little ball you had jes now, ain’t under the little thimble in the middle—I say it is. Ef it ain’t, I’m to give you the load o’ cotton—ef it is, you’re to give me four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents.”

“Exactly so,” said Barker.

“Well, I’ll bet,” said the farmer, “and here’s my hand.”

The bet was sealed, and with a triumphant air which he but poorly concealed, the farmer snatched up the middle thimble, but no ball was there.

“Well, I’ll be dod drapt!” he exclaimed, at the same time drawing a long breath, and dropping the thimble. “Derned ef it’s thar! Four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents gone agin! Heven and airth, what’ll Mahaly and the gals say! I’ll never heer the eend of it tel I’m in my grave. Then thar’s Pete! Gee-mi-my! jest to think o’ Pete—fur him to know his ole daddy wus made a fool of too! four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents! but I wouldn’t keer that for it,” snapping his fingers, “ef it wern’t fur Pete.”

The Gimblit man reminded our friend of the result of his bet, by telling him that the sooner he unloaded the better.

“Now you ain’t, shore ’nuff, in yearnest,” said the old man.

“Dead earnest,” returned Barker.

“Well, stranger,” added our friend, “I’se a honest man, and stands squar up to my contracts.”

With this he had his cargo discharged into the street, and ordering Bob to drive on, he mounted his mare, and set out for home with a heavier heart than he had ever known before. ’Twere useless to attempt a description of the scene which transpired on the farmer’s return home. The first words he uttered were, “Pete, durned ef I hain’t lost it too.” The misfortunes of his trip were soon all told, after which Peter and his father wisely resolved never to bet on anything again, especially “them blamed Yankee Thimbles.”

It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Wilkins, Pete, or the gals, could help teasing the old man occasionally on the result of his trip. Whenever he became refractory, his wife would stick her thimble on the end on her finger, and hold it up for him to look at—it acted like a charm. His misadventure, too, raised higher than ever his opinion of the cunning and sagacity of “them Augusty fellers!”

A few years succeeding the events which we have attempted to narrate, and Farmer Wilkins was gathered to his fathers; but his trip to Augusta is still preserved as a warning to all honest and simple-hearted people. The last words of the old man to his son were:

“Peter, Peter, my son, always be honest, never forgit your ole daddy, and allers bewar of them Gimblit fellers, down to Augusty.”

Reader! every tale has its moral, nor is ours without one. Not only did Peter learn from his adventure in Augusta, the evils of betting, but ever since the time to which we have alluded, he always allows his factor to sell his cotton for him. Whatever you may think of it, both Peter and his father came to the conclusion that there was “no use in tryin’ to git the upper hand of one o’ them Gimblet fellers down to Augusty.”