VII. BEN WILSON’S LAST JUG-RACE.

Coming up from Newport, on the pretty little steamer ‘Perry,’ a few days ago, I fell in with, or chanced to lay across the track of, a Mississippi flat-boatman whom I had not seen for three years, and from having had, once upon a time, a rather personal adventure with him, you may guess that the meeting was one of curious congratulation.

Ben and I had both travelled “some” since we had parted, and he had, as well as myself, many things to tell.

I was sitting on the upper deck, consulting the opinions of one of Job Patterson’s A No. 1 Havanas, when a pretty muscular and sun-burnt specimen of humanity hove alongside, and brought a rather big paw down upon my right shoulder with a bim that made me start a little.

“How are you old J comp’ny?” was the first broadside. “I ha’nt set eyes on you sence we had the scrimmidge down to the Washington ball-room, Orleans. Rayther a time that ar?” and he winked his little black eyes until I fancied I heard the lids snap.

“Ben Wilson?” I inquired.

“ ’Zactly; you’ve hit it on the head this time. How’ve you ben, and whar?”

“Travelling generally,” I responded; “been looking at the Rhode Island Legislature of late. About health I’m as snug as a kitten, and as hearty as you seem to be.”

“I? Yes; ef I’d a had them sinners” (showing a lump of bones and muscles something larger than mine, I think), “when that ar scrimmidge took place, there’d a been a different report of killed and wounded at the perlice shop. But that ain’t no consekense now, tho’ thar is a ugly sort of a seam on the larboard side of my phizognomy. What’ll you sample?”

Such a polite invitation was not under the circumstances to be refused, and a liquid strengthener was presently applied to the in’nards of both. A couple more of Job’s regalias were lighted, and we walked forward to look at the sights and enjoy a little quiet conversation.

“You hev’nt got that thar took-pick about you, hev you?” asked Ben, as we got afront of the wheelhouse.

“No.”

“I’m sorry for that, for I’d a like to had it for a keepsake, that knife. You punched it into my jowl rather vigorously that night.”

“And this,” said I, rolling up my right sleeve, and pointing to a very pretty stiletto scar.

“ ’Twarn’t mine, by all the broad horns that ever run in Mississip’!” roared Ben. “ ’Twas the French bar-keeper did that.”

“Never mind, Ben,” said I, “I thought ’twas you at the time; but anyhow, a man hasn’t much time to debate nice questions when that pile of ivory” (pointing to his big fist) “is making love to his windpipe.”

“No more he han’t, and no more you hadn’t,” said Ben, “en it’s all forgiv’. Less change the topick.”

“Been boating since I met you?” I inquired, after a short pause.

“Well, yes, mostly,” answered Ben, deliberately. “Druv a pretty fair business last year; only sunk one broad-horn, en that war snagged. Saved part of the load, en lost it agin at a cre-vasse. I had a fust-rate openin’ this spring, but a awkward accident kicked all the fat into the fire.”

“Bad luck, eh? how was it?”

“Did you ever jug for buffalo fish?”

“Never.”

“Han’t no idee on the pre-cise way it is done?”

“Not the least. Yes, I did see something about it in the ‘Spirit,’ but I’ve forgotten all about it.”

“ ‘Sperit?’ Oh, that’s the sportin’ paper down to York. Nolan, and Hooper, and Steve Tucker writes to it. Some jokes in that ar sheet, onst in a while.”

“Occasionally, I calculate; but this jugging for buffaloes.”

“Sartin. You see it’s as easy as fallin’ off a log. Git a dozen jugs en two canoes; hitch your lines to the handles of the jugs, put on your bait, and then toss them overboard. When you sees a jug begin to bob, there’s a buffalo thar: en when it begins to dive and run, you may calk’late there’s one varmint hooked. Strike out like a pointer, pull up the line, and the fish is thar; but you’ve got to keep your weather eye open, or you lose him.”

“I understand; but the awkward accident you spoke of?”

“Yes, of course; that’ll come in good time. D’you recollect that feller with the one eye that stuck by me in that scrimmidg at Orleans?”

“Perfectly; I felt him audibly that night.”

“Joe Stilwell. Wal, Joe and I run together, en we run sens, tel we fell out on one of these jug affairs; en then he sot up for hisself—oppersition. ’Bout the last of A-prile we hap’nd to come together to Saint Lewis, en started down the river the same day. Joe had the start five hours, an’ I were glad of it; for he hadn’t no good feelin’ towards me, en’ I hadn’t none for him, I swar. It war two days ’fore I see anythink of him, but a man who got on at Milses wood-yard said Joe wanted to tackle me; en sez he, ‘Z’likes not he’ll stop to Ransom’s for freight, for he han’t got more’n two-thirds his complement,’ Sez I: ‘Ef Joe runs across my bows, he knows what’ll be the konsekens;’ an’ we didn’t say no more about the matter.

“It was midnight when we got to Ransom’s, an’ I was debatin’ whether it warn’t better to shove along then to stop, when I here’s Joe’s voice a usin’ of my name. That was all war wanted to settle the matter. I tied up, and asked all hands to licker. Joe he was the fust one to come up, sez he:

“ ‘Ben, we’ve had some rily feelin’s, en let’s settle them rash’nally.’

“ ‘How?’ sez I, not ’zactly understandin’ him.

“ ‘Rash’nally,’ sez he. ‘I’ll drink with you, and you drink with me, en then we’ll call it squar.’

“ ‘’Greed!’ sez I, en we lickered round twiste, en Joe and I shook hands, en squar’d off all old ’counts pertensively.

“Thar was suthin’ in his looks I didn’t like when we shuck hands; but sez I to myself, ‘this ’coon sleeps in the day-time maybe, but he’s wide awake on this yer night.’ Ransom, he seemed glad we’d made up again ‘fer all time,’ es he said, and we lickered ’long a him.

“While we was drinkin’ ’long a Ransom, one of my hands come in en whispered softly in my ear, all unbeknown to the rest, that somebody hed ben tryin’ to cut my starn-cable, and then he sneaked back to watch for the marorder.

“I got off pretty soon after, en went aboard a leetle riled. But I didn’t tell the boys who I thought was the rascal, thoar I told em to keep a sharp watch, en fire to kill, when they did shoot. But tha’ warn’t nobody come, Joe knew better than to play with the old fox in his den—Joe did.

“Nex’ mornin’ we were just castin’ off, when Joe come down to the wharf-boat, en sez he:

“ ‘You ain’t goin’ off mad, ar you?’

“ ‘No,’ sez I.

“ ‘Wal,’ sez he, ‘less take a partin’ smile.’

“I didn’t like the idea, but Ransom he said:

“ ‘Come in, Ben!’ en in I went and drinkt.

“ ‘What d’you say to a buffalo-juggin?’ said Joe, arter we’d lickered.

“ ‘It’s too airly in the season,’ sez I; ‘b’sides I’m off for Orleans.’

“ ‘So’m I,’ said Joe, ‘at eleven; en we’ll go company.’

“ ‘What’s the blaze?’ said Ransom.

“ ‘Two canoes, and one jug,’ said Joe.

“I knowed what he was after then, for it showed clean out’n his eyes. Joe war the best swimmer, en he thort ef we cum together an’ upset the canoes, he’d have the advantage. He knowed he’d git catawampously chored up ashore, en he wanted to drown me.”

“What a devil incarnate! I exclaimed.”

“That’s just him ’zactly. I thort a minnit, and then sez I:

“ ‘I’m your man.’

“Wal, a skiff tuck out the only jug, en Joe en I paddled from shore leisurely.

“ ‘A bob!’ yelled out Ransom, en we started.

“We was about ten rods apart, en neck-en-neck. On we swept like greased lightnin’, Joe leadin’ by ’bout two inches, I should guess. I had not look’t at Joe sens we left shore, but as we draw’d nigh the jug I seed he had his coat and jacket off. We was within ten foot of the jug, en both dropped paddles, en I shed my coat en jacket a leetle quicker’n common. Tha’ warn’t no misunderstandin’ between us then; en as the canoes come together, both grappled and went overboard, and underneath the water.”

Ben here paused, took out his bandanna, and wiped the big drops off of his forehead, as coolly as if he was recounting the events of a dinner-party.

“Well,” I urged impatiently, “you both went under the water?”

“Yes, that was the accident happened!”

“Accident? explain.”

“Why, I’ve no more to say’n this. I riz, en got aboard my broad-horn, en come away.”

“But Joe—what became of him?”

“Joe? he was a missin’ ’long with my bowie-knife!”

I parted with Ben, when the ‘Perry’ touched the wharf at Providence, not caring, under the circumstances, to inquire which way he was travelling.