“Mass’ Cranston, yer don’t know what yer a-doin’. I don’t owe ole man Hazard nothin’! Yer see, it was jess like dis. I say ter him, I mus’ hab er pig ter raise. He say ter me, ‘Take one ob mine;’ an’ he press me ter take it, kase it’s a runtlin’, an’ he’s afear’d it’ll die. An’ Rosann, she knows how ter mother runtlin’s, so I takes der pig. An’ I say, ‘Ole man Hazard, I pay you free dollar ob de money I git for der pig.’ He say, ‘All right, Cuddy.’ Now I don’t nebber git no money fer dat pig. I buy de corn ter feed der pig of Peleg Brown; an’ when I kill de pig an’ take him ter Peleg ter sell, he don’ come ter ser much as de corn he eat. I t’ink he shrink kase I kill him in de discrease ob de moon. So I nebber got nothin’ fer de pig, so in course I don’ owe ole man Hazard nothin’. I ain’t got no money ter pay wid, anyway. I tell ye, Mass’ Cranston, times nebber’ll be good in dis country till corn’s a pistareen a bushel an’ pork a pistareen a pound. Den de pore man’ll hab some chance.”
Mr. Cranston knew old Cuddy too well to allow him to proceed into the discussion of political economy; and he interrupted the “Gov’nor,” saying, with much gravity, that the law must take its course, nor could the execution of justice be delayed; that since Cuddy could not pay, he must come at once with him to jail. The negro rose cheerfully, saying, as he hobbled into the house:
“Wal, ef I mus’ go I mus’; but de exertootion ob justice’ll hab to move mighty slow a-takin’ ole Cuddy ter jail. I’se got der rheumatiz, so I can’t hardly walk. I’se dat bad I t’inks I mus’ be witch-rid by ole Tuggie Bannocks. Dat’s why dat pig eat ser much corn kase she conjured him. Times nebber’ll be good in dis country whiles dey don’ hang ole witches like Tuggie Bannocks. Hitch yer hoss ter de button-wood tree an’ come in an’ set down while I’se packin’ up, an’ Rosann’ll cook ye some early ’tatoes. Run out an’ git some of our first crap, Sanna.”
“Early potatoes!” exclaimed Mr. Cranston, “at this time of the year!”
“Yis, I’se a fust-rate farmer, ef I ain’t much on pig-raisin’. I allays has fine early ’tatoes, de fust yer see anywheres. Jes’ look at dem!”
Rosann appeared with her apron full of the freshly planted potatoes, that, negro-fashion, he had planted whole, and that had spent a few hours only on Cuddy’s farm; and as the sheriff refused to allow her to cook them for him, she placed them upon a blanket in the centre of the floor, upon which she and Cuddy were accumulating the articles that the negro wished to take to jail with him. The pile rapidly increased. Old coats and shirts, a feather pillow, a fiddle, a prayer-book, a pair of long boots filled with flax-seed, were added to the contents of the blanket.
“Come, come,” said the sheriff; “you can’t take all that along with you. How are you going to carry it?”
“I guess you’ll hab ter tote it for me, Mass’ Cranston, I’se dat bad wid the rheumatiz.”
This was more than the constable had bargained for. This arrest of old Cuddy was more than half a joke, and was done at the instigation of several farmers who hoped thus to obtain some satisfaction for the many debts Cuddy had argued and twisted himself out of paying. They had all fancied that the terrified politician would gladly pay over the three dollars at once, as it was well known that Rosann had a good stockingful of silver dollars hidden under the hearth-stone—and one of her stockings full of silver was well worth having. The constable was on his way to attend to other and more pressing duties, and had but little time to spend over this arrest; much less did he wish to ride to Kingston jail carrying a great pack of Cuddymonk’s clothing and possessions behind him. He told Rosann to remove half of the articles from the blanket, and a long and wordy argument with the “Gov’nor” arose over every relinquished treasure, ending in the constable’s complete rout when he attempted to leave the foot-stove behind and to pour the flax-seed out of his boots. “I can’t do dat, noway,” said Cuddy; “it’ll spoil deir shape ef I don’ keep flax-seed in ’em, an I’se afeard I can’t get none in jail.” At the end of half an hour the blanket with its contents was rolled into a great, irregular, unwieldy bundle and strapped on the horse’s back.
The man of law mounted his horse, and with his prisoner passed slowly down the narrow lane and through the rocky cross-road under the feathery pale-green foliage and sweet-scented pink-and-white blossoms of the graceful locust-trees that form such a glory in early summer by all the roadsides throughout sunny Narragansett. Flickering patches of glowing sunlight fell through the clusters of peachy locust-blossoms on the stone walls and hedgerows, that were a great, luxuriant, tangled garden of faintly perfumed wild flowers. The leaves of sweetbrier and bayberry sent out a pungent, spicy odor that mingled with the vapid and cloying sweetness of the locust-blossoms. Great fields of clover wafted their fresh balm in little puffs of pure sweetness that routed the combined fragrance of locust, bayberry, and brier. Thousands of bees hummed over the sweet, sunny fields and in the fragrant, flowering branches—Cuddy’s own bees gathering for him the luscious honey he loved. Singing-birds flew lightly and warbled softly around. The tropical blood of the old negro fairly glowed with the sense of light and perfume and melody and warmth, and he laughed aloud with sensuous delight as if the road to jail lay through Paradise.