Cousin Cæsar detested work, but had a disposition to see the bottom of everything. No turkey-hen or guinea fowl could make a nest that cousin Cæsar could not find. He grew up mischievous, so much so that “big-sis” would occasionally thrash him. He would then run off and live with “little-sis” until “little-sis” would better the instruction, for she would whip also. He would then run back to live with “big-sis.” In this way cousin Cæsar grew to thirteen years of age—too big to whip. He then went to live with old Smith, who had a farm on the Tennessee river, containing a large tract of land, and who hired a large quantity of steam wood cut every season. Rob Roy was one of old Smith's wood cutters—a bachelor well advanced in years, he lived alone in a cabin made of poles, on old Smith's land. His sleeping couch was made with three poles, running parallel with the wall of the cabin, and filled with straw. He never wore any stockings and seldom wore a coat, winter or summer. The furniture in his cabin consisted of a three-legged stool, and a pine goods box. His ax was a handsome tool, and the only thing he always kept brightly polished. He was a good workman at his profession of cutting wood. No one knew anything of his history. He was a man that seldom talked; he was faithful to work through the week, but spent the Sabbath day drinking whisky. He went to the village every Saturday evening and purchased one gallon of whisky, which he carried in a stone jug to his cabin, and drank it all himself by Monday morning, when he would be ready to go to work again. Old Rob Roy's habits haunted the mind of cousin Cæsar, and he resolved to play a trick Upon the old wood cutter. Old Smith had some hard cider to which cousin Cæsar had access. One lonesome Sunday cousin Cæsar stole Roy's jug half full of whisky, poured the whisky out, re-filled the jug with cider, and cautiously slipped it back into Roy's cabin. On Monday morning Rob Roy refused to work, and was very mad. Old Smith demanded to know the cause of the trouble. “You can't fool a man with cider who loves good whisky,” said Roy indignantly. Old Smith traced the trick up and discharged cousin Cæsar.
At twenty years of age we find Cousin Cæsar in Paducah, Kentucky, calling himself Cole Conway, in company with one Steve Sharp—they were partners—in the game, as they called it. In the back room of a saloon, dimly lighted, one dark night, another party, more proficient in the sleight of hand, had won the last dime in their possession. The time had come to close up. The sun had crossed the meridian on the other side of the globe. Cole Conway and Steve Sharp crawled into an old straw shed, in the suburbs, of the village, and were soon soundly sleeping. The sun had silvered the old straw shed when Sharp awakened, and saw Conway sitting up, as white as death's old horse. “What on earth is the matter, Conway?” said Sharp, inquiringly.
“I slumbered heavy in the latter end of night, and had a brilliant dream, and awoke from it, to realize this old straw shed doth effect me,” said Conway gravely. “The dream! the dream!” demanded Sharp. “I dreamed that we were playing cards, and I was dealing out the deck; the last card was mine, and it was very thick. Sharp, it looked like a box, and with thumb and finger I pulled it open. In it there were three fifty-dollar gold pieces, four four-dollar gold pieces, and ten one-dollar gold pieces. I put the money in my pocket, and was listening for you to claim half, as you purchased the cards. You said nothing more than that 'them cards had been put up for men who sell prize cards.' I took the money out again, when lo, and behold! one of the fifty-dollar pieces had turned to a rule about eight inches long, hinged in the middle. Looking at it closely I saw small letters engraved upon it, which I was able to read—you know, Sharp, I learned to read by spelling the names on steamboats—or that is the way I learned the letters of the alphabet. The inscription directed me to a certain place, and there I would find a steam carriage that could be run on any common road where carriages are drawn by horses. We went, and found the carriage. It was a beautiful carriage—with highly finished box—on four wheels, the box was large enough for six persons to sit on the inside. The pilot sat upon the top, steering with a wheel, the engineer, who was also fireman, and the engine, sat on the aft axle, behind the passenger box. The whole structure was very light, the boiler was of polished brass, and sat upon end. The heat was engendered by a chemical combination of phosphorus and tinder. The golden rule gave directions how to run the engine—by my directions, Sharp, you was pilot and I was engineer, and we started south, toward my old home. People came running out from houses and fields to see us pass I saw something on the beautiful brass boiler that looked like a slide door. I shoved it, and it slipped aside, revealing the dial of a clock which told the time of day, also by a separate hand and figures, told the speed at which the carriage was running. On the right hand side of the dial I saw the figures 77. They were made of India rubber, and hung upon two brass pins. I drew the slide door over the dial except when I wished to look at the time of day, or the rate of speed at which we were running, and every time I opened the door, one of the figure 7's had fallen off the pin. I would replace it, and again find it fallen off. So I concluded it was only safe to run seven miles an hour, and I regulated to that speed. In a short time, I looked again, and we were running at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. I knew that I had not altered the gauge of steam. A hissing sound caused me to think the water was getting low in the boiler. On my left I saw a brass handle that resembled the handle of a pump. I seized it and commenced work. I could hear the bubbling of the water. I look down at the dry road, and said, mentally, 'no water can come from there.' Oh! how I trembled. It so frightened me that I found myself wide awake.”
“Dreams are but eddies in the current of the mind, which cut off from reflection's gentle stream, sometimes play strange, fantastic tricks. I have tumbled headlong down from high and rocky cliffs; cold-blooded snakes have crawled 'round my limbs; the worms that eat through dead men's flesh, have crawled upon my skin, and I have dreamed of transportation beyond the shores of time. My last night's dream hoisted me beyond my hopes, to let me fall and find myself in this d——old straw shed.”
“The devil never dreams,” said Sharp, coolly, and then continued: “Holy men of old dreamed of the Lord, but never of the devil, and to understand a dream, we must be just to all the world, and to ourselves before God.”
“I have a proposition to make to you, Conway?
“What?” said Conway, eagerly.
“If you will tell me in confidence, your true name and history, I will give you mine,” said Sharp, emphatically. “Agreed,” said Conway, and then continued, “as you made he proposition give us yours first.
“My name is Steve Brindle. My father was called Brindle Bill, and once lived in Shirt-Tail Bend, on the Mississippi. He died in the state prison. My mother was a sister of Sundown Hill, who lived in the same neighborhood. My father and mother were never married. So you see, I am a come by-chance, and I have been going by chance all of my life. Now, I have told you the God's truth, so far as I know it. Now make a clean breast of it, Conway, and let us hear your pedigree,” said Brindle, confidentially.
“I was born in Tennessee. My father's name was Cæsar Simon, and I bear his name. My mother's name was Nancy Wade. I do not remember either of them I was partly raised by my sisters, and the balance of the time I have tried to raise myself, but it seems it will take me a Iong time to make a raise—” at this point, Brindle interfered in breathless suspense, with the inquiry, “Did you have an uncle named S. S. Simon?”