Hudson was sitting between two constables, and was being inspected by a large crowd. He looked very quiet, and upon listening to the affidavits, remarked that Mr. Hyatt must have misunderstood the ladies, for he was perfectly incapable of having alarmed them to the extent indicated; that he certainly admired Miss Ida, and desired to marry her, but that he would not willingly injure or alarm the humblest creature—adding reproachfully that those affidavits would suffice to condemn him to State prison for life. He appeared so perfectly rational and calm, that the magistrate was perfectly dumbfoundered, and for the moment thought him sane; and even we commenced to reproach ourselves, and doubt which was the insane party.
"Well," said Mr. Hyatt, "I will now hear your story."
"I will read it to you," said Hudson, drawing a book from his pocket, and then commenced again the same incoherent nonsense with which he had already favored mamma. The object now was to show the chain of evidence that pointed out Ida as his bride. The most important link was the fact that he had once seen a flock of white geese sailing through the air. He put up his finger, and one fluttered down to him; and as G stood both for goose and Greeley, it was a clear manifestation of the Divine Will (at this point, the audience burst into a roar of laughter). Besides, he liked our family, we suited him in every respect; and especially because we so much reminded him of John the Baptist (we inwardly hoped that the resemblance would not extend to decapitation). If Miss Greeley would not marry him, he kindly added, he would take her cousin Marguerite instead, but he must positively marry one of the family. He was now perfectly wild, and when he remarked, with a reproachful glance at Ida, that he disliked ko-kwettes, and liked a girl who would say in answer to an offer, "Yes sir-ee," or "No sir-ee," the magistrate brought the evidence to a conclusion. He gave him to the constable to be taken to the county jail, where he was to be detained until the Court sat, if, in the meantime, his relatives did not appear from Massachusetts to claim him (for his place of residence varied—at first Baltimore, then Michigan, it was now Massachusetts).
Hudson spent the night at the tavern, and appeared at times so rational, that he was not strictly guarded; consequently, when the constable looked for him after breakfast, the bird had flown. He was instantly followed, and discovered walking on the railway track about two miles off, swinging his little bundle quite unconcernedly. In reply to the questions of his captors, he said that he had just intended to make a little circuit about the country, and then return to marry Ida. He is now, thank fortune, safely lodged in jail.
CHAPTER IV.
A Visit from Papa—A Musical Squirrel—Letters—Croquet—Extracts from Letters—Visitors—The Loss of the Missouri—The True Story of Ida's Engagement.
June 13.
Papa came up late last night with a supply of the latest periodicals, weekly journals, etc., and my pet squirrels in a new and spacious cage. These little creatures were presents to me this spring, and are very pretty, and partially tame. I remember, however, one escapade of theirs shortly before we left the city.
My balcony at home is enclosed with glass, and there I frequently allowed the squirrels to play. A game of cache-cache, of half an hour or so, was generally necessary before I could induce Fliegende Holländer, the livelier of the pair, to return to the narrow limits of his cage. One day, however, through some carelessness, the door from the balcony into my room was left open, and the squirrels were missing. Senta (christened after the heroine of Wagner's clever opera) was captured after some little difficulty, but not the Dutchman. Being a flying squirrel, he was so very tiny that he could easily conceal himself in a dark corner, and although I descended upon my knees to peer under my sofa, bureau, writing-table, and chiffonnière, my search was fruitless—the Flying Dutchman had evidently vanished to join the Phantom Ship. I felt very uneasy, fearing he might fall a prey to my two cats, who would no doubt find cold squirrel a very tempting entremet; or if he escaped this Scylla, the Charybdis of death by starvation lay before him. The hours passed, and Fliegende Holländer did not appear. Senta was cheerful, and reigned mistress of the revolving wheel—always the bone of contention between the pair. Once, during the afternoon, I fancied I heard a scratching as if of tiny claws, but could not obtain even a glimpse of his vanishing, fan-shaped tail.