The door of the ormolu cuckoo-clock in the kitchen opens, the cuckoo advances. At her first note the sheriff jumps from his horse; at the second he walks sternly upon the veranda; at the third he asks for the money; at the fourth and fifth they tell him that ’Rasmus has disappeared; at the sixth, seventh, and eighth he handcuffs them all together; at the ninth, tenth, and eleventh he jumps on his horse and rides off, dragging them behind him; and at the twelfth ’Rasmus trots leisurely out from behind the house, and, opening a carpet-bag, counts out $3600 in silver!
The astonished sheriff puts the money into his pocket, gives Squire Lamar a receipt in full for it, unlocks the handcuffs, and the family resume their wonted places on the veranda.
But all was not yet done. ’Rasmus still had his bludgeon with him, and a few deft strokes on the sheriff’s head were all-sufficient. ’Rasmus then took back the money and gave it to Squire Lamar. Then he told them all to remain perfectly still, and whistling three times, an amateur photographer made his appearance, adjusted his apparatus, and took their pictures.
Sarony could have wished for no better subjects. On the broad veranda lay the old lady prone on the floor, reading the “Tallahassee Inland Mariner”; at her side sat her daughter, Turk-fashion, shelling a pea; while the son and heir reclined near by, reading an account by a Prussian officer of the third battle of Bull Run. The father, weighted down with dollars, snored in the background.
And beaming on them all with the consciousness of having done his best and done it well, old ’Rasmus stood, singing ventriloquially, so as not to injure the picture, this negro plantation song:
De ribber Jordan I can see,
Toujour jamais, toujour jamais;
Mein liebe frau, ach, she lofes me,
Fair Jeannie het awa!
Then I wen’ daown the caows to milk,